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“He was, when I got him, a reasonable size,” lamented the Comtesse de Monpazier, Marie-Louise Giroux. Brow inclined with worry, she observed her husband across the sitting room, fretting while the comte laughed with his entire body.

And, well, what a body he happened to have.

Julia de la Fontaine, Marquise du Roquefort, cast her conversation partner a gentle, knowing look. Ladies always said such things, she knew, to loudly stave off particular rumors that were most often true. “Of course he was, dearest.”

Marie-Louise’s mound of golden curls bobbed while she slumped in the cane back chair, sighing. “Very trim.”

Having been recently introduced to marital bliss—as well as Paris society—herself, Julia doubted that Marie-Louise was quite so naive as she appeared. When compared to the English ladies with whom Julia was more familiar, their French counterparts tittered, swooned, and schemed staggeringly more. In fact, nearly everything about Paris was more when compared to London.

Her own husband, already a plump man to begin with, had filled out even more. He blamed their honeymoon, during which they sequestered themselves in his—their, she reminded herself—estate in Occitania. There, the food was endless, fresh, and plentiful; for a young bride with a particular affection for her new husband’s developing rolls, as well as for his rather posh tastes and endless appetite for luxury…

It was bliss.

Knowing these secrets for herself, of course, meant Julia knew when a lady, even a French one, was being honest about her husband’s weight sneaking up on her.

The economy being bad affects Alfred in a way that he’s kinda…jobless now, like he doesn’t get called into the Capitol or White House very often, there’s a plethora of government shutdowns already. So…he’s spending all of that free time at home, eating like he won’t have food tomorrow, binging PS3 games, and just getting fatter, less presentable, more like a slob…

Even when Alfred does have to go out to work or for a world meeting (where he’s gonna get bashed to hell again), he is completely disheveled, soft, jiggly—looking lazy and gross. He stops working out, stops taking care of himself– barely leaves the couch.

but, even with that small gain, he’s still able to just sneak the tip into arthur when alfred holds his belly up and has him ride him. he’s happy with just that when he has it, relieved he isn’t too fat to fuck and that his dick is totally big enough (nevermind the fact arthur can hardly even feel it poking his hole)

…once alfred’s past that, though, good luck with any kind of sex. he’s pushing 650 now and his pathetic 2-incher buried way deep in his plush fatpad, with no hope of ever peeking out from beneath it. he hasn’t touched it in ages and even arthur is unable to push that much fat back.

Because yes, making Alfred an immobile, bariatric bedbound blob had been great, but Ivan couldn’t avoid the collateral damage weight gain. How could he have, with all that fast food and junk food floating around??? Now they’re both hopelessly addicted.

It’s so much harder for Ivan to move around and actually take care of Alfred these days. Like super hard. Ivan is literally close to being bedbound himself. Waddling his huge self to the front door and back to Alfred’s bedroom (both of them confined to the first floor nowadays) is extremely rough on his knees and he ends up heaving with burning lungs each time. It doesn’t help that Alfred pigs out on fast food feasts multiple times a day.

Ivan had gotten much too fat to cook a long time ago, so literally everything is delivered. Fetching food and cleaning Alfred’s bedpan are his most arduous tasks every day. But he needs to take care of his beloved! Maybe he should slim down a bit…it’s just so hard, when burgers, pasta, wings, cookies, and every kind of greasy meal is always being shared by him and Alfred, day in and day out, and then the stress of caring for Alfred bleeds him dry, and makes him eat even more come midnight when the piggy has gone to bed in a food coma.