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trivialovehandles · 24 days

Note

I know you listed hybrids as a maybe but I was thinking of lazy cat hybrid Yoongi, and his active dog hybrid boyfriend Namjoon. Yoongi feels like Namjoon could be using the time he exercises to cuddle with him. So Yoongi makes plans to fatten him up, starts making more food he likes, and offering to drive him to work so that way he doesn’t have to ride his bike. Namjoon’s happy because as part of this, Yoongi makes more steak dinners and gives him more belly rubs

(ao3 link) had to re-send this anon's ask to myself because tumblr ate the draft of this post, so anon, i hope you see this anyway (i know you literally requested this over a year ago lmfao)

The alarm goes off when it’s still dark, which is too-fucking-early o’clock in Yoongi’s mind. He tries to roll over, to curl up and go back to sleep, but the lingering heat on the now-empty side of the bed is now leaching all the leftover warmth, and his ears keep twitching at every muffled noise from the other side of the wall.

When the noise stops, Yoongi feels a kiss pressed to the center of his forehead. He glares through half-closed eyelids.

“Sorry, hyung. Gotta get to work,” Namjoon apologizes quietly, even though Yoongi’s already been so rudely awakened. He doesn’t even have to be at work for an hour, but Kim Namjoon is Kim Namjoon, and Kim Namjoon bikes to work and leaves at too-fucking-early o’clock. “See you tonight. Love you.”

Kim Namjoon is Kim Namjoon, and Yoongi loves Kim Namjoon, so he catches him by the grown-out scruff of hair at the back of his head and tells him as much, kissing him on the lips before he has to go.

And then he falls back asleep for another hour, two hours.

The perks of working from home are less perky when Namjoon works not from home. Yoongi spends the parts of his day that he’s not actively dialed into his work pacing the house, tidying up, cooking. By the time Namjoon gets home in the evening, they basically only have time to eat dinner, watch a show or two, and go to bed. Even sex gets penciled in for the weekends.

So sometimes Yoongi just wants to take Namjoon’s stupid bike and throw it off of their balcony. Serves it right for taking husband time away from him.

(He doesn’t, because despite everything, he’d like to believe he’s good husband material, but when Namjoon wakes up early and gets home late because of that thing, sue Yoongi for resenting it a little.)

The time apart means Yoongi picks up new hobbies. He was a basic cook when they first moved in together, but with all the practice, he can throw down in the kitchen, which is now filled with odd gadgets, different pans for different meals, and no less than four types of flour in the cupboard (because they always need all-purpose, but then there’s glutinous rice flour for tteok, cake flour for birthdays, bread flour because you need the right amount of gluten development for brioche, and shit, they could probably use some almond flour, too).

Yoongi’s in the middle of a soul-suckingly boring meeting with his webcam turned off when he remembers the package he’d brought in that morning, still sitting on the kitchen counter. He drags his laptop out with him as he slices the box open, grinning to himself at the sight.

Namjoon loves bungeoppang; now they are the proud owners of a brand new bungeoppang pan.

By the time evening settles and Namjoon comes home, sweaty from his bike ride, Yoongi’s filled the counter with an array of food. Galbi fresh out of the pressure cooker, melting off the bone, sticky glazed sweet potatoes, kimchi jeon still crackling in the pan. He hasn’t cooked the bungeoppang yet, but the batter and filling are mixed in separate bowls, ready to be made fresh once they finish dinner.

“Wow,” Namjoon says, racking his bike up on its place on the wall of the entryway (another demerit for the bike: they live in a tiny fourth-story apartment and to avoid it taking up precious floor space, it now takes up precious wall space). “Special occasion?”

Yoongi shrugs. “Meeting that could have been an email. I had to entertain myself somehow.”

“I’m not offended by this kind of entertainment.” Namjoon swoops into the kitchen area to give Yoongi a soft, lingering kiss. “Do you think I have time to shower?”

Yoongi pinches the front of his sweaty t-shirt. “If you make it quick.”

