AN: Finished this in a flurry last night, and decided to just post it as one piece to avoid the cross-tagging between posts. Future stories will probably be posted all at once... just for ease. This is my first full story length gainer fic, so any feedback is very appreciated! Hope you enjoy!
The town of Eldenwood was nestled quietly in the crook of two green hills, with cobbled streets, smoking chimneys, and a gossip line that stretched faster than wildfire. It was the kind of place where everyone knew your name—and your business.
Daniel Fairbairn was well-known among the townsfolk. He was sharp—too sharp, some would say—with a sarcastic smile and a lean, wiry frame that made him look almost boyish despite his thirty years. He wore snug vests over crisp shirts, always polished, always smug. He walked with the confidence of a man untouched by consequence.
“Ah, Mistress Bloom,” he called out one afternoon in the town square, watching an older woman pass sweeping the dirt out of her small stall that sold various herbal remedies, teas, and tinctures. “I see your broom’s finally getting some air. Taking it for a walk, or are you planning to fly it later?”
She did not turn to acknowledge his jape, but the surrounding townsfolk chuckled. That was Daniel—relentless, but charming enough to get away with it.
That day, though, he went one joke too far.
He had stopped by the market at the edge of town on his way home, where a small, crooked stand sold dried herbs and glass-bottled tinctures. Behind one of the stalls was none other than Mistress Bloom, draped in a cloak darker than night. Her angular brows, set deep and lined with the ridges of experience, drew together in a pointed scowl as Daniel approached jovially.
He picked up one of her herbal tinctures and tilted his head in mock confusion “Now, remind me… is this the eye of newt beverage? Or is toe of frog I’m thinking of? Or maybe,” he said, his grin widening, “just snake oil with a fancy label?”
The woman said nothing.
“Oh, come now,” he went on, louder now, since a few villagers had turned to listen. “What’s under that cloak? You hiding horns? Or just a face that could turn milk sour?”
The laughter was subdued—awkward, unsure. Daniel’s grin faltered slightly. He gave a half-bow. “All in good fun.”
The woman’s voice finally emerged— from beneath her low and measured. “You think words are harmless things. That they carry no weight.” She stepped out from behind the stand and drew back the hood of her dark cloak fully to reveal a mass of tangled curls that she shook out slowly while she closed the distance between them. Her eyes, an eerie and steely shade of gray, fixed on him. “So I’ll make them heavy for you.”
Daniel blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’ll know it soon enough.” She stepped back, melting into the shadow of her stall as if she had never been there at all.
--
Daniel Fairbairn was known in Eldenwood for two things: his height, and his hands.
The former was more than impressive. He stood half a head above most men in town—an easy six-and-some feet tall, with long legs and shoulders broad enough to darken a doorway. The latter, though, were even moreso: thick, wide mitts with sausage fingers calloused and rough, coated in a light dusting of dark hair. The hands of a man who split his own firewood, rebuilt the town mill after the flood, and once hauled a cart full of stone uphill when the oxen gave out.
He looked like he’d been carved out of dark oak and sunburn—tanned skin stretched over corded muscle, thick dark hair always tousled from labor, not fashion. Every morning, he worked until sweat soaked the back of his shirt. Every afternoon, he strolled the town, quiet but confident, with that same relaxed, heavy-footed stride that turned heads.
Some remembered the days he and Mason used to work side by side at the forge—back when they were younger, louder, and inseparable.
Now, they barely saw each other.
Until today.
Daniel was walking back from the market, a fresh loaf of rye under his arm, when he spotted Mason outside the bakery. His heart jumped before he could stop it. Mason hadn’t changed much—still slender and fair, an open grin smeared with flour, and eyes that looked at him with something gentler than friendship… or, that used to.
Daniel hesitated—but only for a moment.
“Daniel!” Mason called, brushing flour from his apron as he stepped outside. “Haven’t seen you in weeks.”
Daniel shifted his weight, raising an eyebrow. “That’s because I’ve been keeping my distance from your terrible bread.”
Mason laughed, an infectious, rolling sound. “That’s a lie. You’re cradling that loaf like it’s your firstborn.”
Daniel smirked, but didn’t disagree.
Then Mason’s eyes flicked down Daniel’s body. “You’re looking a bit different though. Getting thick in the middle, are you? Maybe all that hammer-swinging’s gone to your belly instead of your arms.”
It was a teasing jab. The kind they'd exchanged countless times over beers, sweat-slicked and laughing.
But this time, it landed differently.
Daniel gave a weak chuckle, but his stomach dropped—literally, it felt like it did. His skin prickled. Heat flared low and deep, like someone had opened a furnace behind his ribs.
“…You alright?” Mason asked, watching him with concern.
Daniel blinked, jaw tight. “Yeah. Just hot. This sun.”
He turned quickly, waving the bread like a farewell. “I’ll see you around.”
“Daniel—”
But Daniel was already walking away. Something was wrong. Each step felt heavier. Slower. His shirt clung tighter under his arms. His vest pinched across the chest, threads whispering under strain.
He ducked into a side alley, one hand bracing against the wall.
Something was wrong.
The heat bloomed wider now, spreading from his core like molten honey. His breathing grew shallow. He reached up and undid the top button of his shirt that felt like it was choking him. He looked down, feeling for the straps holding his leather apron taut around his middle, when he was stopped short by what he saw.
His stomach had changed.
Where before it had been flat and hard—cut from labor and years of toil—now a soft curve pressed out beneath his ribs. Subtle, but undeniable. He undid the buckles and knot holding his apron in place and shrugged it off in jerky, panicked motions, cupping one hand on either side of the small mound forming in his middle. The swell was smooth, warm, and gently pliant under his fingers. Like it had been there all along.
He reached behind, feeling his flanks. His sides had begun to soften too—thickening around his waist. His chest, once firm and high, now pushed more heavily against the fabric, taking on a roundness it had never known. He could just make out the outlines of his nipples chafing against the rough flax tunic.
He grunted in disbelief and attempted to tug off his vest, which was already on the tighter side this morning and was now fitting like a second skin. The back seams stretched before giving way with a quiet tear.
“No. No, no, no.”
He leaned his shoulder against the alley wall, breath shaky. His powerful frame—still huge, still towering—wasn’t just changing. It was softening. Rounding in ways that defied explanation.
And it had started the moment Mason said he looked “thick in the middle.”
“You’ll know it soon enough,” the witch had said.
It hit him like a hammer to the chest.
It was a curse.And it had already begun.
A tremor passed through him.
“Okay,” he whispered, backing out of the alley, gripping the bread tighter. “Okay. You’re not panicking. You just—maybe it’s stress. Maybe it’s bloating. This could be anything.”
But he didn’t believe it.
As he walked home, he kept tugging at his shirt, feeling it cling more with every passing second. Every step felt… heavier.
Daniel didn’t sleep.
Instead, he sat in the dim glow of a single oil lamp, hunched at the edge of his bed like he was bracing for a storm. Shirtless, his massive frame cast long shadows on the walls. His thick, dark body hair caught the flickering light, emphasizing the new hills and valleys that hadn’t existed the day before.
He stared at himself in the warped mirror leaning against the wall.
The change had finished hours ago, but Daniel’s ability to process it was still catching up.
