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the-tummy-closet · 3 years

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Grizzly

((Author’s Note: inspired by..... a post. maybe you've seen the one.))

They set up their camp near the edge of the festival grounds, close enough for Julian and Maria to go back and forth. Personally, Emmett would’ve preferred to pitch the tent further away. But their little group didn’t pass through towns often these days, particularly not during harvest season, and he couldn’t deny his friends the chance to watch the villagers hold their contests and hear the storytellers perform their songs.

He couldn’t complain too much anyway. The village they’d found themselves in was located at the mouth of a great river, and as it turned out, this time of year was not so much harvest season for them as it was fishing season. He’d come back from his single trip to the festival grounds with a basket full of bark-wrapped fillets of fresh salmon, roasted on hot coals. The fish was hot and smoky and perfect, one of the most delicious things he’d ever tasted, and he was perfectly content to spend his evening lounging by the campfire, unwrapping filet after filter as he waited for his friends to return.

He ate warm, tender fish until he felt like his stomach would burst if he tried another swallow. Then he pulled his cloak around himself, leaned into the bundle of furs at his back, and closed his eyes to let himself digest.

It was Maria’s amused voice close by his ear that roused him: “You still with us, Em?”

“…Hmm?” Emmett dragged open an eye. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been drowsing, but it sure hadn’t been long enough for his belly to make much progress, as evidenced by the way his sides ached as he shifted to look at Maria. “What?”

“Just checking on ya. They’re serving up dessert over at the festival grounds. Blueberry pie.” She tilted her wooden bowl so he could see. “It’s delicious.”

“Mmm….” Normally, Emmett would have just dismissed dessert out of hand, but the firelight glinted off the syrup oozing out between the golden pastry in Maria’s bowl, and despite all the fish weighing down his insides, his mouth watered. “Looks good. Too bad I’m so stuffed with salmon I don’t think I can get up.”

Maria laughed. “Aww. Who doesn’t overdo it at festivals, though?”

“I’m not joking, Maria. I would go get pie if I could. But I literally can’t move.” To illustrate his point, he tried to sit upright, huffing a little as the pressure in his belly spiked. His cloak slipped away, revealing the way his shirt was clinging to the swell of his middle, and he couldn’t help but chuckle as he stared down and fully appreciated how silly he must look.

“Damn!” Maria laughed, sounding both incredulous and a little concerned. “Okay Em, yeah, that tummy looks pretty heavy. Are you feeling okay?”

“Mmhmm.” Sitting up straight was starting to make Emmett’s stomach cramp, so he sank back into the furs with a soft sigh, resting one hand against the curve of his lower belly. “Just full.”

Maria settled onto the pile of furs next to him, snuggling up against his side. Her hand tentatively found the bulge where Emmett’s stomach was protruding beneath his ribs, and she laughed as he stifled a burp. “I’ll say. How many of those fish packets did you eat?”

“Mmm… lost count.” Emmett braced his hand against his side as another burp worked its way up, and then groaned contentedly as Maria began to rub gentle circles over the tightness of his dinner. “Fuck, that feels good, Maria… Keep doing that, please.”

“Are you two cuddling without me?” Julian’s bright voice preceded him plopping down on Emmett’s other side. “There’s pie at the cookfire, Em. I brought you some.”

“He’s full up to his ears with fish,” Maria laughed, patting Emmett’s belly.

“So he is.” Julian’s expression shifted to something both amused and deeply fond. “You must’ve been hungry.”

“Yeah. And the salmon here is just so fucking good.” Emmett groaned ruefully as he glanced down at the two bowls of pie resting on Julian’s lap. “Bet that pie’s good too.”

“Oh, it is. I would even venture to say that it’s not to be missed. If your stomach has the room, that is.” Julian’s hand joined Maria’s on the bulge of Emmett’s belly. His fingers pressed in gently, as though to emphasize how taut it was, but at the same time, he moved one of the bowls into Emmett’s lap. “I bet you could manage a little taste.”

“Mmm. Stuffed with salmon and now being tempted with blueberries. I feel like a damn grizzly.” Emmett sighed softly, considering. The bowl of pie that Julian had placed on his leg had slipped to rest against the curve of his belly, and he was so full and sensitive there that its weight felt heavy even on the outside of him. He wasn’t sure he could fit much more in. But then again… Maria was right. Festivals were typically for overdoing it. And what better place to overdo it than here, with soft furs and a crackling fire and a loved one close on either side?

“I’m gonna have a little,” he decided. “But... mmm...” —he paused as his stomach gurgled uncertainly— “I might be kinda out of it afterwards.”

“That’s alright, Em, we got you.” Maria swept her hand up to rest just below his ribs and began rubbing gentle circles with her fingers. “You should have as much as you want.”

“Absolutely agreed.” Julian’s palm was pressed to Emmett’s taut side, warm and supportive. “Just be careful, dear. Don’t make yourself sick.”

Emmett didn’t feel sick in the slightest, which was unusual for him, considering how far past full he already was. As he put the first bite of pie in his mouth, savoring the perfect balance of tartness and sweetness and the way the tender pastry flaked between his teeth, he couldn’t help but wish that he were able to indulge himself to this point more often. Eating on such a stuffed stomach felt… intensely and viscerally good in a way that he had rarely experienced. He could feel the very edges of his body, thanks to the way each swallow pressed outwards as it squeezed down, and it was pleasurable in that same primal way he sometimes felt when he was running or riding or fighting—as though he were a wild animal, all raw natural power, bound by nothing but his body and its limits.

And then of course, there was the press of his friends’ hands over the sore stretch of his belly. It wasn’t just the relief of pressure eased, of tension gently massaged away—although that was incredibly good on its own—but also the powerful intimacy of it all, the way he could feel affection in each careful press and concern in every slow, thoughtful motion. He could feel each touch easing the burden of everything he’d eaten—the circles beneath his ribs helping each bite find a tiny crevice of room to settle into, the slow sweeps over his navel calming strained twinges and rumbles, the kneading into his sides helping the muscles relax so his belly could swell out even further.

