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KIROKAZE
Origami Around
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Cosmic Funnies
Andulka
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
noise dept.
trying on a metaphor
todays bird
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Today's Document
oozey mess
NASA
we're not kids anymore.
Love Begins
cherry valley forever
Jules of Nature
izzy's playlists!
Xuebing Du
seen from Belgium
seen from Australia
seen from Greece
seen from El Salvador
seen from Algeria
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Laos
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@sentient-episode
If you're someone who believes in the "Good Freak" vs "Bad Freak" shit just know I'm one of the Bad Freaks and you're getting blocked. Thanks.
Our glorious coping mechanism vs their barbarous sexualization of trauma. Get a grip.
Craving Connection
Theme(s): Stuffing, second person POV, reader insert, anonymous feeder, anonymous feedee, praise, overstuffing
You tell yourself it's not that weird.
It's a Thursday, technically Friday if you count that it's the dead of night, and you are sitting in your living room—laptop on your lap, Netflix on the TV (muted), and your phone propped at the ready in case you get an emergency call from work. The office isn't open, but your manager is a demon and has drilled "availability" into your head like a dentist treating cavities with a jackhammer.
You're also naked except for a pair of worn-out gym shorts, and the waistband has folded over like a sad taco shell, unable to contain what it's supposed to contain. Your stomach, even before tonight's debauchery, has always been "roomy" (an old friend's word, uttered years ago and one you've never quite shaken off) but now it's ballooning, not with pride, but with a gutful of neon-bright candy, three bagels, and a large takeout container of pad thai that's currently forming a heavy layer atop the rest.
And you are, for reasons best not to examine, actively feeding yourself more.
The window open in your browser is the chat app from a website called GulpIt. As the name suggests, it's a website for people who like watching or hearing about other people eating enormous quantities of food. There are subforums for recipes, for "encouragement," for "fantasy." It is not the sort of website you mention in polite company, or even to your therapist, who might Google it out of morbid curiosity and then cancel your next session.
The stranger you've been chatting with calls themselves Bellybud. You've never seen their face, only a rotating cast of blurry, over-cropped avatars. Bellybud is, according to themselves, "an enthusiast of all things squishy." They live in a city far enough away that you doubt you'll ever run into them at Target. They are funny, disarmingly sweet, and a little too good at getting you to do things you normally wouldn't do on your own.
Like they have tonight.
You stare at the blinking cursor on your screen. Your last message, sent exactly forty-seven seconds ago, reads: 'That's probably enough, right? lol'
Then a new message pops up.
Bellybud: Only if you want to quit ;P
You glance at your belly, which looks like it belongs to someone who has just finished competing in a hot dog-eating contest. There is a shiny tightness to your skin, like it's been stretched to within an inch of its life. Heat radiates from it like an old incandescent bulb that's been left on for ages. You can practically feel your stomach sluggishly churning.
You: haha i dont wanna die Bellybud: You won't! You're doing so well, omg. I'm so proud of you.
There it is again—the praise. It's embarrassing how easily it works on you. You squirm a little on the couch, which only makes your overpacked stomach shift and gurgle more. You take a swig of Sprite to settle it, which immediately has the opposite effect.
The fridge is calling to you. Or, more accurately, Bellybud is calling to you, via text, via the small voice in your head that you have let belong to them for the last month and a half.
Bellybud: What else do you have left? It's inventory time!! :D
You get up, feeling like a ship listing to one side, and trundle to the kitchen. The light is too bright. The linoleum is cold and sticky in spots, which you can only blame on yourself, since no one else lives here.
You open the fridge. There's the remainder of yesterday's pizza, the better part of a key lime pie, half a liter of heavy cream from a failed Alfredo experiment, and three or four full-sized Snickers bars. You type it all out for Bellybud, who responds instantly:
Bellybud: Key lime pie!! PLEEEEEEAAAASE
You sigh, but something about the anticipation is weirdly thrilling.
So you fetch the pie. It's heavier than you expect, and as you set it on the counter, you realize with a mixture of dread and excitement that it's still mostly whole, save for the single sliver you tried earlier at lunch. You grab a fork, consider for a moment, and then just grab the whole pie, too, figuring that it's not worth dirtying another plate just to serve dessert on.
You waddle back to the couch, balancing the pie tin like a tray, and glance at the chat:
You: k pie is here Bellybud: Yassss. Take a pic? If you want.
You hesitate for exactly five seconds. There is no way in hell you are sending a photo of your actual face, or any part of your upper body above the navel. But you can angle it right, crop out identifying bits, and maybe even get a little validation for the swelling, veined orb of your midsection. You rest the pie on your lap, position the phone, and snap a picture of your stomach, your hand holding the fork, and the shimmering green surface of the pie.