He’d always been a man of brawn—tall as a tree and twice as sturdy, with shoulders like barn doors and arms thick from years of swinging hammers and hauling stone. But now, something unfamiliar had crept into that strength: softness.
His belly, once flat and rigid with muscle, had become a visible swell, smooth and rounded like the rise of freshly kneaded dough. It rested on his lap now, pressing softly into his thighs as he leaned forward. With a hesitant hand, he reached down with a single finger and pressed into it. He gasped as it yielded. His thick fingers sank into the warm, pliant flesh. He pushed in a little more, feeling his new soft gut undulate as it gave like bread under pressure, the hairy flesh jiggling slightly when he let go.
He drew a shaky breath, chest rising—then dropping, noticeably lower than it had the night before. His pecs had begun to droop. The muscle was still there, buried beneath, but now each heavy mound of his chest rested against his torso in a way that was unmistakably different. He cupped one experimentally, lifting the weight in his hand. It was softer. Rounder. It moved when he shifted.
He let out a low curse and stood quickly—only to feel the heft of his potbelly pull forward with gravity, swaying gently as he moved.
Truth be told, the change wasn’t very noticeable from the outside - but to Daniel, it was an immense shift. He felt heavier - and not just in weight. His body was louder, more present. His thighs now brushed together with every step, not just grazing but pressing. He grimaced, reaching down and grabbing the curve of one—dense, thick, and slightly padded now with blubber that gave beneath his grip. Even his rear had grown, filling out his trousers with new weight that made them ride higher in the back.
Despite the horror bubbling in his chest, part of him kept exploring. He prodded his side, feeling the way the flesh curved around his waist. He grabbed the underside of his gut and lifted gently—it had weight now, real weight, the kind that pulled down, bounced when he let go, swayed when he shifted.
The most terrifying part wasn’t that it was there…. It was how natural it already felt.
And it was about to get worse.
The next morning, Daniel dressed slowly, choosing the loosest shirt he owned—a faded blue one with torn seams at the elbows—and stretched it over his torso with effort. It stuck to the small of his back and clung around the chest. His trousers barely buttoned, the waistband biting into his sides if he stood too straight.
He walked into town, determined to be invisible… but for a man of his stature, this was a pipe dream at best. Almost as soon as he passed through the village gate, Mara the milkmaid spotted him.
“Daniel!” she called, waving from outside the general store where she was ostensibly dropping off some fresh bottles of her farm’s best export. “Well now—look at you! Last week when you were by to repair the barn door, you looked like you hadn’t had a good meal in weeks - but now it looks like you’ve been drinking a gallon of Bessie’s finest a day and then some!
The moment the words left her mouth, he felt it hit. That heat—low and deep, like a forge lit behind his navel. Fear surged through him. I have to get home.
He mumbled a reply, heart thudding, and walked away quickly, his belly jiggling with each step as it subtly swelled larger.
The waistband of his pants creaked. His biggest shirt, still not quite to the point of claustrophobia that morning, now grew torturously thinner and thinner across the fleshy mounds of his chest that were swelling larger with each step.
By the time he made it back to his cottage, he was breathless—not from exertion, but from the pressure, the weight, the growth.
He stripped frantically, popping buttons as he did. His shirt gave a final snap and tore at the seam under the arm. He staggered into the washroom and looked in the mirror and froze.
His belly now dominated his silhouette—heavy, low-slung, and dappled with the dark trail of hair running down from his chest. It bounced gently as he shifted, slapping softly against his thighs. He cupped the underside of it in both hands and gasped at the sheer mass. It nearly overflowed his palms, warm and pliant and undeniably fat.
His chest had thickened again, each pec - he stubbornly refused to think of them as moobs - now visibly resting on the upper swell of his gut, the softness tugging them down into a rounded teardrop shape. They moved as he breathed, rising slowly, jiggling faintly with every exhale.
His thighs looked packed into his trousers like rising dough into too-small tins. Each step made them rub audibly, and he could feel the strain in the seams.
He turned slightly—and winced.
His backside had grown large. Round and heavy, pulling the waistband back at an awkward angle, dimpling the fabric. It pushed outward now, full enough that sitting down would test the frame of any chair.
“Oh god,” he whispered, gripping the edge of the sink.
It creaked under his weight.
“I’m—I’m going to keep growing.”
He stared at himself, chest heaving.
Two comments. Just two small comments! And now he was, truly…. Fat.
The sun hadn’t yet crested the hills when Daniel forced open the rounded door to the smithy and stepped inside. It had been a week, and his efforts to avoid the watchful eyes… and words of his fellow villagers had so far been successful. Thankfully, the other occupant of the smithy - his Master, Harlan - was caring for his ailing mother in the next village over, leaving Daniel to mind the smithy alone. He had mounted a sign outside the door that read “Taken Ill - Written Orders Only”. Which wasn’t really fair, seeing as only some of the village could read, but it was better than losing his source of income… very much needed since his appetite seemed to have grown with his newly sprouted flab.
He grunted as he moved sideways through the rounded door. A soft thump followed as his wide hip clipped the edge of the door. The impact made his apron flap, the strap tugging against the back of his neck where it cut deep into thick, sweat-dampened skin.
The forge was hot already—he’d banked the coals the night before in a desperate attempt to finish his work as quickly as possible and retreat to the safety of his home.
His heavy boots thudded across the floor, echoing dutifully in the wide space. He moved with a cautious sway, having to plant each step carefully to keep his thighs from chafing. The canvas trousers he wore were faded and dark with sweat around the seat and inner legs. They clung tight across his hips and buttocks like sausage casing and creaked ominously with each step. The linen shirt, soaked from chest to belly, was pulled tight enough across his torso that his widening nipples were visible, pushed out by the soft weight of his chest.
Daniel rolled up his sleeves as far as they could go and tied his apron across the front.
It didn’t fit anymore—not really. The knot around his back left the leather pulled taut like the head of a drum. The top strap bit into the base of his neck and dragged the apron high on his belly, exposing the rounded underside every time he leaned forward. The sides of his belly spilled past the edge of it, hanging softly over the waistband of his trousers.
Still, he set his jaw and went to work.
For the first hour, it felt almost like the old days.
The clang of hammer to steel echoed through the space as he worked the iron flat, sweat dripping down his forehead and into the bristled dark hair on his chest. His arms, still strong from years at the forge, swung the hammer with practiced rhythm. But even through the familiarity, a growing sense of despair was building.
When he leaned to reach for tongs, his gut swayed forward, brushing the edge of the anvil. When he bent over, the soft curve of his belly rested heavily on his thighs. His chest jiggled each time he pounded the hammer down, slapping softly, fleshily, against the inside of his apron. His hips seemed to almost roll with his steps, making his ass shift and wobble with an embarrassing weight he hadn’t yet gotten used to. Each movement made his body bounce.
After two hours, the inner seams of his trousers had darkened with sweat. The back of his shirt had split just beneath the shoulders, giving way under the pressure of his broadening back. The bottom two buttons across his belly had already popped off.
He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and grunted, stepping back from the anvil.
That was when he heard the familiar gravel-rumble of a pair of uniquely heavy boots on the dirt outside.