He was so caught up in the sensation of it that he felt drunk. Everything else around him seemed to blur into a haze—the warmth of the fire, the repetitive scrape of his spoon against the bowl, the soft sounds of Maria and Julian chatting. It pulled him partway out of his daze when he realized they were talking about him.

“…I dunno, should we stop him? His tummy is getting enormous.”

“Hmm, he really is quite bloated, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, and I mean—seriously, Julian, feel right here, under his ribs.”

The hand supporting the heaviness of Emmett’s lower belly suddenly disappeared. He made a soft sound of protest, which was quickly replaced by a deep groan as it reappeared on the sensitive swell high in his middle, where pie and fish were packed tightly in his stomach.

“Oh my.” Julian’s voice was full of concern. “Are you sure you’re alright, Emmett dear? Your belly feels so full.”

A thumb pressed a gentle circle into the extra-tight lump inside him, while another warm hand rubbed over its side before pressing down towards his navel to support it from underneath. Emmett groaned happily, feeling his stomach gurgle appreciatively with the help, and mumbled, “Mmm… yeah, I’m good.”

As the neared the bottom of the bowl, he developed a vague awareness that he was reaching some kind of limit. The strained feeling in his stomach had grown throbbingly intense, and he was starting to feel uneasy grumbles even through the supportive press of his friends’ hands. The bowl was nearly empty, and part of him wanted to finish it, just to see if he could. But the next morsel of pie he swallowed forced up a wheezy belch, and he had the distinct feeling that he had just traded the last bit of air in his stomach to hold that bite.

“Ugh,” he gasped. “Ohhh, my stomach… okay, I’m... I’m—urp—done.”

Immediately, the bowl was taken from his hands, and he felt an arm—it was hard to say whose—gently encircling his shoulders. He wanted to tell them that he’d prefer that hand on his belly, really, but after wheezing out his admission of defeat, he couldn’t get enough breath back to say anything more. He was so full that his lungs felt squeezed, so full that the bloat of it all was forcing him to sit with his back arched. Trying to bend at the waist to move into any other position seemed impossible.

“Come on, boy, don’t explode on us.” Maria’s voice was warm and affectionate, close to his ear. “That was seriously impressive. You’re not in pain, are you?”

Emmett tried to say “no,” but all that came out of him was a ragged groan. He flashed a little grin instead, trying to make sure that Maria knew he was alright. His stomach did ache, but in a nice way, like the satisfying soreness he felt in his body after a good day’s work. Not to mention, the press of loving hands was soothing the ache out of his overworked stomach like a massage soothing cramps from overworked muscles.

“Poor dear. Can’t even speak, can you?” Julian’s voice coincided with a gentle press of a hand over his navel, and Emmett panted as a wave of relief surged through his straining belly. “Have I mentioned how adorable you are when you indulge yourself?”

It was a good thing Julian found it adorable. Emmett could only imagine that he looked like an absolute mess. But that was the beautiful thing about having people who loved you. It didn’t matter. Sometimes being messy only made them love you more.

“Somebody looks ready to hibernate.” Julian patted Emmett’s distended belly with a chuckle. “Seems like you’ve got enough in here to last you until spring.”

“Shuddup,” Emmett mumbled, letting his head fall sideways to press his cheek into Julian’s shoulder. He groaned softly as he felt an uncomfortable rumble building in his overstuffed stomach, and then again as Maria’s hand kneaded in to settle it. It was a struggle to catch his breath, but he managed to groan, “Fuck… I’m so full…”

“Yeah, we noticed. Kinda hard to miss all this.” Maria swept her hand over Emmett’s swollen front, then leaned over to kiss his cheek. “You’d better get to work on digesting, because we’re going to have to move you eventually.”

“Hrmph.” Emmett rubbed his knuckles over the crest of his stomach, thinking that his digestion had already been hard at work for quite some time.

“Don’t worry. We’ll help.” Julian patted just below where Emmett was rubbing, prompting a grumble from deep in his belly. “Did you enjoy that pie?”

“Mmm… yeah. So good.” Emmett arched his back just a tiny bit more, hoping to illustrate that he was enjoying all the attention, too.

Julian seemed to get the picture, judging by the way he chuckled and obligingly rubbed a broad circle across the expanse of Emmett’s belly. “You just get some rest.”

Emmett didn’t need to be told twice. He let every muscle in his body fall slack, including his eyelids. The world shrank down to the warmth of the fire and the weight of his stomach and the warm trails of relief left in the wakes of his friends’ hands, and he drifted off to sleep.

#stuffing #belly rubs #tummy noises #caretaking #AnonAuthor

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anonmode · 4 years

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Cause a little fun never hurt nobody 😎 #anonauthority #anonmode #memes #fashionmemes #jacknicholson #streetwear #hypebae #highsnobiety #highsnobietysneakers #streetwearblog #streetwearblogger #memesdaily (at ANONmode) https://www.instagram.com/p/B_IkQdyj9G5/?igshid=8ots5eb78ar5

#anonauthority #anonmode #memes #fashionmemes #jacknicholson #streetwear #hypebae #highsnobiety #highsnobietysneakers #streetwearblog #streetwearblogger #memesdaily

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anon-authors · 5 years

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Do your characters self-reflect and how do they do it?

Thank you @esoteric-eclectic-eccentric!

Mushroompen: yes. They self-reflect. One of my favourites is the main character of my wip because the way he self-reflects is exactly how I self-reflect. He talks to himself as if there's an actual person inside his head. Although he doesn't show it, he is constantly being nagged by this voice whenever he's not sure about whatever it is he's doing, or if he's nervous, or just generally talking to other people... Basically, most of the time.

