Author's note: The story originally started in February 2024 as an attempt to make a comic (a bunch of sketches), and likely will do that. For now, have it in a text version; hope it'll entertain fellow connoisseurs of the toon belly.
Also, have a cameo of the family pet Makiki! =) A yellow part-monkey-part-mouse with a part-dog-part-cat behavior, for those who doesn't remember.

Makiki

Normally, Papa's another voice is very, very quiet. At times, it's gurgly like water in the pipes (when you fall asleep in front of the TV, curled up in a ball on top of Papa's stomach) – or, more rarely, almost like a pot of boiling water, the one where Mama has just poured some tasty white little chunks in. Their smell is so strong that it fills the whole kitchen, and makes the critter's tail shiver: if only he'd have at least one... despite having just had his lunch...

Uuuuurrrrrrgggle!

...Makiki nearly falls off the table as the familiar other voice ROARS out behind the door – for the first time sounding louder than the click of the key in the lock. Papa hurt?! Papa not well?! Mama only laughs, waving her paw like nothing happened. "Ah, Papa is back! Go greet him!" As if she doesn't even hear... or understand?

The front door almost knocks the little creature off his feet. He bounces aside, looks closer: that's right, Papa in fact stands in the doorway, his eyes pleading, muzzle stretched in a desperately-trying-not-to-seem-painful grin, and his tail (moments ago nervously flickering behind his back) is wrapped around his belly as tight as it can; and he calls his wife in his usual voice: "Oh Honeeeyyy! I'm–" – barely uttering "...home!" because at the same moment his other voice roars out again for help, and his tail squeezes his stomach (shut up, will you!) even tighter – but to little use, as a pleading gllllrrrrck breaks through its grip once again.

"Ook ook, ook? Ki ki ki-ki-ki ki?!" Makiki worries: what am I to do?! Run back to Mama for help? Or somehow hold Papa to keep him from fainting right in the doorway – at least by his ankles? Much to the critter's luck, his anxious squeaks finally reach Mama's ears. Light footsteps are heard in the kitchen, then behind Makiki's back, in the hallway. She made it! She made it! Makiki bounces with joy, already a couple steps away from his owners, who are hugging at the door. Hugging may be a bit of a stretch though: an exhausted Papa falls down – at least not on the floor, but into Mama's arms, and only then allows both himself and his inner voice to let out a plaintive howl.

"How did you even last this long?" Mama whispers, sympathetically stroking his back. "Come on; let's go, just wait..."

...Papa's other voice still doesn't shut up, even after he gets seated at the table (although slumps down on it nearly with his entire body the same moment). No matter how much Makiki perks up his ears, trying to figure out what both of his owners are discussing – out of Papa's words (mainly about some kind of thing called a field meeting) and Mama re-asking him ("your vacation starts tomorrow, and you don't even look quite yourself – are you sure you're okay, honey?"), he manages to understand only "no one had time to snack all day" and "what a shame, dear...". And for a long time, Makiki can't even decide where he should place himself – sit farther away from Papa (because one's innards groan like that only when things are really bad, and the sound scares the critter – what if Papa suddenly faints and crushes him by accident?!) or closer – to comfort him, squeak out a little ki ki ki ki, stretch out a paw and touch Papa – at least his muzzle at the mustache, since his back is already hugged by Mama.

"But of course!" Papa complains when his inner voice lets out yet another dreary, creaking moan. "Now of all times you choose to whimper!" And addresses Mama again: "Can you imagine, honey, what a 'free bass and reverbs orchestra' people on the train had to listen to all the way?! Th-they were – seriously – thinking I was growling at them!"

But when Mаmа finally smiles and resolutely says, "So I did just right when decided to cook some more, dear," and then gets up and points at a large, covered soup bowl, from which (like from the pot a couple minutes ago) comes the mind-blowing aroma of those delicious white little chunks, the pet is finally relieved. They can handle it. Papa will calm down soon.

Bella

The aroma is indeed so strong that Bella has to involuntarily step back to her husband – whose stomach yet again gets in a twist from another hunger pang; to calm it down with a gentle pat of her paw – "down, boy, hush" – and help her husband get up from his chair.

"You can have dinner in the living room, and sleep right on the sofa tonight," Bella whispers, while her husband, barely hanging onto her, tries at least not to stumble over his own tail: there was not even a moment he could sit down for the entire day, his paws are still buzzing, and, through the white noise buzzing in his head, it seems like he has not two, but a whole six legs, all about to give out any moment. Bella embraces her husband by his narrow shoulders – as if drawing him back together, bringing back to his senses. The spouse gratefully hugs her with his tail – and, indeed, has just enough strength to shuffle up to the sofa and collapse on it, letting out an exhausted "yeah…" while his wife returns to the kitchen and, in a little while, puts onto the coffee table... That very soup bowl?! No, even better: a huge pie dish, covered with a high lid.

"Today your Honey had cooked..." Bella whispers intriguingly – perking up just as much as her husband once it dawns on him; he can hardly believe his own nose at first, but then lifts the lid – happily uttering, "R-R-RUFFVV... VIO... L-L-LI?!"