Daniel stiffened. His heart rate doubled. He wasn’t supposed to be back yet. He wasn’t supposed to be back yet. But it was too late to hide.
“Damn, son,” rolled a deep bass from the doorway. “Didn’t know you’d be in so early.”
Daniel turned—slowly.
Harlan the Smith was a bit of a local legend - or, depending on who you talked to, a local sideshow attraction. As large as most men at just 9 years old, Harlan was born to a single mother who was to tell the truth, quite ordinary herself. The truth of Harlan’s paternity was a mystery - but rumor was he had at least a few cupfuls of hill giant blood in his veins. Harlan stepped inside, ducking the doorframe. He was massive, same as ever—shoulders wide as barrels, unkempt red hair threatening to brush the ceiling, and his beard dusted with soot already. The master blacksmith wore only his own apron, and his thick, hairy chest glistened in the heat.
Despite his size, Harlan was an easygoing man - a gentle giant. Daniel had always assumed that when you were as large as Harlan, not much would give you pause. But there was a first time for everything. Harlan stopped mid-stride, eyes roving over Daniel’s form without shame He blinked— once, twice – then grinned.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, his voice thick with mirth. “You been eating spare anvils while I was gone?”
Daniel’s stomach clenched. His face grew pale as he realized where this was going. “Harlan, no, wait - don’t –!”
But Harlan, for all his virtues, had never been the best listener.
“Look at you,” he chuckled. “You’re getting bigger than me.”
And just like that—the heat started. Hotter, and more intense this time, inflating him like a bellows.
His body expanded in an instant: the soft flesh of his chest pushing outward into thick, heavy mounds. They lifted his apron slightly, bouncing as they settled. His belly surged forward eagerly, the apron leather groaning in protest. It flowed out, forward and down, forming rolls of pillowy lard that stretched far below his waist.
His ass swelled next, cheeks lifting and rounding, forming a shelf that stuck out starkly from his backside and making his stance widen to keep balance. A loud pop echoed as the inner seams of his trousers gave out. Then the outer seams. His shirt, now stretched paper-thin, tore open like parchment, the sleeves falling limp at his sides.
And then—he grew taller.
His spine stretched, knees straightening as he gained inches. His feet flattened against the ground, heels lifting momentarily before resettling with a heavy thud. The apron, once comically short, now seemed right-sized again… but only just. The leather tugged painfully at his neck and the curve of his belly still bulged beneath it.
Daniel stood there, panting, naked beneath the strained leather. Only the apron remained—just barely covering his groin and dipping into the warm fold beneath his belly.
The workshop was quiet.
Then—fwump.
Harlan reached out and gave Daniel’s side a curious squeeze. His big hand sank into the soft, yielding fat above Daniel’s waist.
“Gods…” Harlan muttered. “You’re like a cushioned anvil. You always had weight on you, but this—this is substance.”
Daniel flushed crimson. His belly gave a subtle bounce as he inhaled.
Harlan gave him a look—half impressed, half amused. He patted Daniel’s belly softly, then clapped him once on the shoulder.
“You really are bigger than me now,” he said. “Hell, you might even be a stronger smith too—if we can find a way to keep that belly out of the fire.”
Daniel didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
____________________________________
The forge had settled into quiet after the clangor of steel. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the coals and the occasional creak of leather as Daniel shifted his bulk.
He sat gingerly on the wide bench against the wall, half-expecting it to buckle under his weight. It groaned like a ship hull but held. His belly pooled in his lap, warm and sweat-damp, soft enough to mold around his thighs. The leather apron pressed tightly into his middle, the top strap wedged between his rounded shoulders and thickened traps. He couldn’t see his feet past his belly anymore, not unless he leaned way forward.
Harlan emerged from the back room holding a bundle of dark cloth in his arms.
“I figured you might need a change,” he said, tone light. “Lucky for you, I’ve been hoarding old gear since my thirties.”
Daniel swallowed hard.
“Won’t rip?” he asked hoarsely.
Harlan’s grin widened. “If it held me in my prime, it’ll hold you just fine.”
He set the bundle down on the bench beside Daniel, then crouched—not without effort—to begin unfolding the pieces.
First came a long black undershirt. It looked like it had once belonged to a bear. Then a pair of drawstring trousers, wide in the waist and deep in the seat. Finally, a thick wool tunic, softened by age and wear, still smelling faintly of soot and pine tar.
Daniel hesitated.
“Well, don’t just look at it,” Harlan said. “Let’s get you dressed. Unless you’d rather stay in that poor, overworked apron forever.”
Daniel grunted and stood, wobbling slightly. The bench gave a relieved crack beneath him as he rose. Harlan caught his elbow briefly to steady him—just enough contact to make Daniel acutely aware of how their bodies touched now.
Daniel’s flesh was soft, warm, giving. Harlan’s was firm, but not without weight.
They were close. Closer than ever before.
“Here,” Harlan said gently. He held up the undershirt and Daniel raised his arms.
It took effort. His arms were heavier than they used to be—meaty, thick with both strength and padding. His soft chest bounced with the movement, and Harlan couldn’t help but notice.
“Your moobs,” he said with a quiet chuckle. “They’ve got weight to ‘em now.”
And just like that—it happened again.
The swell of Daniel’s chest thickened, right beneath the fabric. The undershirt slipped over his head and clung to his pecs as they ballooned subtly larger—rounder, heavier. They jiggled as he adjusted the hem, visibly bouncing like overfilled water balloons. The fabric dipped slightly where his nipples pushed forward, tugged by the new mass.
Daniel blushed hot and avoided Harlan’s eyes.
“Shit, Daniel. I didn’t mean to—” Harlan started, but Daniel waved him off.
“Keep going,” Daniel muttered. “Let’s just get this done.”
Next came the trousers.
Harlan helped guide the thick, drawstring waistband up over Daniel’s thighs. The soft cotton tugged around his hips and buttocks, each leg a careful shimmy. His belly slapped against the front, a visible mound.
Harlan adjusted the waistband with both hands, fingers brushing Daniel’s hairy lower stomach. He chuckled softly.
“You’ve always been a hairy bastard,” he said. “But it’s like your whole body’s turning into a damn rug.”
The hairs thickened instantly.
Daniel flinched.
He could feel it—thousands of fine black strands coarsening, darkening, spreading in a slow wave across his belly and chest. His arms too. The undershirt itched briefly as it molded to the new layer. Harlan’s hand brushed his forearm, and he paused.
“…Soft, though,” he murmured. “Like velvet on a boulder.”
Daniel’s stomach did a slow flip.
He stood silent as Harlan retrieved the tunic.The garment was thick wool, and it fit. A little tight around the middle, sure—but it stretched nicely over his belly and butt. The sleeves hugged his biceps with just enough give to still allow movement. It made him feel… contained.
“You look good,” Harlan added, brushing a few errant hairs from Daniel’s shoulder. “Like a proper smith again. Though… I gotta say, I am curious. As a man…under all that blubber, are ya still… .”
Daniel blinked. “What?”
Harlan smirked and leaned closer. “You know, your… proportions. If you’ve been growing like a proper man down there too, you’ll need a second hand to get around it.” he winked conspiratorially.
Daniel’s ears burned. “Harlan, I---”
And then the change hit.