AliasA: My characters self-reflect, though some of them have their heads waaayyy up their ass to actually think things through. Tho I'll focus on my two main characters: Ciara (Mirrors) and Anton (The Lost King). Ciara is an anxious, insecure teen. She's very panicky and most of her self-reflection ends up into her blamong herself. As the story progresses she starts to believe in herself more and trust her own decisions. She's also put in a bunch of moral dilemma which she tries her best to scour through. On the other hand, Anton is a more confident and stubborn character who really won't back down (he PRETENDS to back down but he really doesn't). He's pretty smart, but because of that, he can be a lil narrow minded due to thinking he's got everything down and also because of his temper. I do plan to tear this guy down tho ahahahahaha! My characters are basically disasters in self-reflection but i plan to drag them into character development whether they like it or not :D

#character asks #mushroompen #aliasa #anonauthors answers

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cursedmarkiplierconfessions · 5 years

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(It gets better i promise-) "C'mon, chap! We've not got time to waste." Damien groaned dramatically, looking up to see Wil in front of him, hands on his waist. "Wil, dear, as much as I love you, we can get caught doing this. I'd rather not ruin my rep, thanks." Damien instantly regretted his own snobbiness as he watched Wil's face become devoid of any happiness. "Oh." "...Wil, Im sor-" "No! Your right," Wil smiled, forced, and stuffed his hands in his pants pockets.- AnonAuthor (1/?)

“Your reputation could be in tatters from this, my apologies.” Damien rubbed his neck, nervous. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to say ‘fuck it’s and go with Wil, but his rep- ‘No. No. This isn’t fair.’ Damien thought, bitterly. I want to go with him. I want to be able to love him. Who cared what the public thought? Damien did. He cared a lot. But, with Wil in front of him, dejected, Damien thought that he would be able to not give a shit about his rep or the public,-AnonAuthor (2/?)

But, with Wil in front of him, dejected, Damien thought that he would be able to not give a shit about his rep or the public, just for the night. Just for the night. Grabbing Wil’s arm, drawing a surprised look from the other man, Damien started walking to the club, looking back at his lover, a grin on his face. “Fuck my reputation.”- AnonAuthor (3/3)

Amazing, ten out of ten. Have all my kudos, likes, etc. A thing of true beauty. I love,,, u

#cursed admin #I need to SLEEP #but I had to know #soft #Reputation is a funny name for ASS #I'm kidding but #kldjgkgjdf #damien #Anonymous #anon author #fanfic

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takadasaiko · 7 years

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Thank you to everyone that participated in an awesome Tom Keen Appreciation Week! I just wanted to do my best to gather those up in a master post so that we could 1) have a great place to make sure we didn’t miss anything and 2) tweet it out to Ryan to show our appreciation for all of his hard work!

Day One: Favourite Badass Moment

Escape from Halcyon [gifset] ( @krism23)

Escape from Halcyon [gifset] ( @takadasaiko)

“...spare me the theatrics and just do it.” [photo] ( @d-evils-advocate21)

Tom vs Solomon [gifset] ( @blacklist-redemption)

“How about we blow it for them?” [edit] ( @akarensilla)

“Do it!” [photo] ( @anonauthor-a1023)

Undercover Story [write up] ( @ilisette05)

Day Two: Favourite Father/Son Moment

Birthday Invite [video] ( @blacklistedinashire221b)

Building the Satellite [gifset] ( @ssaspencereid)

“You ever build a satellite dish before?” [edit] ( @blacklist-redemption)

Howard Jailbreak [gif] ( @d-evils-advocate21)

The Hug [gif] ( @takadasaiko)

Day Three: Favourite Mother/Son Moment

“Today I can” [edit] ( @akarensilla)

The Hug [writeup] ( @d-evils-advocate21)

Scottie & Tom at Howard’s Grave [gifset] ( @ssaspencereid)

Tongue Twisters [gifset] ( @blacklist-redemption)

The Truthful Moments [giffset] ( @takadasaiko)

“What are you gonna do? Shoot your own son?” [gifset] ( @krism23)

Day Four: Favourite Heartbreaking Moment

Howard Being Taken [edit] ( @akarensilla)

“Don’t make me give up my boy” [gifset] ( @krism23)

Scottie Betraying Tom [gifset] ( @takadasaiko)

Tom Finding Out Scottie is His Mother [gifset] ( @ssaspencereid)

Scottie Giving the Order to Have Tom Tortured [photo] ( @d-evils-advocate21)

“Please don’t make me give up my boy” [gifset] ( @blacklist-redemption)

Day Five: Favourite Partner Moment

Tom & Nez Hug [photo] ( @d-evils-advocate21)

Tom & Nez Hug [gif] ( @akarensilla)

“Nez is like a daughter to Howard, that means she’s like a sister to me” [gifset] ( @krism23)

Tom & Nez Saving Each Other [gifset] ( @takadasaiko)

“Care to say goodbye?” [gifset] ( @ssaspencereid)

“I’m not a racist!” [video] ( @blacklistedinashire221b)

Day Six: Favourite Banter Moment

Tom & Solomon Banter [photos/gifs] ( @d-evils-advocate21)

“I’m not a racist!” [gifset] ( @krism23)

“I’m not a racist!” / “I’m gonna miss you too” [gifsets] ( @takadasaiko)

Okay, I think that’s everything. If I missed one, please let me know! Thank you guys for a really awesome Tom Keen Appreciation Week :D

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anonwriterofworlds-blog · 6 years

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Her: You can’t just cut away certain memories.

Me: If you root deep enough, cut so deep until you distort the memories to fit what you want to remember.

#depressing #original #anonauthor #triggering #sad #poetry #keepgoing #im sorry #letting go #deepmeaning #distortion

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the-tummy-closet · 3 years

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The Softer Life (part one)

Sam takes to civilian life a lot easier than he thought he would.

The town that he and Abros flee to is very remote. There’s a Empire outpost nearby, of course, and subtle hints of their influence permeate everything from the languages on the signs to goods available in the town’s single general store. But it’s still mostly untouched, and on good days, Sam can almost forget there’s a war going on.

