Happy birthday to the handsomest pumpkin in the patch <3
His heart races, his stomach groans and gurgles in agony, and his bloodflow seems to be centered in the most adverse areas it possibly could.
He’s clutching his overtaxed stomach like his life depends on it, like he might just burst if he doesn’t get rid of this ache, and quickly, too.
He pumps out rancid blast of air after another under the covers, struggling not to cough as he inhales his own scent, and the way it sticks to his already sweaty skin leads to him becoming even sweatier.
Obviously the heat’s doing this to him, and an observer might assume that there’s some shame there, too.
And yeah, maybe there used to be shame in the guy, but you’ve been peeling away at those layers of his since you started dating, and now he was practically barren of any semblance of the feeling.
No, it’s not shame that makes him sweat, makes his heartrate fast enough to warrant a ticket, not anymore.
If the observer looked a bit closer at him, they’d see not an embarrassed discontentment on his face, but a more bitter look instead as your boyfriend shuffled through thoughts, all leading back to one origin.
“How could you do this to me?”
And really, how could you? How could you go all out, really stuff the guy full of junk, full of grease and cheese and heavy meats, and not tend to him? How could you fall asleep with him so full next to you, him so in need of your touch, of your attention? He needed your hands on his stomach or his crotch, he needed your sweet, soothing words and gentle guidings so that he, too, could fall asleep.
And yet there you lay, not even facing him, fully immersed in whatever dreams your mind had conjured.
Your dreams couldn’t be better than what he had to offer you!!
Realistically, maybe they could.
They definitely could, had you not been such a twisted, perverted freak.
But you were a twisted perverted freak, and that was a fact of which you were both very well aware of.
After all, you were the reason he had turned into this.
Your soft, seductive words and hands had led to bigger and bigger portion sizes, and subsequently bigger and bigger waistlines, a fact which had initially filled him with anxieties. But you’d given him praise in exchange for his indulgence, finding a perverse sense of pleasure in his growth, and soon he’d grow to a point that he hardly cared what others thought of him. All he cared for was you. All he wanted was you. All he felt he needed was you.
Which made your ignoring him just that much more upsetting.
He’d so diligently done as he was told, taking bite after bite even past taxation, but he’d hardly even laid down when he’d found you asleep.
Still, he tried to be good at first. He’d lied down next to you, wrapped an arm around you and closed his eyes, hoping to join you in your slumber.
But as the hours went by, his arm had retracted from behind you as he’d tired of his one last attempt at being the man in the relationship in favor of soothing his own stomach, doing the task which should have been yours.
Irritation began setting in with that thought, as he knew he shouldn’t have been the one to soothe himself, he knew the task to be beyond him by now.
His stomach, too, was only getting angrier, upset at being forced into this position when it so clearly needed to digest, and it cried out in pain as he tenderly massaged its mass.
And the irritation grew with that, too; had he really allowed himself to submit to someone so physically inferior to him? Had he seriously allowed himself to be placated by plates of food? Had he allowed himself to hand over control of his portion sizes, allowed himself to bloat larger than the human form was intended to, and allowed him to keep the excess weight, all for an orgasm he’d never even received?
To answer the final question would be to answer “no”, and that’s when his irritation was replaced with panic.
He hadn’t allowed himself to submit because he wanted to eat, or because he wanted to come, or for any other reason with no strings attached.
He’d allowed himself to submit because he loved you.
He would do anything to maintain your interest in him.
Sure, indulgence was something he’d frequently engage in even before you’d met him, but he only ever started pushing himself to the point of legitimate physical exhaustion when you were there to play his audience.
And similarly, he knew that, if push came to shove and you really seemed keen on leaving him, he’d be willing to force himself into roles he dreaded, actions which filled him with revulsion the vast majority of the time, just for that shred of hope that that’d win back your affections.
He was willing to do anything if it meant that you’d remain interested in him - this is what led to so many actions taken, or not, so many nights spent like this, lying alone, dreading an abandonment that always seemed to loom over the horizon, even if that fear was founded near entirely on his spiraling thoughts rather than any rationality.
Why should he listen to someone so physically inferior to him?
Why should he allow himself to act on the whims of someone who so clearly didn’t care for him?
Because you didn’t care for him, you couldn’t. In his mind, even the kindest of words you sent his way were forgotten on nights like this, nights when one anxious thought allowed itself to mutate and spread within his mind, fill his head with fears and self loathing and his stomach with a gaseous, unpleasant nausea that only increased his upset.