A whole blessed mountain of them, nearly half the size of the coffee table and reaching almost up to his chin, gets revealed to his eyes once the steam over it slightly dissipates. Sprinkled with a mix of fresh chopped greens, thin waterfalls of sauce trickling off its sides. Smelling way too inviting to be just a mirage of hunger.

No, not a mirage, he realizes, poking his finger into the sauce and giving it a quick lick. He turns his gaze back to his spouse – who is now beaming, as if reading between her husband's ears (that immediately perked up at the reveal of the dish) a running neon line: I would have endured a whole hundred days of hunger for this– for YOU. The same thing reads in his shining eyes, in the wide smile and beams of his sideburns at its corners, and – many, many times in a row – in the wags of his tail, thumping on the back of the sofa.

"I remember," Bella gives her husband a sly wink, "someone told me how much he adores ravioli..." One of her palms gently lays onto his chest, and the other slides into the strands of his sideburns. "And that he can eat them while they fit into him... Do you know who could that be?"

"Baldwin Ulrich R-Rudolf Pepper-rcor-rn, who else..." Her husband utters a brief growl of delight (probably for the first time in his life not ashamed of his own first name he usually doesn't like), scooping Bella up into his arms. "Honeyyy-ggrrr-rm-f-f... aren't you a wonder, c'mere... There's plenty in here, enough for you, and for the kids..."

"The kids are all on a sleepover," his wife whispers. "Lucky called me an hour ago: he said they've already ordered pizza. Me, I have already had dinner while waiting for you, and fed Makiki too. So these are all yours!"

"ALL of them?!" Her husband can barely believe his ears.

"To the very last one," Bella assures him. "All you can tuck in! Why don't you see for yourself just how many fit into you?"

And so Baldwin, armed with a fork, in fact rushes to conquer the inaccessible mountain. As it gets lower, and the hungry gleam in his eyes fades a little, Bella can't resist seasoning his meal with a little fun. Teasing her spouse by making him reach with his whole body for a couple of ravioli on a fork (and rewarding him with them every time). "Atta boy, love; one for Lucky... One for Pip... A couple more for Pep... And one for old Snotty, to heck with him..."

"Hic – Wait..." her husband breathes out at the sound of their pesky neighbor Snotty's name. "'S hard t'swallow wit'this in th'way..."

He means his own bowtie – taking it off is a matter of a couple seconds; and, throat no longer squeezed by anything, he again reaches pleadingly for yet another rewarding treat; at some moments, takes with his lips alone the sweet and sour shavings of ginger Bella holds with her own lips. Trustingly at first, then more and more carefully, concerned about his stomach and about how much room to breathe he still has. Luckily, there still is room, so the yummy mountain, its waterfalls of sauce nearly dried up, keeps shrinking down, as a soft, snowy-white mound slowly rises up on his body. The mound eventually grows into a heavier orb that oozes down, as if melting, onto his skinny raspberry-colored knees. And his eyes, which he just cannot take away from his wife, get blurrier and blurrier... shutting down at last... shutting... down…

Baldwin

...As the blood rushes back to his brain, the first thing he realizes is that his tongue is lolling out of his mouth to the side. He has to get it back in place somehow… as well as wipe his drool-soaked sideburn – which isn't easy with his paw barely obeying him and bumping into his nose instead. He can barely see the living room because of some odd white dome blocking the view. He can't see his wife either, although – his gut feeling says – she is right here, next to him; what could be a thing under his head, cushioning his sides – some long pillow or something? Could it be– the very pillow he remembers he bought for Bella when she was expecting twins?

Baldwin tries to get up – or at least move the pillow a bit lower – but his own paws somehow don't really obey him, and his wife comes to the rescue. He gives her a grateful nod: he hasn't got enough strength to speak yet. And listens to the silvery stream of her whisper:

"I remember, honey. I remember... You rushing around the house, tiding stuff up so I didn't have to. You taking care of me and Lucky... of the quietness in our home... You calming the twins down before they were born... They liked the feel of your hands, quieted down, and I could sleep in peace... How do you like my touch now?"

…ah yes, now he remembers. He got carried away and ate enough to grow nearly as round as she used to be back then; of course, his wife couldn't help but remember herself having the same girth (with the precious cargo of the future Pep and Pip inside) and pamper her hubby in return, in a similar way. At least the ravioli don't kick, he wants to joke, but all he can do for now is only smile with his eyes. This, and take his wife's paw, pressing it first to his lips, then to the top of his bloated middle.

Gosh, he feels as if it isn't an eaten load of ravioli, but his very heart, grown a few sizes bigger, bloating it out – round, slightly pulsating under Bella's gentle, curious palms. Isn't that true, though? Her hands lie on the surface of the orb – sometimes stroking, sometimes gently lifting it like a giant marshmallow in hot coffee – the only difference being that this time, it's not two future souls curled up comfortably inside, but a present one, Baldwin's own.

It's just easier for Bella to caress it like that, through the thin layer of his pelt.