These days, he wants to come as close to forgetting as possible, which is a strange change on its own. The first time Sam nearly died, he rejected his captain’s suggestion that he retire from the Resistance out of hand. He was so dedicated to the cause that the idea had sounded unthinkable. So he fought his way through the recovery, battling the recurring infections in the burn wounds and spending nights out in the yard with his sword, re-learning how to fight with no peripheral vision on his left side and limited mobility in his off arm. He ignored the way that sleeping and eating got harder by the day, ignored the bolt of nerves that shot through him with every unexpected sound or sudden movement, ignored the dreams in which he saw the faces of his former compatriots, who had died screaming beside him as a shot from the Empire’s fire cannon had torn them apart.

The second time was different, though. For one thing, he knew Abros by then. The mage lived in a town near the camp where Sam’s contingent of freedom fighters had been stationed. The two of them met in the local inn and shared a few drinks, and when Sam learned that Abros took his meals there every night, he found himself making up excuses to wander in around dinnertime, even though his own stomach was always too knotted up to handle the richness of the meaty stews and heavy pies served there.

As the weeks passed, Sam and Abros grew friendly, and then close. Abros was like few people Sam had ever met. He was vibrant and sharp-witted, full of a kind of enthusiasm that had been ground out of Sam and most of his companions long ago. He loved magic, and would go on long, excited rambles about whatever he had been working on that day. He’d summon forks across the room and shoot sparks out of his fingertips when applauding the inn’s bard, just because he could. He loved so many things—music, alcohol, sweets, food.

“You really should try some of this stew,” he once said to Sam. “It’s particularly good tonight. I know you say they feed you at your camp, but honestly, it would be a tragedy to miss out on this.” He took out a copper piece and dropped it on their table. “Here, I’ll treat you.”

Sam had immediately pushed the coin back. “No. Thanks, but I’ll eat later.”

“Really, I insist.” Abros lifted a hand to flag down a barmaid. “You Resistance folks live such a hard life, and for such a noble cause. Providing you with a square meal is the least I can do.”

A bowl of stew and a plate of bread arrived at the table minutes later. Sam didn’t want to reject Abros’s generosity any more than he wanted to waste food, and so he really tried his best. The bread was pretty easy to get down, but the stew was hard. It was flavorful, just as Abros had said, and that was kind of nice. But it was also rich with meat and fat, and Sam’s stomach started churning after just a few bites. He gave up and gently pushed the bowl away.

“Done already?” Abros raised an eyebrow. “Do you not like it?”

“No, it’s good. I’m just full.”

“How can you possibly be full? You barely ate!”

Sam shrugged. “Small stomach. Used to going hungry, I guess.”

Abros gave him a tragic look. He paused for a moment, seeming to consider his words. Then he said, “If I could, I would spirit you away somewhere you could have some properly nice things. Three solid meals a day. An actual bed to sleep in, with nice soft blankets. Some walls to keep you safe. I could ward them, even. You wouldn’t have to fight another damn day in your life.”

Something trembled deep in Sam’s chest at those last few sentences, but he ignored it in favor of a chuckle. “Yeah? What a thought. I’d get all spoiled and soft.”

“That’s right.” Abros smirked with amusement, but his eyes were gentle. “You’d deserve it.”

“Don’t know about that.” Sam reached out and stopped Abros’s hand, which had begun pushing the bowl of stew back towards him. “No, I’m serious. I can’t eat anymore.”

Abros sighed, but didn’t pursue the matter further. Instead, he pulled the stew towards himself and picked up the spoon. Even though he’d already eaten a bowl of his own—and a mug of ale, and a piece of blueberry cake—he slowly worked his way through Sam’s serving until he’d finished every bite. By the time he was done, his eyes were half-lidded and his breaths were tinged with little groans, but there was a relaxed, contented smile on his face.

Sam watched him, curious and wondering. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to eat that much and enjoy it. All he could think about was how sick he’d feel, how stressful it would be to have his senses dulled and his body encumbered like that. It was times like this that he remembered that he and Abros truly lived in different worlds.

One evening, Abros invited Sam back to come see his magic shop. They wound up kissing by the glow of the cauldron that bubbled away in the back room, and Sam had not gone back to camp until the next morning.

It was supposed to be a bit of casual fun. Both of them knew that eventually, the Resistance would move Sam’s group to a new location, and they would have to say goodbye. But until then, there was no harm in spending some good time together. Sam had moved around enough in the course of his service to the Resistance that he was no stranger to meeting men and women in local inns, enjoying their company for a little while, and then moving on. This would be no different, he told himself, even as he realized that Abros had begun to creep into his thoughts during the hours they spent apart, replacing some of endless loop of fire and blood that often occupied the back of his mind with memories of soft smiles and affectionate words and warm hands.

It was just a bit of fun, a bit of comfort. That was all.

Then winter came.

When the snow began to fall and it was time to dig in until spring, the freedom fighters hired Abros to help secure their camp with magical wards. He had been a few days into the week-long process when Empire troops appeared on the horizon.

The second time Sam nearly died was almost anti-climactic, compared to the first. He didn’t even see the blow coming. It just exploded across his back and skull, and then he was out cold. Apparently he nearly bled out, but he didn’t remember, so it didn’t feel like a big deal, really.

It was what happened to Abros that changed things.

In the end, the Resistance fighters managed to defend the camp, but they took heavy losses in the process. Many soldiers were captured during the battle—and so was Abros.

The Empire rarely killed mages. Their generals had long ago learned that there was a better way to terrify them into submission and discourage them from ever casting a single spell in service of the Resistance. When the Empire captured mages, they carved sigils into their palms that severed their link to magic, then released them back into the world to be an example to others. It was in this state that that Abros came wandering back to the camp, dazed and bleeding, but alive.

