Reblog This If You’re Trans Or Otherwise Not Cis And Are Into Feedism Or Chub Play

entering my political feederism arc. it's good to eat & gain weight, it's good to want to be fat, you must counteract fatphobia rather than merely taking the neutral stance that should have been the norm in the first place. affirmative fat-ction

I don't think I ever posted this here! Funny little vore tropes~ if ya'll have any other tropes you'd like illustrated like this these'd be fun to make

Cheers~

You made probably the biggest mistake an intern could make.

The CEO was still yelling. Muffled, furious, definitely still yelling.

<"You’re fired,"> they bark, their voice vibrating through your stomach walls. <"You hear me? Fired! The second I get out of here, I swear to god—">

You press both hands into the firm swell of your belly, trying to calm it, trying to calm yourself.

"Please," you say, voice tight, "can you—can you stop yelling?"

<"Stop yelling?"> they snap. <"You ate me, you little freak!">

you wince.

<"I am the leader of this company, I should not be sitting in some intern’s gut!">

You groan, curling further into yourself, shifting your weight on the supply closet floor.

It’s not comfortable—the CEO is heavy, far heavier than anything you’ve ever swallowed before. Your stomach is stretched to its absolute limit, packed full, groaning under the pressure.

"I panicked," you mutter, rubbing small circles over your middle, trying to ease the ache.

trying to will your stomach into speeding things up.

<"You panicked?"> The walls of your gut ripple as the CEO shoves against them, hard.

<"Spilling coffee on me is panicking. Forgetting your instructions is panicking. Eating me whole is--!">

Your stomach clenches down, cutting them off. You gasp.

The CEO swears, voice slipping-- nervous now, and you can feel their breathing- fast, shallow.

<"You need to let me out. Now.">

You swallow thickly. "I—I don’t think I can."

The CEO stills.

<"What?>

"I don’t—I don’t know how to... i dont know how to stop it."

You stomach gurgles.

There’s a moment of silence. Then the CEO kicks, hard enough that you yelp.

<"You little shit,"> they growl.

<"You’re going to regret this.">

"I already do," you groan, kneading into the firm swell of your belly.

The pressure inside won’t ease up, your gut is clenching. Relentlessly. Processing.

The CEO tries to push again, but it’s weaker this time. Your stomach is winning.

It always wins

<"Please,"> they say suddenly, softer now, less rage, more desperation. <"You don’t want to do this. I can fix this—I’ll—I won’t fire you, okay? I’ll promote you, even. You don’t have to—">

Your stomach groans, hot and heavy.

You shut your eyes, breathe in deep, and keep rubbing at your belly, feeling it settle.

---

You wake up to darkness.

For a disorienting moment, you don’t know where you are—only that the air is stale, your back is sore, and you must have had an extraordinary meal recently.

Then it clicks. The supply closet. The CEO.

The weight still pressing against your middle, no longer struggling, no longer yelling—only a warm, thick mass, settled deep in your gut.

You bolt upright, gasping, your belly sloshing with the movement.

Shit.

You went into a food coma.

You passed out in the middle of digesting your boss.

Panic shoots through you, and you scramble to your feet, wincing at the dull ache of your overworked stomach.

Your dress shirt is wrinkled, sticking to your skin, and when you press a hand against the swell of your gut, it’s still soft.

You push open the door, slipping into the dim hallway, blinking, bleary and disoriented. Still waking up.

Freezing as a voice calls out—

"Hey. Where’ve you been?"

Your head snaps up, eyes wide.

A coworker—one of the assistants, leans against the front desk, looking at you with mild curiosity.

You fumble for words. "I—I was just—”

"You look awful." They frown, eyes flicking over your disheveled form—mussed hair, flushed face... where your stomach pushes forward, heavy with its stolen meal.

Your gut shifts, contents pressing lower, and you have to bite back a groan.

"You should go home. It’s late." They say.

Your heart hammers. You nod quickly, very quickly.

"Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I—I should go."

You turn on your heel and walk—fast, stiff, legs fuzzy with pins and needles.

Forcing yourself not to clutch at your stomach, even as it groans with each step.

The office is empty, the halls quiet. No one else is here. Except for a few security guards who ignore you.

Your belly sways heavily with each movement, the remnants of the CEO being churned down into something useful.

you step out of the lobby doors, into the cool nighttime air. You breathe it in, deeply. You look up and you can't see any stars.

You don't know what tomorrow will look like for you. But at least you won't be needing breakfast.

feedist kinktober 27 : boozy belly

this was one of the first things i wrote about em. i'm not the best at writing dialogues so i hope it's not to clunky, enjoy!

Prey pinning a pred down to the floor, the pred nearly twice the size of them and still being unable to get up, the prey leaning in real close and telling them how good they're gonna look as a bulge inside the pred's stomach, how well they'll squirm like the good little meal they are, while the pred is just so confused they can't say anything, stuttering over and over until their prey tells them to hush up and open their mouth. The pred swallows their prey easily, and as the prey slides down their throat the pred is so embaresed that food managed to intimidate them like that.

sorry that i ate all of your rations and rubbed my cartoonishly distended belly and burped really loudly that was my bad

hungry > full > stuffed

Saw another couple artists do something like this so I figured I'd give it a shot. I don't expect it to get much traction but I figured I'd try anyway.

Chat, stuff this twink