đ This is definitely not a kink blog for chubs and other things I like so uh you can go now;;; đ 18+ since I donât want to be precieved by anyone other than fellow freaks
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! Iâve 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- Iâll share this wip panel for now but yes he needs to be fattened up
idk if youâve seen The Comic Ever (bloodycharmingâs late night shenanigans ch 22 on AO3) but likeâŠâŠ. a fic based on that Vibe??? đ„șđ„șđ„șđ„ș
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 Sashaâs idea. So they could all get to know each other a bit better, she said.
âI think we all know each other more than well enough,â Jon said flatly, not looking up from the requisition form he was filling out. The Institute was deeply paper-heavy, by Eliasâs explicit order; probably part of the reason the archives were in the state they were.
âWell, you, me, and Tim do, but not Martin,â Sasha said reasonably. âAnd weâre so isolated down here. We even have our own break room. We all need to get along, donât we?â She shifted the stack of folders she was carrying, completed follow-ups, ostensibly the reason sheâd come into Jonâs office to begin with. âAnd Tim and I know you as a colleague, besides. Not a, you know, a supervisor.â
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 heâd 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 didnât. 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 Sashaâs gnocchi, a sip of Timâs soda. Did he want half of Martinâs 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 Jonâs 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 didnât.
In the short term: he was compelled to eat part of Martinâs 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: Jonâs 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 Jonâs 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 wasnât 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 agoâŠand then sent Jon home over the weekend with a dozen more, dense and moist and sweet.
Martin dropped by Jonâs office because the vending machine had given him an extra soda. Did Jon want it? Yes, he supposedâŠadded silently was the thought that at least it wasnât another cup of tea, too heavy on the milk and sugar but with him unable to say so because heâd already let it go too long. Martin sat shyly down as Jon tapped and then opened the can, talking about his motherâs 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. Â
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 heâd 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 snackâŠ
Jon supposed it wasnât all that surprising. Head Archivist was a much more sedentary position than âresearcher,â which had involved a lot of haring around both the Institute and Greater LondonâŠas 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 wasnât 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 heâd had to buy while stopping smoking; thank god he hadnât followed up on the impulse to take them to a charity shop while moving out of Georgieâs.
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 Eliasâs 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 wasnât certain what it was, hadnât 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 âYou coming, boss?â and Martin encouraged, âYouâve got to eat while itâs hot.â
âIâll warm it up,â Jon said curtly. âI canât step away from this, and I certainly canât eat while Iâm looking through these files.â
âWell, what if one of us fed you?â
Jon paused. Not long enough, but even now, that was outrageous. But it grew less so the more he thought about it.
âFine.â He waved a hand. âJust be careful, all right?â
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; Jonâs 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 wasnât 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. âJon, I - what are you doing?â
âNothing.â 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 wasnât 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 wouldnât have heard him coming months ago but, wellâŠhe was still wheezing from the stairs. And his tread had gotten a fair bit heavier.
âI heard my name,â he commented as he entered, and the three of them turned to look at him, and smiled.
âJust - talking about how glad we are to all be working together,â Martin said. âWith you.â
Jon was not a blusher. He felt his face growing hot anyway.
âRight.â 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. âMe, too.â
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 âmonstrous bossâ 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 itâs now twisted. Plus if heâs stuffed so full it hurts then itâs what he deserves right?
When Tim eventually learns whatâs going on he feels bad about it. Heâs still mad but he didnât 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 Jonâs mind (leading to more fear stuffings much to Timâs 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.
Itâd 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? Couldnât leave the Institute. Couldnât get anybody else out. Couldnât 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 âstriking outâ 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 staffâŠall 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 wasnât doing quite as good of a job as he had before, perhaps he wouldnât have objected at all if heâd been fired, but it still meant slapping completed files down into Jonâs in-tray. Two a day, then three, four, fiveâŠall 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 didnât 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 himselfâŠnot a word.