The second time, when Sam’s captain had suggested he retire and recover from his injuries, Sam knew two things. One was that he had never actually recovered from the first time. Not really. The other was that he could not bear to let Abros face his own new reality alone.

And so they had left, together. And weeks later, here they are. Battered and scarred, but free.

—

It’s more freedom than Sam knows what to do with, really. He starts out working as a fletcher, because weapons are mainly what he can handle. But he gets out of that business as soon as he can, because honestly he’d be happy if he never touched a sword or an arrow again in his life. He’s not some bright-eyed kid anymore, but his diligent nature draws folks willing to teach him their crafts. He learns about woodworking and stoneworking, and even a little bit about forging iron, and sets his sights on becoming a carpenter.

Living with Abros makes him incredibly happy. Together, the two of them shuffle through a handful of rented rooms before finally settling into a small, simple cottage near the outskirts of town. It’s hard for Abros to find work now that he can’t practice his craft, so for the first few months, Sam brings home the bread and Abros pours his energy into keeping and fixing up the house. Every week, there’s some new project—fresh paint, clean floors, newly planted flowers—and Abros is always beaming, eager to show it off. It’s really sweet to see him so invigorated, even though Sam has a lingering suspicion that this energy is his way of staving off the grief at what he’s lost.

True to his talk, Abros seems to take special pleasure in spoiling Sam with all the indulgences that the austerity of his old life never allowed—drawing him warm baths spiked with herbs that relax his muscles, covering every surface he can with soft cushions and warm blankets, convincing him to spend weekend mornings lying in bed and drowsing together until the sun is well in the sky.

And then there’s the food. When Sam and Abros had first come to town, neither of them had really known how to cook. More than any other domestic problem, Abros seems determined to solve this one. Dinners are hit-and-miss at first. Sometimes, they’re no worse than what used to get served up in the mess at the Resistance camp. Other times, Abros admits defeat and they end up just eating bread and jam instead.

One night, a few months in, Abros really hits the mark. He makes a venison stew that’s thick with vegetables and sweetened with berries. It’s incredible, and there’s a lot of it, and for the first time in years, Sam eats too much.

He almost can’t understand how it happened. One moment, he’s all caught up in the meal, mopping the juices of his second helping off his plate with a thick slice of bread. The next, he feels a sudden tug in his belly and a soft burp slips up his throat. The weight of everything he’s eaten shifts as he leans back in his chair, and he groans, resting one hand over the pulsing feeling that’s taken root beneath his ribs.

“Ugh… gods, I’m so full.” Sam pats his stomach gently. “That stew was amazing.”

“Was it now?” Abros, who has been sipping a cup of tea since finishing his own dinner, beams broadly. He drags his chair around the table and wraps an arm around Sam’s shoulders. “I suppose I’ll have to save this recipe to make again.”

“Please do.” Sam leans contentedly into the embrace. He can feel his stomach rumbling beneath his hand as it digests, full enough that it feels just the tiniest bit swollen, and he massages his fingers in little circles over it. He feels heavy and sleepy. Just months ago, he would’ve hated that… but here, safe in this little house, safe in Abros’s warm arms… here, it feels okay. Nice, even.

“You’re not in pain, are you?” Abros reaches over and touches Sam’s belly, gently and softly, as though wondering if it needs reassurance.

“Nah.” Sam catches Abros’s hand before he can withdraw it and presses it more firmly against his stomach. It grumbles gently, and Sam stifles another burp. “Just full.”

Abros chuckles. “Maybe I’m finally wearing you down when it comes to eating your fill?”

“Mmm…” Sam lets himself sag more deeply into Abros’s side and closes his eyes. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

—

He is wearing Sam down, though. It takes Sam a few more weeks to realize it, but slowly it dawns on him that his relationship to food is genuinely changing. Before, when he lived with the Resistance, mealtimes were nice because they were social and because they eased the pinch of hunger for a few hours. There was little joy in the food itself, usually. The camp cooks were great at making thin rations go a long way, but not so great when it came to flavor. That was fine. Food wasn’t supposed to be a pleasure; all it needed to do was keep everyone going.

But now Sam gets three square meals a day, and at least two of them are prepared by a man who finds the idea of joyless food outright offensive. If left to his own devices, Sam would’ve made a breakfast out of plain oatmeal or a chunk of dry bread without a second thought. But Abros stirs cinnamon and dried berries and a little bit of cream into oatmeal, and he never slices bread without setting out the jam jar and the butter dish. Sam used to eat just until he was no longer hungry. But now, he finds himself satisfying his hunger and then having a little bit more—because it tastes good, and there’s enough, and also because it’s fun to watch the way Abros’s face lights up when he reaches for a second helping of his cooking. It’s good for him to have something to be proud of, Sam thinks.

Eventually, Abros finds work at a shop in town and begins spending less time at home. They begin to split most of the chores evenly, but when Sam offers to take over some of the cooking, he’s resolutely turned down.

“I like making food,” Abros protests, shooing him away from the stove with a wooden spoon. “It’s not a chore! It’s a hobby.”

Sam accepts this without much fuss. Abros is good at making food. And he genuinely does seem to like it, so much so that sometimes he spends his free time doing it. There are evenings when Sam will be off by himself, reading up in the bedroom or tinkering at the workbench he’s set up for himself outside, and Abros will come along with a plate of fresh-baked cookies or warm blueberry bread and place it next to him with a wordless smile. Sam always thanks him with a kiss, and always ends up eating the treats, even if he isn’t hungry, because they’re always just so good.

So it really does get hard to ignore the fact that he’s slowly coming around to Abros’s vision of food as a pleasurable thing, of indulgence as one of the little joys of being alive. He feels sort of guilty about it at first. He’s so acutely aware of how many people don’t have enough that it feels wrong to take more than the bare minimum, even though he knows he needs the nourishment. It’s the same guilt he sometimes feels about leaving the fight behind before it was over, even though he knows he needed the peace.