You: sent
There's a pause, then:
Bellybud: OMG! You look soooooo good! Like, so stuffed. It's so cute how tight your skin is! Are you gonna be able to finish it?
Your stomach makes a vulgar sound that you hope isn't audible through the apartment walls. The tightness, the ache, the sense that one more ounce will do tragic things to all your internal plumbing—none of it seems real when you're looking at it through the funhouse mirror of your phone screen. Not when you have such an eager audience for your gluttony.
You: idk, but im gonna try Bellybud: That's my favorite thing about you <3
“Ate too much?”
“Didn’t eat enough”
imagine: u walk past a heavily pregnant trans boy's bedroom and overhear him moaning with pleasure and your curiosity is obviously piqued so you peek in to see him rubbing his huge belly rapturously, clearly getting off to how big he is - and then, gradually, you can start to make out what he's whimpering under his breath as he strokes his gravid bump:
'fuck, i'm huge... my belly's so big, i can't believe how big it is... it feels so good... fuck, i want more... i want more babies... no, i need more, i need to have more babies... i need it so bad... i can't wait to get pregnant again... i never wanna stop... god, im such a little breeder~'
what's your next move when he spots you and turns beet red knowing you heard every word?
stuffing them so nice and full they can’t help but slip into a food coma. promising you’ll take such good care of them while they rest - after all, they worked so hard, didn’t they? they’ll feel so much better after a good nap. but then, of course, they just look so plush, so comfy and beautiful…you can’t help yourself. you need to reach out and touch. grab. squeeze, knead, bounce — your sweet, sleepy doughball. you’re even able to work some air out of them, burps slipping out unhindered by shame or etiquette…or wakefulness.
now that they’ve made some room, they look like they could use a snack.
you gently jostle them awake, holding a treat near their mouth. “hi, baby. here - just one more bite,” you murmur, knowing they’re too sleepy to protest. you press it past their lips, stroking their cheek as they chew, and the moment they swallow you coax them back to sleep.
it’s even easier than you thought.
so you start the cycle over: worshipping their body, mouthing at their chest, grinding against their thighs and tummy, diving between their legs, reaping the rewards of their indulgence for them…careful not to send them over the edge. not yet. if they start to wake up from an overeager bounce of their belly or too sharp a nip at their rolls? well, that just means it’s time for another treat~
a dizzyingly delicious cycle, so easy to get lost in. feeding them up even fuller than they started — and they’re just too deep in dreamland to keep track of how many “one more bite”s they’ve had. by the time they wake up for real, they’re packed to the brim, so full they can’t even roll over…and they barely know why. even more, they’re so riled up from however long you spent gorging yourself on them, it’s all they can do to beg you for help. so stuffed they can’t move, so turned on they can’t focus, and completely at your mercy.
you did promise they’d feel better once they woke up, didn’t you?
Thinking about a feedee stuffing themselves w somethin FULL of carbs or something like pasta or pastries... the rich heavy meal sitting in their belly making them think they're just comfortably full until a little later when the food has time to further expand in their stomach (and they're even more fucked if they drank a lot especially if it's thick like a shake or carbonated like a soda).... now they're bulging out of their clothes and struggling to hold in hiccups and belches as their round heavy orb of a gut desperately tries to make any room it can to digest their delightfully fattening meal... 🤤
God I love feedees who are so proud of their growing body that they can’t help but be a little slutty about it.
Showing off their overfed figure in clingy tops and skin-tight jeans. Shamelessly rubbing and patting their bulging belly after a big meal. Letting their tummy slip out from under too-tight shirts. Strutting around so their whole body bounces and jiggles, showing off all their added pounds. Unbuttoning their waistband mid meal to let their gut spill onto their lap. Or abandoning their bottoms entirely, since underwear is the only thing they can fit into now. Catching your eye while they stuff their mouth full of empty calories. Lifting their shirt so you can steal glances of their swollen middle between meals. Sticking out their tongue for you to feed them another bite. Wearing clothes that fit 30 pounds ago to remind you just how much fatter they’ve grown. All because they can’t help but show off how well they’re growing for you.
God I don’t know what it is but I’m absolutely obsessed with feedees who are absolutely ✨feral✨ about getting fatter.
Watching them shove more and more food down their gullet, not out of hunger, but in greedy desperation to just grow. Hands perpetually exploring their belly for new bulges and rolls and softness. Hearing them moan as they cradle their rapidly overgrown tummy beneath their fingertips. Seeing their cheeks flush red when they can no longer button those once-oversized jeans. Watching them suck and guzzle down weight gain shakes because food along isn’t making them fatter fast enough. Feeling their hips buck and grind in pure unabashed ecstasy as a funnel is placed in their mouth.
Shout out to eager feedees, your’re hot af
Imagine a cute nerd in college that stresses so much about his grades and making sure he knows everything and studies that he stress eats so much.
