#chubboiz

[chubboiz]

kind of want to write a short story about someone who's not really into feedism gaining enough weight that their clothes don't fit and it drives their feeder/FA partner nuts. like they're not actively trying to get fatter but they're not bothered by it and they're perfectly happy letting their partner cook for them/play with their belly/etc.

[chubboiz]

a dish best served cold

light smut (fingering, unspecified genitalia); gender neutral feeder bottom!reader x male feedee top!OC

Technically speaking, you brought this on yourself.

You knew that eventually, all the times you encouraged his late night snacking habits and stuffed him until his belly grew round and taut would lead to a moment like this--a moment when you realized that for once, you were the one biting off more than you could chew.

Before he'd started packing on pounds (with your generous assistance of course), you'd always admired his long, slender fingers. They were the fingers of a skilled piano player; thin and calloused and strong, but capable of such a delicate touch.

Naturally, a couple things about him had changed from a few dozen pounds ago. That happens when someone goes from eighty pounds soaking wet to teetering on the edge of three hundred over the course of a year. Now only the barest hint of his knuckles were visible, little dimples punctuating the rings of pudge that encircled the joint of each digit. He hadn't played the piano in quite a while. (You vaguely recall that the last time he tried, those chubby hands of his weighed him down and that ever-growing belly paunch got in the way.)

Those fingers take their sweet time roaming all over your skin, stroking and groping and cupping your ass so tenderly it makes you shudder with want.

And he's more than happy to oblige.

Those fingers, those thick, heavy, luscious goddamned fingers gently pinch your thighs so suddenly it makes you squeak. Instinctively, you grab his shoulders, and the warm chuckle that follows makes you blush.

He draws you up against his belly, proudly protruding out from his midsection despite its emptiness, and sneaks a hand into your underwear.

And then without so much as a flick of his wrist, he slips one of those fat fingers inside of you.

The noise that escapes you is embarrassingly loud, and though you've long since buried your face in his shirt, you can practically feel his smirk.

Smug bastard.

You had gotten too used to being the one in control; after all, you were the one feeding him until his belly stretched taut and tight against the confines of his clothes. You were the one who spent hours exploring the soft pucker of his arms and teasing him for getting winded after climbing two flights of stairs. Maybe that was hubris.

Looking back, you start to understand why whenever you'd coyly invite him to use his hands in the bedroom he'd flash you the sweetest smile and ask you to be patient--there was a very big difference between taking such a bony length and an index finger with the circumference of a kiwi fruit. 

All he needed to do in order to have you bucking helplessly against his palm was flex that deliciously fat finger in a lazy staccato rhythm. It's like he's doing everything in his power to make you short of breath, as if to pay you back for teasing him so often.

 You can't deny it, you wouldn't mind getting used to this kind of revenge.