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just a mess that i wrote idk

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Archie was rarely ever left alone at home. Naturally, this was because his ‘home’ was also the home of a borderline-agoraphobic detective. Right now, Archie was not technically alone, however, he might as well have been, for Wolfe was to be in his room all day childishly pouting at the common cold. 

 

And that meant that Archie could take one of those days to himself where he went about his own private business, mostly in the manner of doing the things he liked. And what he felt like now most of all, was custard. And there happened to be quite a large batch of custard sitting in the icebox downstairs, about to go bad but still for now perfectly good, that Wolfe had turned his nose up at because poor Fritz had committed the horrendous sin of seasoning it with allspice. 

 

So to the kitchen, he went. And he sat down at the kitchen table with the pot in front of him and a spoon and started eating. It was soft, there was a distinct sweet vanilla taste, and a delightful creaminess. It was so smooth it went down his throat as easy as water, even despite the slightly sticky texture. It was like that so much that the spoon seemed redundant, so he picked up the pot and tipped it toward his face, drinking it in gulps. 

 

It then became a sort of a challenge. He could see how much custard there was left in the pot, and it was no small measure. Quite the opposite. And yet, drinking it like this, it wouldn’t be sanitary for anyone else to have it. So… it only made sense to drink it all. And the challenge rose to do it all at once. To now have to put down the pot until it was all gone. 

 

He stumbled through a few swallows just thinking about it and moaned pulling on the flow and trying to drink it faster. He could feel how filling it was distinctly, where once there might have been the slight hint of hunger or emptiness, now there was not even a trace of that feeling. There was a most pleasing fullness growing in his stomach, and the last desperate swallows sunk heavily in his midsection. 

 

Now he was overcome by this odd sort of challenge he’d set himself, and an even odder need to make it go further. Because he knew he could eat more. Possibly much more. He scraped the last few swallows of custard into his mouth with the spoon and set down the pot that clanked on the counter, empty. 

 

The fridge was always a feast of things that were perfectly good but had been rejected by Wolfe. Fritz was always too stubborn to throw the stuff away, but too… too considerate of Wolfe’s opinion to eat the things himself. Archie was often having small smatterings of leftovers of this vein here and there, but he had never held a real interest in eating. Not… not until this very moment, that was. 

 

Now he tried to ignore the protest from his belly as he got to his feet and moved to the fridge. He felt the need to keep eating even as he surveyed the contents of the fridge, so he pulled pieces off of a lonesome roll of bread as he did so, stuffing the soft airy pastry into his mouth in torn chunks and swallowing them, as though his streak would fail if he stopped now. 

 

Even as he picked out a virtual tub of spaghetti deemed beneath the pompous detective, he also decided that he couldn’t in good conscience not finish the bread, given he’d had his grubby hands all over it now. Carrying the bread in one hand and the tomato-lathered spaghetti in the other, he sat down heavily at the table, omitting a soft “oof” at the feeling of his belly folding around his belt now he’d sat down. 

 

From the butter dish, he scraped butter onto the bread and shoved the remnants of the roll into his mouth, swallowing hard. 

 

He let out a half-hiccup, then, and rubbed a hand firmly over his protesting stomach in something almost like adoration, but closer to a pleased sort of awe. He pressed his fingers into the thin layer of pillowy tissue beneath his shirt. He’d never thought about it much before, but now there was a peculiar appeal to the thought of increasing that scrap of pillow, to slowly forcing a notable girth on himself. 

 

With this idea delightedly in mind, he twisted the most grotesquely large tangle of noodles onto a fork, and pushed them into his mouth, moaning at the ease at which he could chew and swallow them quickly. And so he shovelled the spaghetti into himself, marvelling luxuriously in the way that at this point he could feel that every single swallow was pushing his belly further, stretching it out slightly, slightly, until he could see the roundness of it under his shirt and his belt was unbearably tight, squeezing his middle in tightly, soft flesh pouching around it as though trying to swallow it up. 