At first, the weight isn’t much of issue. He’s always been chubby and one dress size up won’t deter him from the grades he wants. He doesn’t exercise by parking himself in a desk chair and barely moving for the day, poring over texts, so some weight is inevitable. Right?
He doesn’t cook for himself often, because it takes too much time from his studies. His mom sends things to his dorm like new underwear and socks and baked goods and if his weight changes drastically enough to render most of his closet moot he asks her for a size up.
When he revises, he snacks through nearly a whole day’s worth of calories, surely. When he has an upcoming exam or finds something in his notes he’s a bit muddy on, he panics and stuffs his face with takeout. A ton of burgers and fries, a large soda maybe, and some ice cream or something from the bakery down the road to wean him out of his feeding frenzy.
His later classes are always a pain because he ends up waddling there on a stuffed belly after gorging throughout the day as he’s studied.
There’s whispers from his classmates as his ass spreads in his seat, trapping his hips under the arms. Lately he’s had to make a habit of lifting an arm between two seats so he can sit on both, but occasionally he forgets, resulting in an end of lecture struggle.
During lectures he nervously grazes on a bag full of chips and candy bars to help him focus.
He decides to cut back, but when he’s studying the next day and uncovers a section he doesn’t know that well, he panics. He ends up in the closest fast food place shoveling food into his mouth until he can focus on the subject.
When he graduates, he’s over twice the size of what he was when he enrolled. And with a brain like his, he’s bound for a desk job - IT, maybe - where he can eat as much as he wants at his desk and blush when he can’t quite get out of his chair.
Yeah. Cute fat nerds, I love you so much.
Cute fat nerds. Yes, please!
you think fat trans men are hot. reblog
that late twenties metabolism drop am I right
26 my metabolism started to slow and well...
Moaning about tummy rubs is so fucking hot.
Not just little content sighs, not just little giggles or laughs.
M o a n s. Head tilted back, eyes closed, mouth half covering the impolite noises and gasps being made as hands press into the spot where *everything* in your guts begins to shift. Feeling your stomach relax and churn as the vagus nerve gets activated. Getting horny from just that is something else, and its fucking *hot*.
not nearly enough fat boys whining and cupping their packed belly and whining "it hurts"
Those little gestures. When you lean back after a meal, your belly sticking out round as a ball, and you slide your waistband to the narrowest spot beneath that mountain of a belly to make yourself more comfortable. You say you’re so full. And I say, “Ice cream?” and your eyes light up and you say, “Of course, yes.” When I put a bag of chips next to you half an hour later and your hand immediately sinks into it until there isn’t a single chip left. Then you pull up your shirt, show me your stuffed belly, and look like a little puppy begging to have its belly rubbed. Nothing would make me happier, my good boy! Take that shirt off right now. My hands stroke and knead your fullness, and you look so happy and content it makes my heart sing. But once you’ve digested a bit, you could do me a favor and lie down on top of me, couldn’t you? I love feeling your weight, too. It calms me so much and is so cozy.
stuffing them so nice and full they can’t help but slip into a food coma. promising you’ll take such good care of them while they rest - after all, they worked so hard, didn’t they? they’ll feel so much better after a good nap. but then, of course, they just look so plush, so comfy and beautiful…you can’t help yourself. you need to reach out and touch. grab. squeeze, knead, bounce — your sweet, sleepy doughball. you’re even able to work some air out of them, burps slipping out unhindered by shame or etiquette…or wakefulness.
now that they’ve made some room, they look like they could use a snack.
you gently jostle them awake, holding a treat near their mouth. “hi, baby. here - just one more bite,” you murmur, knowing they’re too sleepy to protest. you press it past their lips, stroking their cheek as they chew, and the moment they swallow you coax them back to sleep.
it’s even easier than you thought.
so you start the cycle over: worshipping their body, mouthing at their chest, grinding against their thighs and tummy, diving between their legs, reaping the rewards of their indulgence for them…careful not to send them over the edge. not yet. if they start to wake up from an overeager bounce of their belly or too sharp a nip at their rolls? well, that just means it’s time for another treat~
a dizzyingly delicious cycle, so easy to get lost in. feeding them up even fuller than they started — and they’re just too deep in dreamland to keep track of how many “one more bite”s they’ve had. by the time they wake up for real, they’re packed to the brim, so full they can’t even roll over…and they barely know why. even more, they’re so riled up from however long you spent gorging yourself on them, it’s all they can do to beg you for help. so stuffed they can’t move, so turned on they can’t focus, and completely at your mercy.
you did promise they’d feel better once they woke up, didn’t you?
obsessing over gains so rapid and so consistent that everything seems to go directly to the belly, packing pound after pound of visceral fat onto a frame not built to sustain it