“So quick,” Namjoon promises. “I’m starving and that smells amazing.”

(Bike demerit number 3001: Namjoon always comes home needing a shower, meaning more time away when Yoongi just wants to sit him down and feed him dinner and kiss him senseless.)

By the time Namjoon comes back out, Yoongi’s spread everything across the counter, their empty plates and full bowls of rice placed next to each other so they can sit elbow-to-elbow at the island like they always do for dinner.

Yoongi likes to savor these moments. It’s the shortest portion of their day, but his favorite: side-by-side with Namjoon, talking, eating, recharging after time spent without each other. He can always tell when Namjoon’s settled down comfortably by the slow swish of his tail versus the fervent wag of it when he first gets home, too keyed up to focus. Now he savors each bite of his food, delicately laying a piece of galbi on top of his rice, layering it with a pinch of pa kimchi, and humming low in his chest when he scoops it into his mouth, like he’s picked up on Yoongi’s purring after so many years together.

“Good?” Yoongi asks as Namjoon chews. There’s sauce on Namjoon’s cheek, and Yoongi wipes it up with the edge of his thumb, not even flinching when Namjoon licks it off again, the oversized puppy he is.

“So good,” Namjoon says, reaching for more food before he’s even finished chewing his bite.

“Pace yourself, Joon-ah,” Yoongi reminds him with a soft laugh, “we still have dessert.”

Namjoon does not pace himself. He keeps on eating, starry-eyed. “I can’t believe you bought a bungeoppang pan.”

Yoongi shrugs. “Boredom and disposable income cause me to do a lot of things.”

It would explain the waffle maker, the immersion circulator, the pasta roller, and the little gut that’s just started poking at the front of Namjoon’s shirt.

It’s not totally Yoongi’s fault. Namjoon hasn’t really been rail-thin since they were still university students living on a ramyeon budget and denying their feelings for each other. He has a big appetite, as evidenced by the quick work he’s making of his next portion of meat, already almost finished with his rice. He’s probably three times as physical as Yoongi with the whole bike thing, and Yoongi’s always been slim but soft. So technically the pudge that sits over the waist of Namjoon’s pants isn’t on Yoongi, even if Yoongi likes to take advantage of it.

(But even then, is it really taking advantage when Namjoon, the dog boy of all dog boys, loves getting his belly rubbed as much as Yoongi, loathe as he is to accept the cat making biscuits stereotype, loves to rub it?)

Namjoon eats all of his dinner, and when Yoongi realizes he made too much batter for two servings of bungeoppang, happily eats the extras too. And when he’s done eating and has moved onto cleaning the dishes because Yoongi did the cooking, Yoongi can’t help but plaster himself to his husband’s back, face buried in the scruff of his neck and hands crossed over his bloated stomach where it’s pressed against the rim of the sink.

“Affectionate tonight,” Namjoon chuckles, leaning his head to softly touch against the side of Yoongi’s. The pan he’s cleaning has been fully rinsed for a while, but both of them are too distracted to notice or care.

“Sue me,” Yoongi murmurs into the shoulder of Namjoon’s t-shirt. “You leave early and come home at night and I only have, like, four hours to spend with you every day.”

“It’s a good four hours, though.”

“Out of twenty-four,” Yoongi grumbles. When it startles a small, hiccupping laugh out of Namjoon, his little gut jumps and shakes a bit between Yoongi’s hands. “I fantasize about throwing your bike off of the fire escape sometimes.”

Namjoon covers Yoongi’s hands with his own, and the only thing keeping Yoongi from bristling at the wet touch is the sight of both of their hands placed over the swell of Namjoon’s stomach. He looks good, fuller like this. It suits him.

“You wouldn’t,” Namjoon says, stomach stretching out in a breath.

“I wouldn’t,” Yoongi confirms. “Only because I don’t want manslaughter charges for crushing a pedestrian with a bike.”