Low this time.
Daniel moaned involuntarily as a slow, deliberate heaviness thickened his already not-inconsiderable manhood into a girthy log between his legs. The warmth that spread and settled with a gentle weight as his balls swelled larger than chicken eggs, painfully squeezed on both sides by his massively flabby thighs.. He shifted uncomfortably. The trousers tightened at the crotch, even pushing his underbelly up and out as his shaft expanded and grew. It was an incredible feeling - true to Harlan’s word, there was no way he would be able to wrap even his famously wide mitts around his newly massive cock.
“Damn it,” Daniel muttered under his breath - though whether it was because he had grown more or because he had enjoyed this one, he didn’t know.
Harlan’s eyes widened—then he looked up.
“Oh gods, I didn’t even mean that one,” he said with real remorse. “Sorry, I—”
Daniel exhaled, long and low.
“It’s… fine. Just try not to talk about anything that jiggles, swells, softens, thickens, or grows.”
Harlan raised both eyebrows and held up his hands in mock surrender.
“No promises,” he said with a grin.
Daniel looked down at himself.
Fully dressed, he looked almost… right again. His belly pushed out far past his belt, and his chest bounced with each breath—but he was covered. Warm. Supported.
And Harlan—well, he didn’t seem disgusted.
If anything… the older man looked almost proud.
“You really think I look good?” Daniel asked before he could stop himself.
Harlan met his eyes.
“I’ve never seen someone wear my old clothes better,” he said, voice quiet now. “You fill ‘em like you were born in ‘em.”
Daniel looked away—but he didn’t move.
The moment stretched, long and soft and warm like the fabric over his belly.
He didn’t know what to say next.
But for the first time in a while, he didn’t feel like running.
________________________________________
Dawn poured faint light across the cobbled paths of the village. The fog had yet to lift, curling low over gardens and fences like a blanket, veiling the world in silence.
Daniel moved through it like a blubbery shadow—wide, slow, careful. The tunic Harlan had gifted him strained against his mass, tucked as best it could over the broad swell of his belly and the wide, wobbling shelf of his rear. The fabric clung to him, his body already damp with the early sweat of movement. He wore it proudly, or tried to. But the curse that had made him even larger than his master meant the hand-me-downs were still just a tad too small. The seams whispered warnings to him, and he shuddered to think what would happen if he grew any more.
His enormous arms swung gently at his sides, thighs brushing with a muffled shff shff shff, his gait widened to manage balance. The leather soles of his boots creaked softly under his weight.
He had begun to feel strong again—not just physically, but rooted. Harlan’s affection, the way the old smith had handled his bulk with reverence and care, had warmed a place inside Daniel that had been cold for the last week. He still avoided the village like the plague, but even with Harlan as his only company, a seed of self was taking root again. He started to feel comfortable - safe, even.
So he thought nothing of slipping out far before dawn to make a few deliveries - early enough that even the farmers weren’t awake. These days, he liked the quiet. The stillness. No eyes. No words.
But someone else had risen early - or, more likely, had stayed out too late at the alehouse and simply not gone to bed at all.
Leaning against the stone wall of the pub where he was bringing a new soup pot stood Tobias—eighteen, lean and smug, arms crossed like a sneering gargoyle perched over an empty street. He hadn’t outgrown the cruelty of younger boys; if anything, he’d perfected it.
Daniel slowed mid-step.
“Well, well,” Tobias drawled, voice cutting through the mist like a knife, “if it isn’t the prodigal Smithy - and a lot more of him at that! No wonder you’ve been hiding!”
Daniel stiffened.
Not now. Not again.
The curse coiled inside him, subtle but sharp.
“You always this early,” Tobias continued, sauntering forward, “or do you just not fit when the rest of us are around?”
Fatter.
Daniel staggered. His gut ballooned forward with a sickening softness. Harlan’s oversized tunic hem inched upward, revealing a peek of his hairy underbelly, already damp with sweat and thickly dimpled.
“Gods above,” Tobias said, circling him. “Your tits are floppin’ like sacks of wet flour. What’s next—milk 'em in the square?”
Fatter.
His chest swelled outward—soft, pillowy, pressing hard into the thin fabric until his nipples stood plainly beneath the stretched cotton. The seam at his shoulders gave a faint, pitiful tick.
“Your thighs clap louder than a festival drum. You’re like a walking livestock pen, just missing the oink.”
FATTER.
His hips surged outward, thighs rounding and grinding against one another. His gut sloshed with the sudden shift, the sheer volume of it bouncing slightly with his startled motion. A sharp snap rang out as the side seam of the tunic tore near his waist.
“Seriously—” Tobias’s voice sharpened to a shout—“you’re gonna crater the path soon, you FAT tub of—”
FUCK.
His apron tie broke. The bottom swell of his belly flopped free, thick and heavy, swinging with a bounce against his thighs. The whole of his frame was now swelling rapidly, his arms thickening, shoulders rounding, legs bowing with the effort of carrying so much mass.
Daniel stopped walking. His breath was ragged. His feet planted wide.
And then, without thinking, he charged.
Not fast. But inevitable.
Tobias yelped as Daniel grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the stone wall of the bakery. Tobias’s back hit the rock with a dull thud—then Daniel’s massive gut barreled forward, squishing into him with suffocating weight.
The younger man gasped, arms pinned awkwardly. Daniel's belly poured up over Tobias’s lap and abdomen, soft and sweaty, the fabric soaked through from early labor and stress. The scent of forge heat and flesh clung to him. The weight was so complete Tobias could barely twist to breathe.
“You think this is funny?” Daniel spat, face inches from his, voice deep and trembling.
Tobias squirmed in vain. “Y-You’re crazy—!”
Daniel pressed closer. His massive chest pillowed against Tobias’s face, each moob twice the size of the scrawny guy’s head. His arms, now thick as fenceposts, braced either side of the boy’s head.
And still Tobias sneered, red-faced, breathless—but not cowed.
“You’re just a big—FAT—monster now. Fucking fat cow! Pig! Lard-ass!”
Daniel grunted as each insult triggered his curse, multiplying the speed at which his belly surged forward again, eagerly encasing Tobias in wave after wave of blubbery, pillowy fat. His ass widened into a shelf that rivaled any on the smithy wall, ending several feet from where it began at his hips. His thighs spread farther apart to keep balance, melding into one another as folds grew and filled in like pastry bags. His chin sank slightly into a collar of soft flesh, newly thickened.
For a moment, Daniel’s breath hitched—not from exhaustion, but from the horror of how much he now was. He felt it, all of it: the way the bulk of his body dominated the alley, how he pressed into Tobias, trapping him with nothing but his own flesh. His tunic split fully down the side seam now, both arms exposed. The lower fabric hung limp from under his apron, completely overwhelmed.
Then Daniel stepped back.
Tobias dropped to the ground like a sack of grain, coughing, red-faced and shaking.
He didn’t say anything else.
He didn’t need to.
Daniel turned, eyes wide, shame creeping into his gut faster than the curse ever had. His breath came fast and unsteady. His entire body bounced and rippled with each step now—slow, massive, undeniable.