But Tim had noticed him, on the few occasions heâd seen him, looking exhausted. Heâd always had a certain âunder-slept academicâ 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 didnât 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 didnât 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 didnât know, and didnât 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 heâd 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. Heâd been sure that the system locked at a certain time, but no: his keycard still let him swipe in. That was good; heâd been dreading having to call Rosie. Maybe he ought to be doing more snooping, see if he could find anything useful in Eliasâs 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 heâd left them. He wouldâve been on his way after that, if he hadnât heard the slight, gasping whimper from Jonâs office. A pained noise. The door was closedâŠbut now that he looked, there was soft green light coming out from the cutaway window in it, the bankerâs 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 didnât 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. Jonâs face was sick and guilty, stricken. A messy strand of gray hair flopped over his forehead, hung in front of his glasses.
âT-Tim?â he stammered incredulously. âWhatâre you - ?â And then he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed a fist to his mouth to muffle aâŠwas that a burp?
âHeard you crying,â Tim said brusquely. âSounded like you were hurt.â
âI was not - â
âWhat, is it your stomach?â Jon was hunching over himself, in the way someone with a wicked stomachache might. âDid you eat something that didnât agree w - Christ.â
Tim had come around the side of Jonâs desk, and before Jon could spin his chair hastily away from him to hide it, heâd caught sight of his stomach, enormous beneath the jumper it was stretching taut. Heâd just seen him this morning. Surely he hadnât been this fat then?
âWhat the fuck?â Tim asked, almost wonderingly.
âItâs really none of your business,â 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 didnât have anything he could spread to the rest of the Institute. âNo, Tim, what are you - ?!â
But it was too late: Jonâs 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 heâd thought it was even without how visibly bloated it was, to spill out into Jonâs lap.
Tim stared down at it. Jon was warm; he could feel the heat of him against his hands. He swallowed.
âWhatâve you been eating?â he demanded incredulously.
â...dâyou really wanna know?â Jon asked quietly. Tim wasnât sure that he did, but he nodded, and Jon heaved a sigh. âFear. I think.â
âWhat?â Tim asked him blankly.
âI - Iâve been noticing it for a while now. When I read a statement, IâŠget full. And when I read a lot of statementsâŠâ
Jon trailed off. Tim kept on staring down at his gut, and felt a wave of revulsion roll through him. All of Jonâs insistence that he wasnât a monster, and then he went and did this? Fed off of the fear and trauma of everybody whoâd 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 wasnât Elias the size of a house?), was guilt.
âSoâŠthis is my fault,â Tim said, but then a moment later, the guilt was replaced by anger. âWhyâd you keep eating so much? You didnât have to, not if it hurts you. Why didnât you stop? Whyâd you do this to yourself?â
âYouâre not going to like it,â Jon said with a bleak chuckle.
âI donât like any of your answers these days.â
âItâs becauseâŠâ Jon heaved a sigh, then stifled another burp. This close to him, Tim could hear the steady churn of his overfull belly. âDâyou remember - before everything? Youâd order in lunch for everyone, but I was always working, so when I got up to go to the restroom or something, youâdâŠleave food on my desk for me to find? So Iâd eat.â Jon looked up at him. âI know thatâs not what you were doing, not with this. But IâŠit reminded me of better times, andâŠâ He sighed again. âI know I donâtâŠdeserve that. But what I do deserve - even more than that.â He squeezed his eyes shut. âItâs good that it hurts. Itâs - itâs what Iâve had coming. And it might be the only way you can hurt me.â
Jon looked so utterly miserable, sitting there. Tim stood above him for a long moment, arms folded across his chest, then snorted. âOh, come off it.â
âIâm - sorry?â
âYou canât do penance. Not for this. Not this way.â Tim lowered himself onto his knees. âHurting yourself like thisâŠthereâs no point to it.â
âWhat are youâŠâ Jon started, then swallowed hard when Tim touched him, his plush, shapeless belly, digging through to the taut fullness beneath. âY-you really donât need to - â
âShut up,â Tim muttered.
He began to work at Jonâs 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 strangerâs 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. Timâs jaw worked, but he didnât say anything.
Heâd 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 Jonâs 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.
âBetter?â
âUh h-huh.â
There was a warm silence. The goddamn tape player spun and clicked.
âI reallyâŠdidnât mean to hurt you,â Tim told him earnestly, grudgingly. âNot like this.â
âI know you didnât,â Jon said quietly. And then: âIâm so sorry, Tim.â
Tim put his hands on the arms of Jonâs chair, and pushed himself up. Most of the way, at least. He was hovering over him, still close to him. Jonâs 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 otherâs 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.