“Valid,” Namjoon laughs. His stomach shakes again, but this time, they both feel it. “I can bike less, take the bus so I can sleep in more with you. It’s starting to be too cold in the mornings anyway.”

Yoongi just half-purrs, kneading the softness between his hands. Namjoon’s moved his to turn the sink off, but he doesn’t stop Yoongi’s ministrations; in fact, he leans more into him, back arched, giving some more access to the lower half of his stomach that had been squashed against the sink. The bit of skin that’s stretching the waistband of his flannel PJ pants more than when he bought them.

“I’ll just have to figure out a way to exercise at home,” Namjoon’s saying when Yoongi can feel his ears flatten at the back of his head in displeasure.

“Why? Who are you trying to impress, hm?” he gripes, purring effectively stopped. One of his fingers has found its way to circle Namjoon’s belly button; deeper now, more flesh around it, his long finger sinks in halfway up to the second joint.

Namjoon laughs. His dimples are much more prominent now in cheeks that are also more prominent. The softening of his face has been so gradual that Yoongi only really notices now, with his head perched right beneath it, that Namjoon’s jawline is more obscured than the razor curve of their youth, and that he doesn’t have a double chin, not yet, but there’s definitely a little pocket of skin that’s just barely swelling up beneath the point of it.

His face has taken well to the weight. All at once, Namjoon looks both like the college kid Yoongi first fell for and the grown man he sees himself growing old with—and growing soft with, maybe, in Namjoon’s case.

“Guess the only person I’d want to impress is already impressed,” Namjoon says, lifting one hand from their shared spot on his stomach to gesture where Yoongi’s got his shirt rucked up, finger teasing at his belly button.

Yoongi lifts that same hand, instead taking a handful of bared, supple underbelly and giving it a teasing grab, just to watch the way the whole thing’s starting to develop a jiggle to it. Without two combined hours of biking every weekday, surely it’ll develop faster.

Not that Yoongi minds. In fact, whatever the opposite of minding is, that’s how he feels, tucking his hand back beneath the lowest curve of his husband’s paunch just to feel it quiver with Namjoon’s contented laugh.

#bts feederism #chubby bts #fat bts #chubby bt5 #fat bt5 #chubby namjoon #i reappear once a year to chuck a chubfic into the void #i genuinely do have 4+ wips i just cannot finish them to save my life

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trivialovehandles · 1 year

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Omg Pls can you do an either taekook/ jikook squashing

Where Jungkook is gaining weight fast after eating something and suddenly he’s squashing his bf

ngl squashing is a lower-tier kink for me so this is maybe more focused on the rapid wg aspect but? so fun to write (ao3 link! i will be putting all request fics here as well)

Jimin’s learned throughout the years that Jungkook coming home looking sheepish and excited is either a very good thing (see: the day he came home with a puppy who is now no longer a puppy and is currently napping next to the refrigerator) or a very bad thing (see: the day he came home with a bunch of stuff to do stick-and-poke tattoos and now they each have the Hangul for each other’s names on their left ass cheeks forever).

When he breezes through their apartment door today, he’s clearly trying to hide it, but Jimin’s known him long enough to see the telltale signs: his teeth clamped on his lower lip, the excited way he covers his ears with his hands, and the way he keeps spacing out, like he’s thinking of something else.

Jimin doesn’t push for now, too busy finishing their dinner, but he’s sure by the time they’re done eating that Jungkook won’t be able to keep holding it back anyway. Instead, he accepts the kiss Jungkook gives him on his way to change out of his work clothes and pinches his hip affectionately as he leaves.

And he’s right: Jungkook’s only halfway through his first serving of bibimbap when he can’t take it anymore.

“So I found something today,” he says with a mouthful of meat and rice, like the thought couldn’t wait until he swallowed.

Jimin places his chopsticks gently back down so he can give his clearly excited boyfriend his undivided attention. “Oh?”