Harlan’s gifted clothes were shredded - bits and pieces of the material clung to him like rags. His chest swayed. His thighs were slick with sweat and chafing. The apron string was long gone, lost between several rolls that married his gargantuan belly, ass, and love handles.
He had to retreat.
He had to hide.
No one saw him go, but he imagined a thousand eyes. Every step home was heavier than the last. The shame outweighed the flesh.
________________________
Daniel didn’t leave his home for three days.
At first, he told himself it was for safety. He’d wait out the whispers. Wait until Tobias got bored or embarrassed and stopped telling the story. But the truth was simpler—and heavier.
There was barely a single thing he could do now without the weight of his body stopping him.
The morning sun slanted through the small window, casting golden bars across the cottage’s wooden floor. Daniel sat hunched at the edge of his reinforced cot, built by Harlan weeks ago. Even that groaned under him now, the timbers creaking like ice ready to crack. His vast belly spread out in front of him like so many overfilled sacks of flour, plush and gleaming faintly in the morning light. It rose and fell with his breath, soft as dough, crowned with dark curls of hair where the apron had stopped covering days ago.
He reached toward the bedside stool, trying to grasp a wooden mug of water. The arm moved, but not far enough. His belly was simply in the way. He leaned—but the motion tilted his balance, and he had to grab the cot frame to keep from falling sideways in his own bulk.
A sigh left him, drawn out and exhausted.
“I used to lift beams with one hand,” he muttered aloud, as if voicing it would make the truth sound more distant.
His voice echoed off the timber walls. No one answered.
He shifted forward, attempting to rise. His thighs, each now as thick as wine barrels, compressed together with a heavy shhh. When he pushed down on the bedframe to lift himself, his arms trembled—not from lack of strength, but from the sheer mass they now carried.
He rose—but only halfway.
His belly dragged downward, swaying with inertia, nearly brushing the floor. His back bowed under the effort of hoisting it all upright. With a grunt, he finally stood fully.
The apron dug into his sides so hard it left red welts. It was all he wore. The tunic had shredded to strips during his retreat from Tobias, and nothing Harlan had given him even made it past his shoulders anymore.
He waddled to the hearth, the whole room seeming to shrink around him. His shoulder brushed the shelf where dried herbs hung. He tried to squat to feed the stove, but instead just slowly… knelt. His knees splayed wide to accommodate his gut, which rested heavily on the stone floor, folding and bunching like dough dumped from a bowl.
The sweat started almost instantly.
He couldn’t reach the tinder.
With a frustrated grunt, he fell backward onto his colossal behind. The entire cabin thudded. Dust shook loose from the rafters. The cot creaked again in protest, even from several feet away.
He sat there, breathing heavily, skin flushed, belly spread like a quilt across his lap and floor, and just stared at the empty hearth.
Minutes passed.
The silence was thick. Only the occasional birdsong outside reminded him that time moved at all.
He tried to wash. That was a mistake.
The tin basin on the stand near the window used to be enough. Now, it was laughable. He stood before it, panting, staring into the too-small bowl like it had betrayed him.
When he tried to wet a cloth and reach his own back, his shoulder brushed his soft jawline. His chest was so heavy now—two thick saddlebags of flesh, swaying like overripe fruit with each motion—that his arms had to push them aside just to reach his collar.
Every movement was a struggle. Water dripped between the creases of his belly and groin, evaporating into the humid press of his skin.
By the end of it, he wasn’t clean. He was exhausted.
By midday, he gave up trying to do anything “properly.”
He lay across the cot, belly to the side, knees bent and legs spread to make room for his hips. The massive roll of his gut rested beside him like another person. His moobs rose and fell with each deep, shame-heavy breath. One arm lay sprawled across the pillow. The other rested across the hill of his belly, where his hand occasionally squeezed, idly, feeling the bounce of it.
He hated that it felt good. That his hand disappeared into softness. That it yielded, so easily, like a warm cushion.
He missed being lean. Taut. Ropey with muscle. He could still remember the days with Mason—both of them shirtless in the sun, sharing skin, sweat, stolen touches in the barn when no one was watching.
He hadn’t seen Mason in weeks.
He couldn’t. Not like this.
Daniel closed his eyes. The cabin was quiet. But it was no longer peaceful.
It was just small.
Everything was small now.
Except him.
___________________________________
The sun was just cresting the treetops when Daniel managed to heave the door open and step—no, squeeze—his way out.
The morning air hit him like a slap of cool water. Birds scattered from the eaves of the cottage, startled by the heavy thud… thud… of his slow, labored steps. His massive body shifted with each motion like a tide—shoulders rolling, hips swaying, and the sea of belly fat jostling at its own ponderous pace.
His thighs were so big now they touched nearly to the knees. His moobs rested heavily atop his stomach’s first roll, nipples low and wide. His body glistened with sweat before he even made it past the threshold.
He grunted with each step as he trudged toward Harlan’s thoughtful gift: the large animal trough at the far end of the yard. The tall grass parted around his knees, brushing against skin he could no longer see. It took him nearly fifteen minutes to reach the old thing.
It was made of iron and wood, meant for oxen and built long enough to accommodate two full-grown beasts. Daniel had filled it half an hour earlier using buckets and a rope line, panting all the while. It sloshed gently now in the breeze, clean and cool and utterly inviting.
He stood over it, chest heaving. The trough was tall—just shy of his waist—and he wasn’t sure how he was going to get in.
He grunted again and, with effort, leaned against the rim. His belly squashed up against the wooden edge, flesh spreading outward like dough being pressed under a rolling pin. With another huff, he hoisted one leg, then the other. The metal groaned ominously under him as he finally sloshed down into the water, waves cascading over the sides.
Daniel let out a deep, guttural sigh.
Cool relief.
He closed his eyes and let the water lap up over his thick sides and mountainous gut, slapping gently against the lower curve of his chest. His hair was damp, curling at the temples, and droplets ran through the thatch of body hair that now covered most of him like a pelt. It wasn’t a proper bath—but it was better than nothing.
Until his elbow slipped.
He fumbled, trying to catch himself, but the slick apron clung to him and the edge of the trough was too far for his short reach now. He landed back against the far side with a wet slap, sloshing water over the grass.
He sat there, soaked, and glared at nothing.
“Too fat for a damn trough now,” he muttered bitterly.
The words hung in the air for a heartbeat—then the now-familiar pressure struck.
Daniel froze. “No, no—wait—!”
Too late.
His stomach rumbled—not with hunger, but with change. His belly surged outward in the water, pushing against the sides of the trough as new mass ballooned beneath the skin, stretching, softening, widening. His moobs thickened, sagging further, slapping wetly against his stomach. His hips grew wider still, jiggling as they slowly submerged under their own growing girth.
Daniel just sat in the water, hands out to the side, watching as the level of the trough rose with him, sloshing dangerously at the rim.
When it finally stopped, he was wedged into the metal tub like a cork in a bottle, the bathwater long having been forced out by his ever-growing blubbery frame.
“…should’ve kept my damn mouth shut,” he whispered.
It took him nearly twenty minutes to heave himself out, the trough giving one last creeeeeak of protest before he toppled over the side onto the grass with a sodden thud. His soaked body rippled with the impact, slapping softly against itself.
Panting, he pushed himself upright and lumbered back toward the cottage.