He works on it. Whenever he feels that pinch of shame rising in his chest, he closes his eyes and reminds himself: You’ve sacrificed enough. Any more fighting would have destroyed you. It’s okay to recover now.

It doesn’t always help. But as the weeks go by, the guilt rears its ugly head less and less.

Finally, Sam understands what it’s like to enjoy and indulge. But he isn’t quite ready to admit to it yet. Not aloud, at least.

—

By summertime, Sam starts to feel truly at peace.

Day by day, he can feel himself softening. The calluses on his hands and feet slowly vanish. The raw ends of his nerves start to heal. He swears that he can even see his scars fading slightly, starting to burnish as the sun and fresh air put new layers of weathering on his skin. It’s easier to look at them, now that they mesh more seamlessly with the rest of him. One day, he catches sight of his reflection and realizes with a jolt that he can’t picture himself without them anymore.

The biggest relief is that he finally feels well. His sleep has grown steadily sounder. His nightmares have eased off, and when they do resurface and he wakes up in a cold sweat, Abros is there to hold him and soothe him until he feels safe again. And without all the stress of constantly fighting for survival, he has a lot less stomach trouble than he used to. His appetite has finally returned, more ferocious than ever, and thanks to Abros’s cooking, he’s acquired a layer of fat that’s hidden his ribs and rounded his cheeks.

It’s a slow change. Sam himself only really notices the little bit of flesh gathering on his belly because he’s had to start letting his belt out a notch. Abros doesn’t comment on it, and his hands don’t explore the contours of Sam’s body any differently than they always have. In fact, Sam doesn’t think he’s noticed at first, until the day that they decide to reorganize the kitchen.

Their collection of cookware has grown with Abros’s skills, and turns out that shoving things haphazardly in cabinets can only get you so far. Sam and Abros spend the better part of a Saturday removing everything stored in their kitchen and strewing it around the room, before beginning the long process of putting it all back in some kind of logical order.

Sam is standing on his tiptoes with a box of infrequently-used spices lifted over his head, stretching up to slide it onto a top shelf, when he suddenly realizes that Abros is staring at him, and not at his face. His first instinct is to glance down at himself, thinking maybe he’s torn his clothes or spilled flour on himself or something. “What?”

Instantly, Abros glances away, his cheeks turning pink. “Nothing.”

Sam has to bite back a laugh. It couldn’t have been more obvious that it was not nothing. He decides to have a little bit of fun. “Okay,” he says, and goes back to work—but this time, he pays attention to exactly what parts of his body are in the line of sight.

At first he thinks it’s something about his arms, or maybe his ass. It seems like Abros’s attention is caught whenever he stretches up to reach high shelves. But then Sam actually does spill some flour, all down his front. He’s dusting himself off, brushing his fingers over the powdery splotch just below his navel, when he feels Abros’s eyes on him again.

By this point, Sam’s curiosity is getting the better of him. So he turns to Abros, who freezes like a deer in the road when he sees he’s been caught, and flashes a crooked grin. “Look, love, if you want me, all you have to do is say so.”

Predictably, Abros’s entire face turns as red as a strawberry. “Oh! Um. That’s—that’s always nice to know,” he stammers, and Sam feels a rush of fondness for this poor stupid man who still gets embarrassed about finding his own boyfriend attractive. “But, um” —Abros raises the stack of mixing bowls he’s holding, rather lamely— “you know, we’re busy.”

“We can always finish this later.” Sam closes the distance between them and puts his hands on Abros’s waist, letting one slide slowly towards his hip. Uncertainty flickers in Abros’s eyes, and Sam knows in that moment that this isn’t a simple bout of lust. He backs off a little, turning his touches from sensual to affectionate. “I can see you looking at me, sweetheart. What are you seeing that you like?”

Abros closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I—I just think you’ve been looking really good lately. You know. Healthy.”

“You mean the way I’ve put on weight?” Sam glances down at himself again. For the first time, he notices that the thin wool shirt he’s wearing, which used to fit loosely, is clinging a bit to his front.

“Well, yes.” A shy grin flickers over Abros’s face. “You used to be practically bone and sinew—not that I didn’t appreciate your body then, because I absolutely did—but you know, it’s sort of nice to see you looking more… um, well-cared for.”

Abruptly, Sam thinks about what must’ve been happening as he was stretching to reach those shelves. His shirt would’ve ridden up, exposing a strip of that gathering softness. “Hmm. I have a little tummy now, I guess.”

Abros practically squirms out of his skin in front of Sam’s eyes. “Yes. Um. That is… particularly adorable.”

“Yeah?” Sam presses his hands against his belly. Where there was once flat, hard muscle, there’s now a gentle soft curve. “You like this?”

When Abros doesn’t answer, Sam reaches out, takes his wrists, and moves his hands onto the curve of his tummy, studying his face as he does.

Yeah, he likes it.

“Huh. Okay.” Sam is grinning so hard it’s starting to hurt the corners of his mouth. “Noted.”

Abros splutters as his hands are released. “Noted? What do you mean, noted?”

“You’ll find out, won’t you?” Sam says, and pecks Abros on one flushed cheek before getting back to work.

- - -

TO BE CONTINUED

#stuffing #weight gain #wg writing #fantasy violence #implied sex #alcohol mention #AnonAuthor

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the-tummy-closet · 4 years

Text

Diluc Trash

After stuffing his face, Diluc had to fight a couple of abyss mages and after the fighting his stomach was unsettled and he was sitting down while feeling miserable as he was really queasy.

But thankfully for him Paimon had noticed his had a stomach ache. And she wanted to help him so of course, she asked you if you had any herbs to help him but you did not so of course a belly rub was necessary. But Diluc was embarrassed by the thought of it but he was so miserable that he just excepted it as it would help with is stomach ache.