And if you didn’t care for him, that meant he had nothing left to lose.
So, ever so carefully, he forced himself upright, the jostling of his stomach inviting a sickeningly long yet uncharacteristically quiet belch alongside.
He palmed his chest and covered his mouth, glancing over at you, your only movement being the steady ups-and-downs of your breathing.
He didn’t like that you weren’t even looking his way; were you really so repulsed by him that you couldn’t even sleep facing him? He supposed maybe the rancidity of his outbursts may have warranted that, but if they were really so awful to smell maybe you should have withheld your gentle words.
And they were gentle this time, he realized. Usually you were so adamant that he take just another bite, you were so keen on ordering plate after plate, but tonight he’d taken the lead, he’d been the one to order, he’d asked you how much to get, he’d led it all. You had only been dragged along, it seemed.
Had he forced you into something you wouldn’t have otherwise agreed to?
This thought upset him further, but still he allowed it to plant itself firmly in his mind.
He’d forced you into witnessing an act of exhibitionism which only the two of you were in on, he’d forced you to smile and pretend you enjoyed him like this, he’d forced you to agree with his portions and forced you to sleep with him and forced you to be kind to him and forced you to pretend you loved him.
But when you slept, your intentions seemed clear; your intentions were to please, to sedate, to calm the raging storm of emotions that always seemed so close to the surface, emotions he seemed to conjure so superficially, emotions which only the two of you knew the depths of.
Your intentions weren’t for self pleasure, though, they never could be. Nobody could really find him as attractive as he found himself, especially when he was like this, so full, so fat, so absolutely rancid in scent - he had forced you into accepting his indulgence as a part of him, and what’s worse, he’d forced you to pretend you found it attractive.
And, too, he’d forced you to play therapist, always tending to his emotional woes in ways nobody ever had before. Nobody before you had ever seemed to care when he was upset, so he’d gotten used to holding his most intense feelings inside himself, trading emotional expression for physical.
He had nobody to verbally express his emotions to, which led to violent fantasies which scared even him. He grew to hate himself for these, hate himself for just how awful he could be, how awful his thoughts could get. So he took out the sadness, the anger, the hatred inside himself onto himself. When he was younger, he’d starved himself and slashed his wrists and thighs. When he was older, he’d ran for miles and pumped iron until his shins were sore and his arms unsteady.
And now he had somewhere to go to with all of his horrible, awful thoughts, all of his upset with the world around him and with the world inside him, and he’d been utilizing it - or, rather, he’d been utilizing you. And what was worse was that you seemed to truly understand him, to empathize with the feelings he shared through pathetic moping and guttural sobs, to know exactly how he felt and how to help him feel better. He thrusted you back into the times you’d felt the way he had, forced you to think about things you shouldn’t, just for a few moments of peace from him, for a few weeks where he seemed genuinely okay before it all came tumbling down again and he begged for your affections once more.
He had to get you away from him, he knew he did, but everything he’d done thus far had only seemed to further your attraction to him, his manipulation and false charisma somehow overriding the awful scenarios he’d force you into on a regular basis. You acted as his servant, and he hated himself for how much he enjoyed it, how much he loved being cared about.
His stomach groaned and he returned a palm to its rounded top, cringing as it seemed to sink into fat which he did not deserve.
If you’d been awake, maybe he’d have managed to force your hands onto this same stomach, coerced you into telling him how attractive you found his body and how arousing you found his sounds, whether or not you believed it, just to get him to shut up about why you hadn’t held his hand like you normally would, why you hadn’t actively encouraged him to go for more, why you were sleeping facing away from him.
But, indeed, you were facing away from him, thoughts likely nowhere relating to him, even as all of his centered upon you.
He wondered what you were dreaming about, even if you wouldn’t remember it in the morning. He knew he could catch a glimpse of emotion in your face if you were experiencing any, if only he could see it.
Ever so carefully he took hold of your closer shoulder and pulled it towards him, forcing you onto your back so he could see your face.
Before he could look, he thought that it must be uncomfortable being twisted in the middle like this, so he pulled back the covers briefly to rearrange your legs.
And as he was down there, his finger caught your boxers, though he hadn’t intended it to, and he quickly pulled it away, accidentally moving the elastic a bit lower as well, so that your bush was slightly exposed and your v-line more visible.
Fuck, you were gorgeous. Every part of you growing stronger every day, your body replacing rigidity with healthy softness, your skin glowing just like your smile, and your crotch slowly becoming exposed.