His stomach swayed. His thighs rubbed. His hips—
Thunk.
The doorframe caught him.
He grunted and stepped again. Nothing. His hips had grown wider than the doorway. Fat squished outward from the contact point, soft and glistening. He pressed in harder, trying to force his way through.
“No, no, come on—”
He pushed again—his moobs jiggling, belly spreading outward like a melting cake—and finally got his left side through with a wet pop. But his right hip refused to budge.
His bulk filled the entire entryway. Arms spread, bracing the sides. The door creaked.
His body was slick with water, which helped. But his apron was gone, and there was nothing but damp skin pressing against the frame now, squeezing, deforming, resisting.
Then, from the treeline: a voice.
“…Daniel?”
His head snapped up. His breath hitched.
There, approaching from the road, eyes wide and mouth parted, stood Mason.
He looked just as Daniel remembered— broad-shouldered, still sun-browned from outdoor labor, his jaw strong and beard trimmed short. His steps slowed, gaze traveling from Daniel’s flushed face… down the sheer mass of his trapped body… to the thick hips stuck fast in the doorway.
“Daniel,” he said again, softer now.
Daniel flushed crimson. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t cover himself. His belly hung below the frame. His chest rolled forward like sacks of flour resting atop it. Every inch of him glistened. His breathing came hard.
Mason walked closer.
Daniel turned his face away, voice cracking. “Don’t.”
Mason reached the doorstep. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t mock.
Instead, he raised a hand… and placed it gently on the soft curve of Daniel’s side, where the fat bulged outward like warm bread dough.
“You’re… really stuck, huh?”
Daniel gave a tiny nod.
“I’ll help you inside,” Mason said, his hand still resting there, warm and firm. “And then you’ll tell me everything.”
With Mason’s help—hands firm at Daniel’s waist, murmured encouragements steady and warm—he finally made it through the door.
It took effort. Sweat. More than a little rocking and a loud wooden creak as the frame bent in protest. But eventually, with a breathless pop, Daniel stumbled forward, barely catching himself against the edge of the reinforced cot.
The whole house seemed smaller than ever.
Daniel stood, panting, thick with sweat and shame. His belly sagged down in front of him like a heavy quilt soaked through. His chest rose and fell, fat jostling softly. His hips had left faint red marks from the doorframe. His face—broad and flustered—was flushed with exertion and embarrassment.
“I—” he started, then stopped. His voice was hoarse. “You… shouldn’t have come.”
Mason closed the door behind them and took a slow step forward. His eyes never left Daniel.
“I had to,” he said quietly. “I heard things. From town. About Tobias. And about… you.”
Daniel looked away. “So you came to stare?”
“No.” Mason’s voice was firm, the kind he used when something mattered. “I came because I wanted to see you. And I was worried. And because I missed you.”
Daniel shook his head, shoulders trembling slightly under the soft bulk that wrapped around his frame. “I’m not who I was, Mason.”
“No,” Mason said gently, stepping closer. “You’re not.”
He was right in front of him now. The two of them filled the room, the space between them crackling with years of things unsaid. Mason was still a touch shorter, but he didn’t flinch beneath Daniel’s size.
Instead, he reached out. His hand settled on Daniel’s bare upper arm, thick and warm with flesh but strong beneath.
“You were always a hard worker,” Mason said, voice low. “Always honest. Always kind, even when you were mad. I’ve thought about you more than I’d ever admit to anyone else.”
Daniel gave a bitter chuckle. “Thought about me, maybe. But not this,” he said, gesturing to his body—his belly, his chest, the rolls that bulged over his thighs.
Mason’s hand didn’t move.
“I always had a thing for you, Daniel,” he admitted, quieter now. “Even back when we were scrawny teens swinging hammers and sharing swigs of cider in the barn. You were strong, lean, and so sure of yourself even when you didn’t think you were. You were beautiful to me then.”
He took a breath.
“But when I saw you at the door…” His voice hitched, but he held Daniel’s gaze. “You took my breath away.”
Daniel’s eyes widened.
Mason stepped even closer, his chest brushing against the soft curve of Daniel’s belly. “You were stuck. Red-faced. Sweating. Soft all over. I should’ve been surprised. I should’ve laughed, or pitied you. But all I could think was—‘God, he’s even more him now.’ Like the world carved you bigger to match what was already inside.”
Daniel blinked. His voice was barely a whisper. “You… like this?”
Mason’s hand slid lower, resting on the upper swell of Daniel’s belly. “I love this. I love you.”
The words knocked the wind from Daniel more than any insult ever had. He stepped back, tumbling backwards onto the mass of hay that now served as his giant bedroll.
His throat tightened. He looked down, lips parting slightly. “I thought—I was sure I’d pushed you away. That no one would ever want to touch me again, let alone…”
Mason stepped forward, into the mass of bare flesh that was Daniel. The height difference was so dramatic that they were nearly eye to eye —Daniel sat atop his bed, vast and hulking, his body encasing Mason’s like an enveloping wall of warmth.
“I never stopped wanting you,” Mason whispered against his skin. “Not once. But now, Daniel… it’s not just a crush. You’ve become something else. Something incredible. And I want all of it.”
Daniel stared for a moment, not quite sure what to say - then chuckled quietly. “You’re a fool.”
“Maybe,” Mason murmured, dropping to his knees, his lips brushing the upper swell of Daniel’s chest. “But I’m your fool.”
Daniel stared at Mason—into his eyes, through the sweat and heat and shame—and saw nothing but longing. Sincere. Fierce. Real.
Then Mason surged forward, and Daniel bent backwards instinctively, falling to lay on his back with his old friend eagerly clambering atop to stop inches from his face. Their lips met in a kiss that broke past all the years of quiet glances and hesitant words. It was hungry and wild, a clash of breath and warmth and pent-up ache. Mason tasted like smoke and something sweet underneath, like cider left too long in the summer sun.
Mason’s hands roamed Daniel’s sides, sliding through the damp curl of hair across his back, gripping thick handfuls of soft flesh like he’d wanted this for years. Daniel gasped, startled by the sheer intensity—the way Mason’s palms sank into the padded swell of his waist, the softness yielding and bouncing under the touch.
“You feel…” Mason began between kisses, running his hand along the curve of Daniel’s belly where it jutted out like a heavy, living cushion, pushing his hard cock deep into the folds of Daniel’s considerable underbelly. “Gods, Daniel—you feel incredible. So… so fucking big.”
Daniel shuddered. His belly pressed against Mason’s torso, the immense weight of it folding and shifting with every breath. But something was happening.
The heat between them flared for a heartbeat—and Mason’s next touch landed just a little lower than before. A new softness met his hand, heavier, sloping more deeply, like the belly had swollen slightly larger in those brief seconds.
Daniel’s breath hitched. “Mason—wait, I think I—”
“I love your belly,” Mason whispered, interrupting, his voice thick with awe, with a reverence that stunned Daniel, and wrapped his arms and legs as far as he could around the massive swell. “It’s magnificent. Like a mountain of warmth. You carry it like it was made for you.”
Daniel groaned aloud as he felt it. His middle surged forward, slowly, subtly, but undeniably—another few inches of plush fat spilling forward even farther, his underbelly starting to cover Mason’s lap like a quivering, jiggling blanket.