Jungkook doesn’t stop eating as he talks. “At the pharmacy, when I was getting those blister pads for you—”

Not a very appetizing moment to be reminded of the blisters from his new pointe shoes, but Jimin nods anyway.

“I saw”—Jungkook starts to dig through the oversized pockets of his cargo pants, rattling beneath the table—“these supplements.”

What he pulls out is a small bottle that can’t be holding more than four or five pills. The label has bold writing, terrible graphic design honestly, but Jimin squints across the table and sees GAIN WEIGHT FASTER written beneath the brand name and raises a curious brow.

For the couple of months they’ve been experimenting with Jungkook’s burgeoning weight gain kink and Jimin’s growing love for seeing, well… his love growing, progress has been slow-going. Jungkook laments his current skinny-fat phase near-daily; he wants to be big already, not having to settle for taking it one measly kilo at a time, and there’s only so much Jimin can do to help his boyfriend get extra calories, short of inedibly drowning their food in oil.

Truthfully, Jimin thinks Jungkook looks cute at his current weight, soft and pudgy and barely erring on the side of plump, just bigger enough for it to be a bit noticeable when he’s fully clothed, but he’s also a firm supporter of his boyfriend’s happiness and would never begrudge having more Jungkook, so he plays along. He’s heard of these dubiously legal supplements that claim to make your appetite grow, your metabolism slow down, and the resulting weight flow to more desirable places. He’s fallen down that particular Instagram rabbit hole before—he doesn’t blame Jungkook for wanting to give it a try at least. And hey, good on him for grabbing what seems to be a trial size first. Sound financial decisions look good on a boyfriend.

Jimin leans back in his seat, picking up his chopsticks again. “So it’s like an appetite stimulant? A ‘take it and hope it makes you hungrier and fatter’ kind of thing?”

Jungkook twists the bottle between his fingers, squinting at the small label. “Not exactly. I grabbed it because… well, it made the results seem kind of… instant? Quicker, at the very least?”

He slides the bottle across the table so Jimin can read the label in full. No real drug facts, no specified ingredients, just the promise of quick weight gain, some brief directions, and a generic warning about abusing medication. Rattling in his hands, there really are only a handful of pills inside the glass, which is more like the size of a bottle of facial serum than any supplement Jimin’s ever seen before.

Jungkook fidgets in his seat, radiating nervous excitement. “They only sold them in these tiny bottles, and… I don’t know, I probably just got scammed, but that made it seem more legitimate to me, you know? Like I wouldn’t need to keep taking them all the time?”

Sliding the bottle back, Jimin asks, “Did you ask the pharmacist about them?”

Jungkook shakes his head with a laugh. “I did self-checkout. I wasn’t about to ask someone with a PhD if a sketchy pill was gonna make me fat.”

Jimin can’t help the small snort he lets out as he finishes the end of his dinner. That’s just like Jungkook: impulsive, determined, almost single-minded in his dedication to gain.

After dinner finds them in a familiar position: Jimin comfortable on the couch, Jungkook planted over his lap, the two of them kissing feverishly. Jungkook’s foregone his flannel shirt, shrugging it off before he sat down and now in just his cargos and the t-shirt he’d had beneath that’s well on its way to too small. Meaning that it is too small, but Jungkook insists it still works as an undershirt. Where the t-shirt had been form-fitting before, it now clings to the round distension that is Jungkook’s stomach, sliding up to offer glimpses of his pudgier hips and belly whenever he so much as slightly lifts his arms. He’s not as small as he complains he is, but Jimin’s not about to stop him from letting himself get bigger.

Which must be on Jungkook’s mind too, because as he pulls back from a kiss, the bottle he’d put back into one of his pants’ many, many pockets rattles. He grabs it with one hand, the other keeping Jimin’s in place beneath the stretched hem of his t-shirt, fingers dug into pudge.

“Do you think I should?” Jungkook asks, eyes wide. “It says to take one tablet within an hour of a meal. It’s been… what, 45 minutes?”