âIâll stop leaving so many statements for you,â Tim muttered, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. Hard and aggressive, to get blood flowing somewhere else.
âNo, itâs - itâs fine. MaybeâŠit would be better if you did. Weâve got so many to get through, and the more we can learnâŠâ Jon trailed off, maybe sensing Timâs prickling at the use of âwe.â Not so harshly as he might have a few hours ago, though. âBut I. When you do. Could you.â He swallowed. âStay late? With me? I-Iâd approve overtime, of course, and y-you donât have to if you donât - you know what, forget I asked, I - â
âNo.â Tim interrupted him, and took a bit of pleasure in watching Jonâs face fall in the moment before he continued. âItâs fine. I can hang around. Least I can do is finish what I started, right?â
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 Iâm 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 ^^
For the fat archivist art from his time at the circus, there's an AO3 fic all about that concept!
Aw yeee Iâm assuming you mean this fic by pistachiowritings, since it is a fantastic read. Your ask reminded me to check it out again and I forgot what a gut punch the final line of the fic was like-
[In that state, he could almost forget that he was the prisoner of an eldritch fear god who wanted to use his skin in a ritual to end the world. Instead, he was just somebody who was warm and loved and fed, the kind of somebody that some small piece of him had always longed to be.]
Like thanks that killed me instantly on the spot and encapsulates what I love about this concept so much- just Jon finding solace in the pain and deep down enjoying being loved and cared for even if the circumstances for it are so very warped
Heyâ this is a weird one, I would not blame you for not answering it, but: weight gain but make it horrible? Not that itâs not kinky or hot for the reader, but⊠the inherent horror of a changing body for your character of choice. Would be TMA, would be⊠probably Stranger or Flesh-coded, for the influencing Fear? Maybe even Eye, if thereâs a pairing rather than it being singularly focused. Apologies for this being really vague and sketchy but Iâm having a rough time wording what Iâm trying to get at
I'm pretty sure I get what you're saying, don't worry!
I'll admit I struggled a bit with this one - a lot of my kink fic has underlying (or overlying) horror to it, but to approach it from that direction consciously from the get-go was new. It was an interesting challenge!
I went through a lot of potential ideas (surreptitious feeding with JMart, Tim gaining weight during his hostile, depressive period after finding out about Sasha's death, something with Elias)...but since you mentioned the Stranger, I kept coming back to one scenario in particular.
I originally wanted to make this a full fic, but I think it actually works better as a drabble/prompt fill. Might come back and flesh it out in the future, but it was fun to write just this much!
Jon knew that Nikola was back before she (if that was even the right pronoun to use; he got the feeling that the thing that called itself Nikola Orsinov didnât really care) had even said a word. She approached him from behind in the semidarkness full of its odd, twisted shapes and the smell of wax that was just a bit too much like the oils of human skin, one foot producing the unmistakable tap of plastic on the wooden floor, the other making a somewhatâŠsofter sound.
Then, of course, there was the click and whir of the omnipresent tape recorder. Something was about to happen.
He tensed. Heâd been touched entirely too much for his liking in the past few hours, the warm, malleable hands of things he tried not to look too closely at rubbing every inch of him with a dozen different brands of lotion. He felt simultaneously swaddled in a slick layer of it and raw, stripped nearly naked. Thankfully, when Nikola reached for him with a hum, it was only to yank his gag down around his neck.
As Jon gasped and spat, trying to work some saliva into his bone-dry mouth to rinse away the taste of the none-too-clean cloth theyâd used, Nikola rather petulantly announced, âIt seems we have a problem, Archivist! Or you do; another one. How rude.â
âOh, do we?â Jon rasped out before he could stop himself.
âYes! We do.â Had she seriously just stamped her foot, like an indignant child? âYou remember I said I wanted to wear you?â How could he forget? âWell, my friends measured you when they were taking care of your poor skin and, wellâŠâ She moved around in front of him, and he glared up at her, reluctant to give her the satisfaction of his fear. âLook at me, and look at you! Youâre so little! Downright puny! Forget a frock, thereâs barely enough of you for a bodice!â
âAre you going to let me go, then?â Jon asked, and Nikola laughed, a tinkling noise. As if there were bells ringing somewhere inside her, which for all he knew, there very well might be.