“Mason, don’t…” he murmured, conflicted. But Mason looked up at him with a crooked grin.
“Don’t what? Admire you?”
He rose again, letting his hand slide around to the broad spread of Daniel’s hips. His thumb brushed along the waistband of the apron—where it had long since stopped sitting comfortably.
“These hips,” Mason murmured, voice low and steady. “Wide as an ox’s. I swear they’re made to carry this weight.”
Daniel gasped again in pleasure as his hips responded to the words, ballooning outward by several inches in a slow, jiggling swell. Mason watched it with awe, even as Daniel staggered a step from the sudden redistribution of weight. Daniel questioned whether he would ever be able to get up again - and was amazed to realize he no longer cared.
Then Mason shimmied down the mass of fat that was his childhood friend, pulled up Daniel’s underbelly and dug deep into the fleshiness of his thighs.
“You’re so fucking huge. So heavy. Every part of you is more. Even… this!” Mason said, at the same time pouncing on Daniel’s foot-long shaft that was now wider than Mason’s forearm.
Daniel sucked in air between his teeth as a low, swelling pressure began just below his belly, his cock swelling larger, his massive bull balls swelling fuller, like a heat blooming from his core. The sensation was slow and molten, a gentle stretching that grew heavier, fuller, thicker. He groaned as the apron lifted slightly away from his thighs, propelled up by his thick, curved mahood. And then he saw the back of Mason’s head go down, felt his slick tongue drift across his fist-sized mushroom head, and lost control. He spasmed uncontrollably, pulses of pleasure shaking his massive frame as he came and came again.
Eventually, he came to and Daniel groaned again, feeling the fullness settle, the heavy cock now hanging heavier between his thighs, warm and soft and impossible to ignore. His stance shifted as he adjusted to the change, thighs spreading just a little farther apart to make room.
Mason looked up at him in total wonder, undercut only slightly by the thick globs of cum that dripped from his hair, head, and chest.
Undaunted, he ran both hands down Daniel’s flanks—no longer able to reach all the way around—and said with fervent awe, “You’re… unbelievable. You’re massive. You’re beyond anything I imagined.”
Another subtle swelling rolled through his lower frame as if Mason’s words were pouring into his body like heat into metal. And Daniel, with a breathless smile and trembling arms, pulled him in one more time—burying Mason in the warmth and breadth of his enormous, transformed body.
They kissed and laughed and pressed close again and again, hands exploring, touching, worshipping. Mason never once flinched from the weight. He only leaned deeper into it.
And Daniel—despite the impossibility of it all—let himself believe, if only for this one night, that he wasn’t cursed.
He was chosen.
Epilogue
The chapel stood at the edge of the village, framed by a canopy of summer leaves. Vines crept up the stone walls, green and full, like nature itself was leaning in to witness what was about to take place.
Inside, the pews were modestly filled. Word had spread about the ceremony between the village’s blacksmith apprentice—now a man of legendary proportions—and the woodsman who had always watched him from the edge of things. Some came for the spectacle, others for the joy of it. But most came for Mason and Daniel, because no one could deny what they’d become to each other.
The doors creaked open.
A hush fell.
And Daniel entered, filling the frame entirely.
He moved slowly, but with purpose, every step sending a gentle ripple through the immense body that had grown even more since that night months ago. His frame had finally stabilized, no longer cursed by accidental words. Mason had helped him with that—helped him find peace, quiet, and a sense of humor about the parts of him that would never shrink.
Daniel’s chest rose like twin loaves of risen bread under the ceremonial robes, soft and rounded and dusted with thick dark hair. His belly hung ponderously before him in a globe of warm girth, bouncing with each careful step, the fabric tailored to hug and drape without restriction. His hips swayed wide and pillowy, pressing gently against the aisle benches as he passed. He was clean-shaven for once, though the shadow of his beard and the curls of his chest hair defied taming.
He blushed beneath his tan skin as the villagers whispered—but they whispered admiringly now. Daniel had grown, yes, but he had also risen. Taller than anyone in the room, stronger than he looked, softer than most would guess, and proud.
At the altar, Mason stood waiting, beaming. His dark shirt had been let out and patched more than once, and his arms were still thick with years of woodwork and hauling. He looked at Daniel like a man seeing the sunrise for the first time—awed, grateful, and hungry to share a life beneath it.
“You look incredible,” Mason whispered as Daniel reached him, and Daniel chuckled low in his throat, his belly brushing softly into Mason’s chest.
“Don’t say that too loud,” he teased. “I just got the robes to fit.”
Mason grinned. “Maybe I’m hoping you’ll outgrow them by the reception.”
Laughter broke through Daniel’s smile, and he leaned down to press a kiss to Mason’s forehead, his arms wrapping—slowly, carefully—around his husband-to-be.
They spoke their vows beneath the old beams of the chapel, surrounded by wildflowers and flickering candles. And when the final kiss was shared, the room erupted in cheers.
The curse had taken much from Daniel. His former life, his ease, his solitude.
AN: Finished this in a flurry last night, and decided to just post it as one piece to avoid the cross-tagging between posts. Future stories will probably be posted all at once... just for ease. This is my first full story length gainer fic, so any feedback is very appreciated! Hope you enjoy!
The town of Eldenwood was nestled quietly in the crook of two green hills, with cobbled streets, smoking chimneys, and a gossip line that stretched faster than wildfire. It was the kind of place where everyone knew your name—and your business.
Daniel Fairbairn was well-known among the townsfolk. He was sharp—too sharp, some would say—with a sarcastic smile and a lean, wiry frame that made him look almost boyish despite his thirty years. He wore snug vests over crisp shirts, always polished, always smug. He walked with the confidence of a man untouched by consequence.
“Ah, Mistress Bloom,” he called out one afternoon in the town square, watching an older woman pass sweeping the dirt out of her small stall that sold various herbal remedies, teas, and tinctures. “I see your broom’s finally getting some air. Taking it for a walk, or are you planning to fly it later?”
She did not turn to acknowledge his jape, but the surrounding townsfolk chuckled. That was Daniel—relentless, but charming enough to get away with it.
That day, though, he went one joke too far.
He had stopped by the market at the edge of town on his way home, where a small, crooked stand sold dried herbs and glass-bottled tinctures. Behind one of the stalls was none other than Mistress Bloom, draped in a cloak darker than night. Her angular brows, set deep and lined with the ridges of experience, drew together in a pointed scowl as Daniel approached jovially.
He picked up one of her herbal tinctures and tilted his head in mock confusion “Now, remind me… is this the eye of newt beverage? Or is toe of frog I’m thinking of? Or maybe,” he said, his grin widening, “just snake oil with a fancy label?”
The woman said nothing.
“Oh, come now,” he went on, louder now, since a few villagers had turned to listen. “What’s under that cloak? You hiding horns? Or just a face that could turn milk sour?”
The laughter was subdued—awkward, unsure. Daniel’s grin faltered slightly. He gave a half-bow. “All in good fun.”
The woman’s voice finally emerged— from beneath her low and measured. “You think words are harmless things. That they carry no weight.” She stepped out from behind the stand and drew back the hood of her dark cloak fully to reveal a mass of tangled curls that she shook out slowly while she closed the distance between them. Her eyes, an eerie and steely shade of gray, fixed on him. “So I’ll make them heavy for you.”