Jimin tilts his head, mostly listening while also appreciating the spillage of flesh between his fingers when he squeezes Jungkook’s hips in reply. “Wouldn’t hurt,” he says, pauses, and amends, “Well, might hurt, but we’ll see.”

Jungkook uncaps the bottle, and nothing happens: no hiss of smoke, no immediate waft of poison. He upends a single pill into his hand and looks long and hard at it. It’s just a plain white tablet, indistinguishable from the various painkillers and supplements in their medicine cabinet. He stares at it for a long moment, shrugs, and pops it into his mouth, washing it down with the last sips of his can of Coke from dinner.

And nothing happens. Jimin would know if it did, hands planted firmly on the belly that would be stretching further outward if these pills worked as instantly as Jungkook had hoped, but there’s no budge except for the contraction of muscles when Jungkook swallows his soda. He stares downward, poking himself in the stomach so his fingertip sinks into soft fat, and his shoulders slump.

“I don’t know why I thought it would be instant,” Jungkook grumbles.

Jimin shrugs, moving one hand from his boyfriend’s still-just-pudgy body to card through his curls. “It’s the ‘go big or go home’ in you,” he says, letting his fingers cup a chubby cheek, guiding their faces back together. “Come on, relax. We’ll wait it out, see if anything happens.”

They kiss again, slower. Jimin lets his fingertips keep mapping out the cushioned planes of Jungkook’s body, slipping under his t-shirt and lightly beneath his snug waistband. Jungkook’s skin feels warm to the touch, more than usual, and he keeps squirming, differently to the way he usually does when he’s getting worked up.

“You okay, Jungkookie?” Jimin asks against his heated cheek.

“M’just—ngh—really warm,” Jungkook grumbles, stretching his back this way and that so his belly bucks Jimin’s chest. “Feel kinda bloated.”

Jimin doesn’t notice at first that when Jungkook tugs his t-shirt back down, it doesn’t quite go all the way—he just slides his perpetually cold hands up the back of it, letting them chill the overwarm skin across Jungkook’s spine, pulling him in closer and closer. He doesn’t really notice, either, that the pressure on his thighs is growing stronger, just blindly assuming that Jungkook’s finally relaxed so more of his weight rests on Jimin than on his own legs.

Jimin doesn’t notice anything until Jungkook makes a small grunt above him at the same time his hands start struggling to meet around his middle.

“Hyung,” Jungkook says, awed, a little pained. “Hyung, I think it’s—”

He doesn’t finish his thought, interrupted by a low whine that escapes his lips seemingly of its own volition. His belly juts forward, crowding his lap, pushing into Jimin’s torso, thick and heavy and so warm, so unnaturally warm that this can’t be anything but—

“It’s working,” Jimin finishes for him. “Holy shit.”

“Holy shit is right,” Jungkook gasps as his already too-small shirt continues to slide up his expanding gut, seams straining as his body starts spilling—really spilling, his once-perkily taut stomach now beginning to sag onto his thighs with doughy fat—out of it. He squirms as if pinned down by the constant motion of his body growing outward, trying to scoot his hips backward but instead accidentally grinding down where Jimin’s dick is taking clear interest. “Hyung, hyung, help me get off you, you’re gonna get crushed.”

Jimin does no such thing. He stays put, hands on Jungkook’s ballooning waistline now that it’s all he can really reach without his arms being forced apart by the growth, and moves his hands in slow, deep ministrations. It seems to make Jungkook relax, panic easing as it really hits him what’s happening.

“Hyung, I’m… I’m getting so fucking fat. Look how I keep growing, keep swelling, keep getting fatter. Am I heavy? I bet I’m so fucking heavy on you.”

It’s punctuated with a low creak, the elastic waist of Jungkook’s cargo pants stretched to its limits until finally, the plastic button just barely holding them shut breaks free, careening across the room to clatter against the wood floor somewhere between the living area and the kitchen. Unbidden, the mass of his gut flows through the open V left in the button’s wake, no longer held back by rigid fabric, free to rest on his legs that have blown up to the point of his pants—baggy before—fitting like sausage casings.