So he allowed you to place your hand on his stomach. And start kneading his bloated belly while he started to fluster but he looked almost blissful albeit slightly strained, his stomach was also sloshing very loudly. You soon noticed the center of his gut felt more firm than the rest of his belly so you pressed his stomach and he burped very loudly as some of the pressure festering in his gut was released, he was extremely flustered now, and he was going to excuse himself but he burped again.

And you knew he would not be able to look you in the eyes for awhile judging by his reaction but you then finally noticed that his gut was straining against his pants so you undid the button on his pants so he groaned pleasantly as his pants were not restricting his gut anymore. And his underbelly was exposed so you felt there as well, and noticed that it was very soft while Diluc seemed to almost quiver with delight. And he eventually just fell into a food coma as now his stomach was not bothering him.

#AnonAuthor #stuffing #stomachache #nausea #belly rubs #weight mention #burping #0GenshinImpact0

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the-tummy-closet · 4 years

Text

“Is this really so necessary?”

His low growl was a bit more aggressive than he meant it to sound, his lips pressing together as he avoided their gazes to hide the regret flickering in his eyes.

N’s gaze narrowed sternly.

“You’ve eaten nothing all day. For two days, potentially, but no one was keeping a close enough eye on you to be certain. And it's been like this... for weeks. You can't possibly think that we haven't noticed.”

“I ate yesterday.” E protested, desperate to sound firm but hating the sullenness in his own tone. It wasn’t a lie, but he hadn’t eaten much.

“You have to stop this.” N’s voice was half-scolding, half-pleading, as he leaned close enough to force E to look him in the eyes as the other man swallowed hard. “We know this is difficult for you. But you can’t starve yourself like this no matter how bad you feel otherwise. Malnutrition is the last thing you need to deal with right now.”

E tore his gaze away as a bowl of something warm and savory-smelling was placed in front of him. He wanted to be grateful, to thank them, to show how much their love meant, but he could barely think past the unbearable wave of self-loathing that was washing over him. He hated to cause them concern for his well-being. He hated being the center of attention-

“E.” She spoke up next to him and he blinked, shook away the thoughts. He grasped the spoon in his mechanical hand - his organic one was shaking too much at the moment, and lifted a mouthful of food to his lips. It was thick, flavorful stew; rich with meat and vegetables and with a pleasant tang of chives in the broth.

“Thank you.” He finally choked out after he’d swallowed the first spoonful, and B placed a warm hand on his shoulder.

“You really musn’t be so forgetful, darling.” She teased gently, and regret squeezed his heart again.

They both knew better, even though he’d never been able to bring himself to explain it out loud. The sinister, cruel feeling of triumph, of control, in forcing his body to be hungry, when the rest of the world was crashing to the ground around him. If he could do nothing else, he could look back on his childhood days when he scraped by on barely three meals a week, and remind himself that he was powerful, so powerful, because who else could have done that and live to become the man that he had today?

Hunger had been such a constant in his early life that it was nearly a comfort. A once painful sensation that had morphed and twisted into old familiarity, that he returned to time and time again even now to assure himself that he was stronger than all the burdens he had to carry. When he was hungry, he was strong. When he was...

He stopped suddenly, gulping against a bubble of air that rose in his throat. He felt B’s hand press to his back; he’d distracted both her and N from their quiet conversation off to the side.

“E?” She prompted, and he forced back another hiccup.

“I think that is enough.” He mumbled with little hope, knowing that’d he’d barely dented the meal in front of him. Sure enough, B clucked disapprovingly.

“I don’t think so. You can’t be full already?”

The pressure in his insides forced up a faint burp that he quickly failed to stifle as he pressed the back of his organic hand to his lips. “Quite.”

“Half.” N’s voice floated over his shoulder. “Finish half and you can be done after that.”

“I am... not sure if I can.” E admitted miserably, and he heard a patient sigh.

“You can and you will. You’ve let yourself go too hungry for too long. You’ve got to get back to normal capacity somehow.”

Despite his growing discomfort, the stew never lost its flavor or pleasantness. Even as sharp pains began to twist in his stomach, the thick broth and tender meat and greens were luxuries that he never allowed himself privately. A multi-millionaire he’d built himself into, and yet, never once learned to eat as he should. No wonder his friends were worried about him. No wonder he caused them so much distress...

White-hot pain flashed in his belly without warning, and E let the spoon clatter back to the side of the bowl, a faint groan slipping out before he clenched his teeth, and pressed his hands to his middle before he realized he’d moved. He was almost halfway through... maybe it was enough.

“I-“ He started, then a strangled belch left his lips and he shut his eyes in mortification, the swell of his stomach pressing painfully against his fingertips.

The other two had come up beside him again, and this time it was N’s hand on his back, soft and comforting, massaging circles against his tense shoulders. “Im sorry. I know you’re hurting, but you’ve got to tough it out for now. It’ll get better once you get back on track. Just a little more, then you can be finished.”

“Surely this could be done in smaller increments?” He almost pleaded, lifting a hand to his mouth again - whether to prevent another burp or convince himself not to be outright sick, he wasn’t certain. “This is hardly conducive to-“

“No, because we can’t stay with you every minute of the day. Not until the commotion dies down. Maybe if you had let us help from the beginning instead of wresting control-”

“I was trying to- I was only-“ E tried to quash back the rising sense of panic and hurt, but then his painfully-full stomach clenched dangerously and his words cut off in a low moan as he hunched forward. N’s hand found his shoulders again and then his voice broke.

“No, I’m sorry. I- that's not- you were right to begin with and we couldn't see it. I'm sorry. It's just so hard to-”

“You’ve done more than anyone else.” B cut in quietly. “Singlehandedly. We’d probably not be here right now if you hadn't stepped in... But seeing you waste away under the stress is killing us, E. We can’t let you shield us from harm then stand back and do nothing while you starve to death. You’ve got to let yourself be taken care of when you can’t do it yourself. You’ve got to let us help.”

“I did not intend-“ His words were strained and thin-sounding, hands cradling his swollen belly, the muscles of his abdomen fighting against the sudden influx of heavy food. Then B’s hands pressed over his, one over his mechanical fingers and one over his real ones.

