Feb 3
holy shit im so smoof.
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holy shit im so smoof.
support small artists 🥹🫶
Chris smiled to himself as he stared down at his phone. He looked up, glancing over at Peter on the other side of the room. He was lying in bed, blankets draped over his crotch, pudgy stomach prominently hanging over them. He looked like a renaissance portrait of some noble lounging in his bedchambers.
He glanced back down to his phone, displaying an instagram post announcing Peter's appearance on a late night talk show. He'd done great, the interview was smooth, funny and personable. Yet it seems all the people in the comments were much more focused on his appearance, rather than his personality.
starlun commented: Yo look at that dadbod lmao did bro stop caring
mixed.muse commented: he can afford to eat nice why the hell did he pack that on lol
lionessrules36 commented: yeahhhh you guys can't keep pretending he looks good. lost some respect for him ngl
As his P.A, Chris really should be offended. Furious, even. He should contact the Later Show's social media manager to delete the comments. But, as Chris palmed his crotch through his much-too expensive pants, he grinned down at the comments.
He walked over to Peter's sleeping form, his pudgy stomach rising and falling with his breaths. He ran a hand over the soft flesh, gripping the curve of it with a hand and jiggling it back and forth. After so many superhero flicks and million dollar blockbusters, starving himself and barely drinking water to maintain his image, Chris was elated that he finally let loose. All it took was some prodding from his long-term friend and recently hired personal assistant to get him to change his habits.
He looked so much better like this, and this was only the beginning. He could get him bigger and bigger, until he was nearly unrecognizable compared to his "hot" older self. Please, he looked sickly. He wanted him to get new head shots, to go on magazine covers and get billboard photo shoots. He needed everyone to see the fruits of his labor.
Peter was a heavy sleeper. If he wasn't, Chris wouldn't feel comfortable shoving his face into his stomach, playing with it like wet clay. He fantasized about how much bigger and bigger this stomach would get, how Peter's appetite, which he repressed for so long, would only demand more and more food to stuff him full until his bloated belly was tight and painful. Then, who else would be there to rub his stomach, to soothe his discomfort and get him ready for his beauty sleep but his dear personal assistant.
Peter moaned in his sleep as Chris continued his ministrations. He grinned, imagining the day where he would guide his friend through masturbation, just by rubbing his fatpad against his dick, until he came onto himself. The very idea made Chris's cock twitch.
He quickly grabbed his phone, screenshotting each and every disparaging comment about Peter's weight. He saved them all to a folder on his phone, excited to show his friend once they were a hundred pounds or so down the line.
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I can't add a read more because I'm on mobile but enjoy a small fic for an idea I had:
“What do you mean I need an appointment?” Martin asked, furrowing his eyebrows.
“Mr. Sims is very busy, Sir,” the lady at the desk, Rosie, said, “If you would like to give a statement I can get the archivist, Ms. James, or if you’d like to issue a complaint I can give you the email for PR.”
“No, no, I want to see Jon.”
Martin rubbed his temples, beginning to regret not changing his name when he and Jon got married. Jon had been worried making their relationship public might give them avoidable complications, which Martin had agreed with at the time. But now all he wanted to do was say “I’m Martin Blackwood-Sims and I am here to see my husband, the Head of your Institute, Jonathan Blackwood-Sims.”
“Again,” Rosie said, “You need an appointment to see Mr. Sims. I’d gladly set one up for you, Sir, if you’d like. How’s next week?”
“Next week? What could he possibly be doing that takes a week?” Martin tapped his foot, partly in impatience and partly as a nervous tic.
“Paperwork, mostly,” Rosie said flatly, “You must remember, he is the Head of the Institute.”
Jon hated doing paperwork. He usually just used his spooky Beholding powers to Know what each document was about, sigh for five minutes, and then down two cups of coffee. Martin knew this because he had seen it first hand. He also-
He also knew everything happening inside the Institute, Martin realized. Jon had to know Martin was there, right? He had to be watching? Martin felt oddly like a damsel in distress, anxiously awaiting his knight in shining armor to swoop in and save him.
“Look, can’t you just… call him down or something? Jon knows who I am, he’ll tell you I can come see him.”
“I'm sorry, but Mr. Sims prefers not to be disturbed unless by necessity.”
“I’d categorize this as a necessity.”
“I wouldn't.”
“Martin,” a voice called from behind him. A familiar voice. Martin turned to see all five feet and six inches of his husband. His salt-and-pepper hair was tied back in a neat bun and his dark skirt reached his ankles. He looked almost too professional.
“Jon!” Martin exclaimed, “Finally!”
Jon smiled, warm and genuine. “Sorry I took a bit of time,” he said, walking foreword, “I got sidetracked.”
“It’s alright,” Martin replied, smiling back.
Jon gestured for Martin to start toward his office before turning to Rosie at the front desk. “Rosie, do let Mr. Blackwood in the next time he swings by.” Martin heard Rosie mutter in affirmation as he turned the corner into the hallway.
“Why didn't you come get me sooner?” Martin asked after Jon caught up.
“Well I didn't Know Rosie was going to keep you there. Besides, you could have just come in through the Lonely or turned invisible.”
“I didn't think I’d be kept up either!”
“Then it doesn't matter,” Jon said, “Now hurry to the office so we can have a proper visit.”
the simpsons writers were genuinely insane for this one
Neon speed run