And he is heavy—is, quote, so fucking heavy. By the time the stretch and swell of him slows to a halt, Jungkook has to be twice the size he was when he sat down. His shirt that hugged his chubby stomach now barely passes beneath his chest, filled out like a crop top, the seams at the sleeves strained and splitting from Jungkook’s arms that had previously still held some tone and definition now gone flabby. Between his thick arms and his chest grown into plump, protruding tits, his arms don’t lower the way they used to—not like it matters with how Jungkook’s hands map his own body, picking up the upper roll his now double belly and sliding his fat, dimpled hands into the crevice it makes between itself and his lower belly. A lower belly that hangs so far out of his pants that it’s flowing between stocky thighs and pinning Jimin right to the back of the couch.

Not that Jimin’s complaining. He was the one who didn’t budge when Jungkook tried to climb off of him a couple of minutes probably 45 kilograms ago. The weight of him is heavy and grounding and, shit, arousing. He’s been mostly into Jungkook’s weight gain kink in that he probably has a Jungkook kink, attracted to him at all times and all sizes, but a double-sized Jungkook pinning him to the couch… it’s doing a lot for him. He wonders if Jungkook can even feel how Jimin’s rock-hard against his blubbery overhang or if there’s just too much padding in the way.

“Jungkook-ah.” Jimin tugs at one of the many rolls of Jungkook’s stomach—because there are rolls big enough to tug with his whole hand now, to pull him closer. “Baby, lean forward.”

Jungkook, hazy-eyed, seemingly entranced into a fog by his body grown so fat so quickly, blinks heavily a few times. “What do you mean?”

“Lean forward,” Jimin repeats, pulling him in closer. The heavy thighs caging him in and the massive gut pinning his lower half to the back of the couch don’t feel like enough. He needs Jungkook all over him.

Jungkook gets it this time. Hesitantly, checking Jimin’s face beforehand and going gloriously red when Jimin nods and keeps guiding him forward, he leans his upper half against Jimin’s, holding him down further into the couch cushions. In his lap like this, Jimin’s face-height with Jungkook’s chest, his rucked-up t-shirt that pushes up even further with his movements, revealing his chest, fat tits that Jimin buries his face between, biting at the skin, swirling his tongue around a hardened nipple just to hear Jungkook groan in that pained ecstasy that means he’s really into it.

It’s not the easiest to breathe with what’s probably nearly three times his own weight pushing his body down, but it’s easy enough for Jimin to still get worked up, grinding up as much as he can despite the pressure, despite the mass that is now Jungkook jiggling and quivering on top of him. He didn’t start putting in more weightlifting and core-building time when Jungkook decided to get fat for nothing.

By the time Jimin’s seeing white, Jungkook’s emerging from his horny haze too, eyes clearer and more mischievous as he leans back, letting Jimin breathe again. Very deliberately, he’s lifting his gut, dropping it back down—massaging his chest—grabbing the hem of his t-shirt so that it rips straight down the middle with how strained the cotton has become.

Quickly, they catch each other in another kiss. It’s like before, but it’s not—still Jimin and Jungkook, still hot and heavy, but Jungkook keeps having to take breathers, unused to the new weight on his body, and so does Jimin, unused to the new weight on top of his body.

Pulling away, puffing and panting, Jungkook laughs, low and rumbling in a way that makes his whole belly undulate. “Do you think this effect is permanent?” he asks, curious, maybe a little hopeful.

“I don’t know,” Jimin gasps in reply, heart thrumming. “If it’s not, you have a few more pills left.”

A nod. “And if it is?”

Jimin blinks at him through heavy eyes. “Then you still have a few more pills left.”

#bts feederism #chubby bts #fat bts #chubby jungkook #fat bt5 #chubby bt5 #requests #i said i was going to write short request fics and then wrote over 2k... but hey it's still shorter than the 21 days fics

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