 

He groaned and panted, his breathing was fast and short now. He groaned again, and hiccuped and pawed the growing mound of his stomach through the thick cotton shirt and hiccuped again, feeling drunk and lethargic and heavy. He couldn’t have stood now if his life depended on it. He was rendered immobile and heavy, and achingly hard at pleasing laze. 

 

Finally , he unbuckled his belt, and didn’t bother to stifle the burp it seemed to release. There was a sort of wicked pleasure as he realised he could fit more now. And he did. He didn’t twist it around his fork anymore. He just scooped it with his fork and spoon, shovelling it into his mouth and covering his face in sauce. He only dropped the cutlery every so often to shove his hands under his shirt and marvel at how firm and tight-packed his stomach was, so much so he could feel it right beneath the skin, as hard and heavy as stone, protruding sharply, scandalously from beneath his ribs. 

 

He moaned and panted through the last mouthfuls, and then his hands pushed curiously into the strange alien object that was his rounded stomach. He’d never been even close to this full in his life, and the skin was hot through the shirt, which was too tight to properly get his hands under now. He allowed himself another shameless burp and sank into the chair. He knew the squeak of the chair was only because of the way he moved, but it brought him glorious waves of pleasure to imagine that it was protesting under his sheer heft. 

 

He wished he could eat more, push his stomach out further. His pants weren’t as tight without the belt, but he undid them as well, stifling a hiccup. And this was his final chance to fit even more. He groaned in effort at he leaned forward, distended belly falling onto his thighs and he snatched up just a few more rolls and balled them up, stuffing them into his mouth and shuddering in pleasure at the way he could feel his stomach stretching out agonizingly, skin burning hot. He was definitely done now. More than done. 

 

He swallowed the saliva, it felt like he was so full the food was pushing at the back of his throat. His belly went out so much further than normal, it rested on his thighs even when he slumped back into the chair. It was firm and aching now. But if he did this again. And again and again and again… it could be like this always. It could be like this and soft, and pillowy. Oh, he was going to do this again alright. A million times over. He didn’t know if dinnertime would ever be decent again. 

 

He looked up at the ceiling, belly firm and round and heavy, pushing against his shirt, pushing out from under his ribs in shocking distension. He fell willingly into a silent lethargy that was broken only by the occasional hiccup and the grumbling protests of his stretched stuffed stomach. 

 

—— 

 

It had only been a month. He’d tried to keep things decent. His boss certainly raised an eyebrow or too, but he tried to save his pleasure until after he retired to his room. It’s not like he was a perv, he wasn’t going to moan at the dinner table. These days they didn’t have leftovers anymore, though. 

 

These days he had to make sure he could still walk up the stairs by the time he was done, except he always forgot, and he always waited until Wolfe was done with the elevator so he could ride it back up to his room. 

 

But it had only been a month. How… how had this happened? He was enthusiastic, sure. He supposed it was the fact he’d always had his clothes tailored tight. He’d never needed any give, you know? Except now the sides of his trousers dug into his cushioned hips, and his belly poked over the top of the waistband. His high-waisted slacks still fit decently, except for around the thighs where they hugged too tight, and you could tell , because it pulled the press out of them at the top, so that neat line down the middle front of each leg started strangely at the knee. 

 

And if he wasn’t careful picking his ties, you could see the fabric that wasn’t held together by the buttons pulling around his belly when he sat down. Even getting dressed made him blush. And he much preferred the slacks that weren’t high-waisted, because then he could look down his belly spilling into his lap and his belt digging into his softening hips all day. 

 

And he fucking loved that. He was going to wear these clothes until the seams split, which might be another month or so, if he was lucky. And he honestly couldn’t wait. Even the strange looks he got from Wolfe and Fritz made him grin. They’d definitely figured out what he was doing, but why he was doing it seemed lost on them. 

 

It might have been half a show of support when Fritz started offering him extra portions without him having to ask, but then. Well, that would be silly. It was more like he was trying to be accommodating, as confused as he was. He made it into another little challenge for himself to never deny these offers. 

 

And it was paying off.