âOh, you are funny sometimes! No, no, of course not, silly. We make do. Weâre going to make youâŠâ Nikola spread her hands, making a wide, rounded shape in the air with them. âBigger!â
That could not possibly mean anything good. Jon had visions of stretching racks, of the monstrosity that Jared Hopworth had apparently become, according to Gregory Pryor. Being filled with parts and pieces he had not been born with. He was decently sure that Nikola and Jared served different powers, but not that different. Perhaps the two of them were even acquainted.
Maybe Jon would have been better off not knowing. But heâd find out sooner or later anyway, and heâd always been too curious for his own good. So he asked (with a quaver to his voice, much to his shame), âJust howâre you - howâre you going to do that?â
âHow do you think?â Nikola jabbed him in the stomach, a concave hollow beneath the undershirt he was wearing. Jon had always been thin; âpunyâ was a good descriptor, he could grudgingly admit, and proper nutrition had fallen somewhat by the wayside in recent months, along with other luxuries like sleep and trust. âWeâre going to feed you! You could do with some fattening up, little Archivist, and weâre going to do a lot more than âsome!ââ She straightened. âAnd weâre going to start right now!â
Sure enough, a new scent had made its way into the waxworks: grease, fat, grilled beef. Jon pitied whatever poor fast food worker had just had to wait on one of the Circusâs creatures. As something in a glittery leotard brought in an armload of oil-spotted paper bags, Jon asked Nikola, âAnd what if I refuse to eat?â
âOh, I hope you do!â Nikola replied, clapping her hands together with a loud clacking noise before reaching into one of the bags to pull out a hamburger, wrapped in parchment paper. âThen the fun can really begin!â
That shouldâve put Jon off any kind of resistance, along with the fact he was starving, not having had anything to eat since he was snatched. But he tried anyway, mouth kept firmly closed when Nikola held the burger up to it (since of course there was no way they were going to untie him so he could feed himself). It was a short-lived rebellion: after he chipped a tooth on one of Nikolaâs fingertips and almost choked when she none-too-gently crammed the burger down his throat, Jon submittedâŠnot that that reduced her roughness all that much. He sullenly chewed and swallowed the chips she fed him by the handful, the soda, the milkshakes, and of course more burgers. But he really didnât have much of a capacity to speak of. It wasnât long before he was full, then overly full, shaking his head as Nikola reached for more.
âYou are so awfully ungrateful!â she scolded him. âDo you know how much Iâd like to actually be able to eat? Not even a bite for me, or it just gets stuck inside. Iâve tried borrowing all the long tubes and such, but I suppose theyâre just so much more fiddly than a larynx, and I certainly donât have enough to do with Viscera to - â
âPlease,â Jon panted, letting out a quiet belch because he couldnât stifle it. âI-I canât. No more. Iâm full, I-Iâll get sick - â
âOh, youâd better not.â Nikola wagged a finger at him. âOtherwise weâll have to start all over again, and I donât think youâd like that very much at all, Mr. Bossy Archivist.â
Jon managed not to vomit, although by the time that Nikola was through with him that first time, he was thinking it might be worth the consequences after all. His stomach was visibly bloated when he looked down at it, and he could barely breathe. He hadnât been in so much abdominal pain since heâd had his appendix removed as a teenager, and as he dozed upright in the uncomfortable chair, unable to stop his own whimpering, part of him was convinced something had gone wrong deep inside, and that he was going to die. But he didnât, and Nikola came back with more far too soon.
Part of Jon assumed that Elias or, far preferably, the police would arrive to retrieve him before Nikolaâs plan began to work. But of course that was nonsense. The weight was all but poured onto him.
He just wasnât moving anywhere near enough to burn the calories being pumped into him, tied to the chair. Any attempt to try was swiftly punished. Oh, they took care not to damage his skin, which in addition to keeping him clean, dry, and lotioned meant moving him frequently so sores wouldnât develop. But they only ever did it when he was too sodden with food to even think about running or fighting back, and it just meant being stood up out of the chair with his hands tied to a hook over his head for a while, as if he were a piece of meat.
Nikola quite liked that position. Said it made his belly pop. And what a belly it was becoming.