He flushed at this, knowing he shouldn’t be looking at you this way while you were asleep, much less touching you the way he was.
Still, he also knew that you weren’t the type to object to this sort of action; he’d caught you touching yourself to him as you slept once now.
But you hadn’t been touching him then the way he was touching you now, you’d been innocent, simply overcome by lust and affection for the form he’d taken.
On the other hand, he was acting on self hatred, acting entirely selfishly, wishing for intimacy with you, unconscious and fully uninterested in him in the current moment.
You were unconscious, though.
You were unconscious and now sprawled out, completely limp as he touched you, and would likely remain so if he continued.
He could do whatever he liked to you as you slept and you’d stay just as limp as his puppets and plush, but now warmer, more alive, more full of love.
He could do whatever he liked to you and you’d have no way to fight back.
He could do whatever he liked to you.
Thoughts hazy and goals unclear, he abandoned the pursuit of emotional viewing, now acting once more on self interest and selfish desire.
He moved from sitting on his fat ass to his knees, gut hanging below him, hands held out on each side of your hips to steady himself. He pulled your boxers down lower, then lower still, lifting you by your back as he did so to reduce tension.
Once he had done this he lowered himself down until his mouth was level with your hole, arms seeming to shake as he held himself up, anxiety coursing through him.
He needed more, though, he needed to eat until you were pleased with him. And what more was there to eat than you.
He held up two thick, frankly chubby fingers against you, parting your lips slightly to assess how hard he’d have to work for his meal. You were only the slightest bit wet, nothing additional to your body’s basic requirements. Damn.
He honestly didn’t want too much, and he didn’t expect you to cum, especially not in your sleep, but even just a bit of lubrication separate from his saliva would help - he needed you inside him, so intimately intertwined with his intestines, and this was the easiest way of getting that.
He slid a finger into you and winced for a moment as hot, acidic air made itself known to his poorly managed bare nailbed, but still left it inside you. You were pleasantly warm and unsurprisingly tight, which he was just fine with - you never penetrated yourself, and he was only able to on rare occasion, so the tightness honestly brought some relief, knowing that you hadn’t seen anybody else, even if there was no rational reason to think you would, despite being as gorgeous as you are.
He began stimulating you, finger sliding against your clit, then your vaginal walls, until he hit your g spot, then back out, in and out, in and out, in a rhythmic motion, until he was certain that a dampness had set in, whereupon he took his finger out and licked off any excess. It tasted tangy and slightly sweet, much less acidic than his own slick did and much kinder, more inviting of his taste buds.
He moved his mouth back to you and his tongue inched out of him until it was against you, pressed flat against your skin. He licked slowly up, then pulled it back into his mouth to once more hit you, forming another repeated pattern. Where his finger had retained a consistent speed, though, as he simply mimicked the way he’d touch himself, here he started out fairly slowly, out of practice since his last relationships, as you were much less physically needy than they had been and he hadn’t done this in a long time.
You tasted even better from the source, even as his stomach growled angrily below him, warning him against any more swallowing. He still continued, working against his body’s wishes to map out your folds orally.
Heavy breathing was only worsening the condition, as the air between his lips and yours became muggy, and his tongue thrusting more desperate, and when he felt his stomach shift he knew he was about to make matters worse. He would have pulled away had he had the time, made things easier on himself. But as quickly as the thought entered his mind the gas was making its way up and out and right against you.
"°·×bOUURwP’·.-—*hic*, mm…”
He moaned slightly as it slid out of him, stomach shifting beneath him and chest momentarily clearing.
Now the air was even more congested, but it mixed with the taste of the nights previous meals and he supposed it wasn’t all bad.
He kept licking like a rabid dog, swallowing every drop of you, his precious, his sweetness, that he could, his anxiety subsiding just a bit as he kept going, kept tasting you, lapping up every bit of sweet slick that your body produced, all as a result of his actions - something he found himself taking a hazy pride in. Gas continued to force its way out of him, too, now in the form of thicker burps and belches that reverberated against you and seemed to increase your physical arousal, fueled by desperate gulps of air and lubricant.
When one more rancid sound forced its way out of him, he decided he couldn’t go a second longer without doing something regarding his own lower regions, so, after one last quick kiss on each of your inner thighs, he pulled his head back with a low throaty growl and made quick work of shimmying off his own boxers and tossing them to the floor.
He then crawled over you so that his stomach hovered over yours and he slid two fingers inside himself, shame washing over him with the action - he couldn’t even really rape you, he didn’t have a dick to do so with.
