#THE ATTENTION TO DETAIL. THE WEDDING RING. THE DOG TAGS. WHAT IF I EXPLODED

[kasperbunny]

AAAHHHHHHHHHHH !!!!!! I finally got my Danse/Arty commission from my very dear friend @frecklydork !!!! 💕💕💕 this is sooo so pretty I love these goobers so much

[sugarpopss]

Twelve Years and Counting

So. I watched Wonka. And it awoke something within me. Like we all knew Keegan-Michael Key is hot but somehow. Seeing him in a pretty good fat suit made me insane. I want to be his wife.

Warnings: it's porn and I love corrupt police (kidding)

Not tagging ANYONE bc who tf wants this. Hiiiii Wonka fandom how are ya'll. How ya'll doing. Actually no i gave @bucknastysbabe a play by play of this movie so. Also Hugh Grant killed a cleric I think??

You can’t be married to a man for twelve years without figuring out what he’ll do for some decent chocolate. 

And by god, you knew what your husband would do for chocolate. 

To be entirely fair, a lot of people would do a lot of things for chocolate; it practically ran the city. A truffle was far more powerful than a silver sovereign. 

Chocolate was exchanged and hidden and fought over in the halls of power all over the city, and the precinct was no exception. You’d known that for years. 

You also knew that the chief of police had been taking minor bribes from the chocolate magnates for years. The fine truffles and bon-bons didn’t just appear in the cupboards by magic. You’d never really had a problem with your husbands mild corruption, either. He sometimes saved the bon-bons filled with cherry or peach compote for you, and he wasn’t really hurting anyone. The chocolate magnates had the entire city in their pocket-what was one more official looking the other way? 

That was before, though. You were sure they had upped your husbands ‘payment’ or enlisted him in some new scheme, because the amount of chocolate boxes crowding your cupboards and counter had exploded. You knew they were in his car, too, because you’d seen the little paper wrappers littering the seats. 

The amount of payment wasn’t the only thing that had exploded recently, either. 

You loved your husband, truly and honestly-you would’ve married a politician or a restauranteur if you didn’t. But you couldn’t deny that his chocolate habit was finally beginning to have an effect. 

Well…’beginning’ was a bit of a misnomer. The effect was very clear-your beloved police chief had absolutely blown up. He had gone up two whole sizes-which you knew because you were the one who took his clothes to the laundry-and your poor bed frame creaked like an old dog toy when he laid down. You could hear the stairs creaking, too, ensuring that you’d never again sleep through your husband coming home late. 

You weren’t complaining. Oh, far from it, actually. You had no interest in knowing the details of this ‘blood chocolate’ he seemed to be receiving, and your husband was less than forthcoming with information. You like your plausible deniability very much, thank you. But you also rather liked the way the bribes showed up on him. 

The belly had come first, of course, straining the belt of his uniform and giving him a proper ‘policemans paunch’. You had thought it was cute and paid plenty of loving attention to your husbands little potbelly. The weight had absolutely not stopped there, though. From a little pudgy to properly fat in a startlingly short amount of time, and all because whatever scheme he was involved in evidently paid very well. Soon you were settling into bed next to a man double-maybe triple by now-his former weight, all soft flesh and radiating warmth. 

It wasn’t terrible at all. Your husband cleaned the chocolate stains off his hands before touching you, although he didn’t seem to notice his wedding ring digging into his thick finger. He remained intimate with you, so you weren’t at all concerned that he was unfaithful. If he was unfaithful as well as corrupt, he did an excellent job at hiding it. You finally understood why your friends had raved about sleeping with men so large-it was amazing. Watching your husband heave himself on top of you, feeling his weight and warmth nearly crushing the air out of your lungs. The sheer effort of fucking into you, his arms shaking from holding his weight up, sweat beading on his skin after a few thrusts, his soft lower belly completely covering your view of where the two of you were joined. You’d nearly climaxed on the spot just from watching him have to lift his belly to get his cock positioned. 

It was the very best sex you’d had in twelve years of marriage. You’d tried to wrap your legs around his waist, but any vestige of your husbands ‘waist’ was now long gone. The best you could do was press your knees into the thick rolls of fat on his sides, but it brought you a little closer nonetheless. What made him moan, though, was when you gently palmed his heavy chest, grown so fat you couldn’t even feel the bone of his sternum. You groped his breasts like he’d done to you so many times before, taking your cues from his blissful expression strained gasps. 

And it was almost as good after the climax, when your husband first collapsed on top of you, crushing the breath right out of you. He was sweaty and overheated and so heavy, and he seemed to realize your lungs were struggling with him on top of you fairly quickly. When he’d rolled off and settled into his significant dent in the mattress, caught his breath and popped a chocolate from the bedside drawer into his mouth, it was your turn to snuggle up. You pressed close to his side, though not quite as close as lovestick teens trying to crawl into each others skin may have. It was soothing in a way, the rhythm of your husbands breathing and the crinkle of chocolate wrappers. 

You knew that when you shimmied away to your side of the bed to sleep-a necessary thing to do, because of both the heat your husband radiated and the disturbance of him getting up in the middle of the night for his 3am bon-bons-he’d quickly fall asleep with both hands resting on the crest of his swollen belly, and snore like an engine to top it off. You’d learned to tune it out, along with the creaking of the mattress springs and bed frame when he shifted or got up. 

There were much worse habits for a man to be caught in-but chocolate seemed to be the most popular. You knew much more women whose husbands hid sweets in their offices or closets than who gambled or smoked. And the effects were certainly not unappreciated, at least not by you. 

A big, powerful man, and all yours. Surely nothing would ever spoil this.