“Shh. You don’t have to do this alone, alright? We might not be able to do much out there, but let us do what we can right now.”

E opened his mouth to pointlessly, fruitlessly, protest, but he only hiccuped and shuddered just as N sat himself down across from him and picked up the spoon.

Chagrined, E looked into the other man’s eyes with faint horror to be treated with such indignity but N shook his head with a weary insistence.

“Eat. You have to.” And the way the spoon was pressed to his lips, E could not refuse despite the deep shame cutting through him. He knew, ultimately, that this was for his own good. Besides, he wasn’t certain he could pull his hands away from his stomach long enough to even hold the spoon.

He opened up and accepted the mouthful, chewing slowly and swallowing painfully before taking the next. He didn’t want to complain, to make things even worse than they already were, but his belly was so terribly sore from the long-denied meal that he could barely breathe. A faint whimper slipped past his teeth after a few more bites, despite his every attempt to contain it. It was followed by a dreadful-sounding gurgle that churned up from somewhere deep in his gut and N paused, exchanging a faintly alarmed look with B. Apparently they’d also heard it.

“Alright. Okay, that’s enough.” N finally relented, putting the spoon down and pushing the bowl away from both of them. He rose to his feet and came around the table, exhaustion lining his eyes at the agonized haze in E’s expression. “Let’s get you to bed.”

It was a struggle to his feet, but with help, he managed to not only get into the next room, but also to shed his business-formal wear and change into soft clothes to sleep in. He all but crawled between the covers, his composure slowly breaking, more soft whimpers bubbling up with every breath. His hands clutched at his swollen stomach and he burped more than once, unable to find relief.

Then he heard a soft voice and felt the covers rustle as N slipped into the bed behind him.

“What... what-“ He could only bewilderedly mumble his confusion, then realized B was folding herself into the other side of the bed, curling close to him as well. “I do not wish to-“

“You’re not causing us any trouble.” N insisted firmly before E could even hope to finish yet another sentence. “We just want to help you. We want you to feel better.”

Then warm, strong hands curled around his waist and pressed gently to the curve of his abdomen. The terrible ache in his belly receded just slightly at the warmth, then he groaned aloud before he could restrain himself as N’s fingers pressed down, rubbed soothing circles against the pain. He was cradled in caring arms back against the man’s chest, just as B’s hand patted gently just above the edge of his ribcage.

Another soft belch rumbled up and he stiffened, closing his eyes again and cursing his body. B chuckled and he peered at her blearily.

“You’ll only feel better if you let it out, darling.” She pointed out, patting against his chest again with a soft thump while N’s hands continued to press out every aching, twisting cramp in his overfull stomach. E writhed once before forcing himself to be still, groaning again as he breathed out, both the other two carefully feeling over his stuffed belly to try to comfort him in any way that they could.

“Maybe I did push him too far.” E could hear the regretful whisper behind him, but then B shook her head.

“Look at him! He wouldn’t have lasted much longer if we’d let this go on.” Her voice turned teasing again and he squinted at her in exhaustion. “No more getting away with skipping meals, E.”

“I’m sorry...” He moaned faintly, belly rumbling painfully under N’s palms, struggling with the meager meal that felt so unbearably excessive. “I never intended to cause you concern... or allow the problem to go on for this long. I realize I have been foolish, but it is just...” A low gurgle interrupted him just before he burped again, grunting with, finally, a hint of relief.

“It’s what you’re used to.” N finished gravely, pausing for the briefest of moments as E sank back again heavily. He hadn’t even finished the bowl, and he was this miserable... “But of all the ways you could cope, I hope you realize this is one of the worst possible choices. Eventually you have to have food, E. You can’t run off empty forever.”

N waited until he’d gotten a soft moan of agreement before he resumed the massage, somewhat relieved that it seemed to be helping whatever atrocious bellyache his friend was currently suffering.

“Get him on his back so I can get his arm off.” B spoke up suddenly, smirking cheerfully at E’s muffled protest. He didn’t struggle though as he was coaxed into a different position, freeing his left shoulder where B pressed the switch beneath the mechanical fibers. The limb detached with a clicking sound, and B pulled the contraption away and set it on the nightstand nearby. E breathed a pained sigh and N made a wider circle over his distended middle with his fingertips in an attempt to soothe.

“Didn’t M tell us it’s bad for your shoulder to sleep with that?” B chided, combing her fingers through the strands of E's long hair to push it back from his face. He was sweating slightly but thankfully didn't look too green.

“Such an assertion is conditional.” He argued, but barely, voice thick with sleepiness and lingering discomfort. “It is only detrimental when repeated several nights in succession.”

“And how many nights has it been?”

“Four.” He mumbled uncertainly, wincing at a cramp that gurgled audibly in his belly even as N did his best to rub it away. “Maybe five.” A kneading motion forced up another quiet belch of strained digestion and he flushed with shame.

“If you get worked up you’ll only feel worse.” B warned as she pressed close again, and he nodded once, trying to submit to the gentle care.

His breathing was slowing, his eyes closed and his limbs and head laid more heavily against the mattress. The restless writhing in his muscles had calmed and B rubbed a hand up and down his side, loosening the tension there, while N continued massaging his overfull stomach with a firm but gentle pressure.

“Thank you...” E murmured dazedly past the fog shrouding his thoughts, and if he’d been more awake, he would have seen the relieved flicker of a smile on N’s face that brightened instead of fell when he hiccuped faintly again.

“Of course, darling.” B’s voice was a bit softer than she usually let show. A kiss was pressed to his temple, and he felt it, but was too far gone to respond.

Consciousness was slipping from him, and only the faintest hint of a sigh signaled when he dropped off completely.

#eating disorder #self starving #unhealthy coping mechanisms #stomachache #belly rubs #tummy noises #nausea #hunger #AnonAuthor

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