Still, he was horny and desperate and in need of relief, both abdominally as well as sexually, so much so that his shame seemed to all go away as his vision landed on your tits, your perfect, bare tits.
He loved them, he loved how soft they were, he loved how big they were, he loved how full they were, and most importantly he loved that they were yours. Another vessel to feed your ever-starved baby, even if said baby was just a few months behind you in age and quickly entering young adulthood.
He moved so that his chin rested at your pectorals and once more extended his tongue so that it touched the skin, and he marveled at how clean you tasted, how warm your skin felt even up here against his tongue. He licked downwards in a shaky line until your regular skin changed texture and he knew he had met nipple. He wrapped his tongue around the surface and then pulled it off, felt every small divot and bump and tasted every bit of you that he could. He played the thing like an oral instrument, an excited sort of music sounding in his head as he did, and he did until he felt he’d covered the expanse and moved to your other tit.
Oh, but he didn’t want the cold night air to stick to your now wet skin, he couldn’t have that happen!! So he removed his fingers from himself and licked them off, too, swallowed his seed and placed the hand not holding him stable against your breast, squeezing at it until he felt his palm covered it decently enough for you to not wake up from the sudden cold.
He then moved his chin to the top of your other mound of breast and repeated his action, sliding down til he met the nipple and orally massaging it against your will. He loved the way you tasted, every inch of you wonderful and warm beneath his tongue, and he licked and lapped at it with an admittedly comforting ease; he knew your breasts and he knew them well, and the familiarity of this physical closeness almost helped him forget that what he was doing was wrong.
But what he was doing was wrong, and he froze for a brief moment with that thought.
What was he doing?? What was he doing to his princess, his love, his greenest pumpkin?? He hadn’t asked if he could, he hadn’t cared if he could, and he was acting in ways that completely opposed the disinterested you he’d spent the past hours building up in his mind.
God he was so awful, he was so selfish, he was abusing the body of the one he loved most, abusing the trust you’d provided sleeping in the same bed, abusing the you who did not care for him, and who would now never care for him again.
He pulled his head up and took a moment to admire your face. Your soft skin wrapped around your eyes, eyes closed so peacefully, eyes which would never dare to look at him again with anything beyond resentment.
And your nose, a nose which wrinkled at your scents, but which made way for loving praise and letting him know just how proud you were that he got all of that gas out.
And your lips, lips which sung these praises, lips which made way for a voice that had once made him nauseous with anxiety for how gorgeous it was, for how lucky it made him feel, lips which he would kiss hundreds of times over if he could.
His heart absolutely pounded in his chest as he continued admiring your face, the face of the person he loved most and who would never love him again. He’d cemented this fact with his nonconsensual actions, cemented your hatred of him for times to come. He felt so disgusting hovering over you like this, but he couldn’t make himself move away, so he stayed, heart pounding, breath hanging heavy in the air.
He moved a hand to push back a stray hair of yours that’d ended up between your eyes, only to quickly regret this action as they fluttered open and your gaze turned to him. Before he could think what to do, what to say, an anxious sort of gas bubbled up inside him and an ill-timed heartbeat smacked against his lungs, forcing it all out in one obnoxiously loud, awful sound; as it was happening he had enough sense at the least to slap a palm over his mouth to muffle the sound as it forced its way out of him, but this didn’t seem to make much difference - you’d already heard it, you could still hear it, and pretty soon your own hand was prying his away, allowing the last moments of gaseous breath to escape him, and you giggled slightly, hardly audible beneath the sound you giggled, and it was the most gorgeous sound, it really was.
As his eructation tapered off he wanted to stumble through apologies, but he found himself unable to speak, to even move, and so he was just a creep hovering over you, a creep hovering over you who had just so obscenely eructated over top of you, who had prior suckled your tits and ingested your wet, a creep who did nothing consensually and who hated himself more than anything else.
But, as he hovered over you, your lips began moving and he was suddenly entirely focused on your words, words he was not yet ready for, words which seemed to come so easily to you.
And a giggle escaped you as you said so, and the look in your eyes seemed so real he could almost envision stars in the reflection, and he broke. His arms collapsed from underneath him and he broke into loud, awful wet sobs on top of you.
You loved him as he loved you, and in that moment it felt so true and so real, that even despite everything you still loved him, and he clung to you as harsh sobs and high pitched hiccups wracked his bloated frame, a body now pressed into your own, and as you rubbed a hand against his back he knew that it would all be alright.