The fat gathered there first. Jon watched with no small amount of dread and disgust as his stomach slowly swelled and softened. It was a bit hard to tell at first, since he was quite literally always stuffed to the gills, but it was hard to deny the presence of a potbelly as it strained against his shirt and boxers, then spilled out of them, then spread into his lap in two distinct rolls. It settled on his hips in the form of love handles even as they widened. Jonâs thighs and calves thickened visibly, and so did his arms - they had to redo the bindings on him. His chest grew heavy, tits hanging on either side of his belly. He felt his ass spread, felt the edges of the chair dig into it as he began to overhang it.
Fat had begun to build up around his neck, around his face. He could feel it when he looked down, which he did often, taking stock of himself as he became heavy enough for the chair to start to creak beneath him. If he didnât have a double chin, he would soon.
Jonâs body had always been something he had taken for granted, barely thought about. Changes in it had gone largely unnoticed, or briefly acknowledged and then unconsciously absorbed into his image of himself; that had been the case even after the attack by Jane Prentiss, which had led to perhaps the largest physical changes since puberty, what with the damage to his leg and all of the superficial scarring. There was always something else to focus on. But right now, there was nothing at all, and so as Jonâs body changed, he had no choice but excruciating awareness of everything. In fact, the damage to his body was the one thing he could track, since he had lost all sense of time, of day and night. It wasnât as if he could count the meals.
For all intents and purposes, there were none. Just one long, hazy feeding session. He slept, he woke, he ate, he grew, a hog quite literally fattened for the slaughter. It was a diet dominated by junk food, cheap, greasy, overprocessed empty calories. They cared too much about his skin to risk real malnutrition, but that was where any concern for his health ended.
When Nikola was displeased with his progress, which seemed to be often, there was a tube and a funnel she brought out. She threaded the tube into his mouth, sometimes even down his throat, and poured in heavy cream, milkshakes, melted butter, whatever she could think of. The knowledge of the calories and what theyâd do to him bowed out his mind even as the fluid bowed out his groaning, gurgling belly, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight and tried vainly to think about anything else.
Perhaps he would not have been so obsessive if Nikola had not drawn his attention to the new flesh whenever she was aroundâŠwhich was quite often. He seemed to be her pet project.
It had even gotten to the point where, to a cascade of his horror, shame, and disgust, his stomach growled the moment he saw her, no matter how stuffed he was. His appetite had swollen to a monstrous size to match his body, obscene. Heâd been trained like a dog. Or like another sort of animal.
âLook at how nicely our little piggy is coming along!â Nikola exclaimed, grabbing the soft underhang of his belly with a hand sheathed in warm new skin and giving it a rough shake. âOink, oink, oink!â Jon couldnât hold back a belch, which seemed to delight herâŠalthough not for long. Somewhat reproachfully, she told him, âI know you donât appreciate it, but you are doing I Donât Know You a world of good even before we skin you, you know. All these lovely changesâŠâ She sighed happily. âAnd this is just the beginning. I think perhaps Iâd like a cloak to go with that frock! Perhaps some matching shoes and gloves, too! Why, by the time Iâm done with you, you wonât even look human anymore! Arenât you excited?â
âNo,â Jon spat, and Nikola scoffed, giving his overfilled gut a smack.
âOf course not.â
As time wore on, Jonâs surety that he would be rescued waned even as the rest of him swelled and fattened. He had no doubt that Nikola could tell.
âOh, youâre doing so well, Archivist! I do wonder how much you weigh now? More than twice as much as you did, Iâm sure! Maybe even three times!â Jointed plastic fingers took hold of Jonâs original chin, tipped him up to look into Nikolaâs painted-on face as he gasped and wheezed, fresh off of a particularly brutal feed. âWhat fun! I do wonder if we ought to bring in a mirror before we shuck youâŠâ
Jon squeezed his eyes shut, but there was nothing he could do about his ears as Nikola laughed with sincere, childlike delight.
âYou wonât hardly recognize yourself! I wonder if your Elias wouldâŠâ
âAn enormous, fat redhead greeted him in the mirror. A glutton whose jeans could not creep over his engorged hips. Whose gut exploded out of his constricting, strained briefs. Whose round moobs tensed his shirt over their cleavageâ