Daniel blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’ll know it soon enough.” She stepped back, melting into the shadow of her stall as if she had never been there at all.
--
Daniel Fairbairn was known in Eldenwood for two things: his height, and his hands.
The former was more than impressive. He stood half a head above most men in town—an easy six-and-some feet tall, with long legs and shoulders broad enough to darken a doorway. The latter, though, were even moreso: thick, wide mitts with sausage fingers calloused and rough, coated in a light dusting of dark hair. The hands of a man who split his own firewood, rebuilt the town mill after the flood, and once hauled a cart full of stone uphill when the oxen gave out.
He looked like he’d been carved out of dark oak and sunburn—tanned skin stretched over corded muscle, thick dark hair always tousled from labor, not fashion. Every morning, he worked until sweat soaked the back of his shirt. Every afternoon, he strolled the town, quiet but confident, with that same relaxed, heavy-footed stride that turned heads.
Some remembered the days he and Mason used to work side by side at the forge—back when they were younger, louder, and inseparable.
Now, they barely saw each other.
Until today.
Daniel was walking back from the market, a fresh loaf of rye under his arm, when he spotted Mason outside the bakery. His heart jumped before he could stop it. Mason hadn’t changed much—still slender and fair, an open grin smeared with flour, and eyes that looked at him with something gentler than friendship… or, that used to.
Daniel hesitated—but only for a moment.
“Daniel!” Mason called, brushing flour from his apron as he stepped outside. “Haven’t seen you in weeks.”
Daniel shifted his weight, raising an eyebrow. “That’s because I’ve been keeping my distance from your terrible bread.”
Mason laughed, an infectious, rolling sound. “That’s a lie. You’re cradling that loaf like it’s your firstborn.”
Daniel smirked, but didn’t disagree.
Then Mason’s eyes flicked down Daniel’s body. “You’re looking a bit different though. Getting thick in the middle, are you? Maybe all that hammer-swinging’s gone to your belly instead of your arms.”
It was a teasing jab. The kind they'd exchanged countless times over beers, sweat-slicked and laughing.
But this time, it landed differently.
Daniel gave a weak chuckle, but his stomach dropped—literally, it felt like it did. His skin prickled. Heat flared low and deep, like someone had opened a furnace behind his ribs.
“…You alright?” Mason asked, watching him with concern.
Daniel blinked, jaw tight. “Yeah. Just hot. This sun.”
He turned quickly, waving the bread like a farewell. “I’ll see you around.”
“Daniel—”
But Daniel was already walking away. Something was wrong. Each step felt heavier. Slower. His shirt clung tighter under his arms. His vest pinched across the chest, threads whispering under strain.
He ducked into a side alley, one hand bracing against the wall.
Something was wrong.
The heat bloomed wider now, spreading from his core like molten honey. His breathing grew shallow. He reached up and undid the top button of his shirt that felt like it was choking him. He looked down, feeling for the straps holding his leather apron taut around his middle, when he was stopped short by what he saw.
His stomach had changed.
Where before it had been flat and hard—cut from labor and years of toil—now a soft curve pressed out beneath his ribs. Subtle, but undeniable. He undid the buckles and knot holding his apron in place and shrugged it off in jerky, panicked motions, cupping one hand on either side of the small mound forming in his middle. The swell was smooth, warm, and gently pliant under his fingers. Like it had been there all along.
He reached behind, feeling his flanks. His sides had begun to soften too—thickening around his waist. His chest, once firm and high, now pushed more heavily against the fabric, taking on a roundness it had never known. He could just make out the outlines of his nipples chafing against the rough flax tunic.
He grunted in disbelief and attempted to tug off his vest, which was already on the tighter side this morning and was now fitting like a second skin. The back seams stretched before giving way with a quiet tear.
“No. No, no, no.”
He leaned his shoulder against the alley wall, breath shaky. His powerful frame—still huge, still towering—wasn’t just changing. It was softening. Rounding in ways that defied explanation.
And it had started the moment Mason said he looked “thick in the middle.”
“You’ll know it soon enough,” the witch had said.
It hit him like a hammer to the chest.
It was a curse.And it had already begun.
A tremor passed through him.
“Okay,” he whispered, backing out of the alley, gripping the bread tighter. “Okay. You’re not panicking. You just—maybe it’s stress. Maybe it’s bloating. This could be anything.”
But he didn’t believe it.
As he walked home, he kept tugging at his shirt, feeling it cling more with every passing second. Every step felt… heavier.
Daniel didn’t sleep.
Instead, he sat in the dim glow of a single oil lamp, hunched at the edge of his bed like he was bracing for a storm. Shirtless, his massive frame cast long shadows on the walls. His thick, dark body hair caught the flickering light, emphasizing the new hills and valleys that hadn’t existed the day before.
He stared at himself in the warped mirror leaning against the wall.
The change had finished hours ago, but Daniel’s ability to process it was still catching up.
He’d always been a man of brawn—tall as a tree and twice as sturdy, with shoulders like barn doors and arms thick from years of swinging hammers and hauling stone. But now, something unfamiliar had crept into that strength: softness.
His belly, once flat and rigid with muscle, had become a visible swell, smooth and rounded like the rise of freshly kneaded dough. It rested on his lap now, pressing softly into his thighs as he leaned forward. With a hesitant hand, he reached down with a single finger and pressed into it. He gasped as it yielded. His thick fingers sank into the warm, pliant flesh. He pushed in a little more, feeling his new soft gut undulate as it gave like bread under pressure, the hairy flesh jiggling slightly when he let go.
He drew a shaky breath, chest rising—then dropping, noticeably lower than it had the night before. His pecs had begun to droop. The muscle was still there, buried beneath, but now each heavy mound of his chest rested against his torso in a way that was unmistakably different. He cupped one experimentally, lifting the weight in his hand. It was softer. Rounder. It moved when he shifted.
He let out a low curse and stood quickly—only to feel the heft of his potbelly pull forward with gravity, swaying gently as he moved.
Truth be told, the change wasn’t very noticeable from the outside - but to Daniel, it was an immense shift. He felt heavier - and not just in weight. His body was louder, more present. His thighs now brushed together with every step, not just grazing but pressing. He grimaced, reaching down and grabbing the curve of one—dense, thick, and slightly padded now with blubber that gave beneath his grip. Even his rear had grown, filling out his trousers with new weight that made them ride higher in the back.
Despite the horror bubbling in his chest, part of him kept exploring. He prodded his side, feeling the way the flesh curved around his waist. He grabbed the underside of his gut and lifted gently—it had weight now, real weight, the kind that pulled down, bounced when he let go, swayed when he shifted.
The most terrifying part wasn’t that it was there…. It was how natural it already felt.
And it was about to get worse.
The next morning, Daniel dressed slowly, choosing the loosest shirt he owned—a faded blue one with torn seams at the elbows—and stretched it over his torso with effort. It stuck to the small of his back and clung around the chest. His trousers barely buttoned, the waistband biting into his sides if he stood too straight.
He walked into town, determined to be invisible… but for a man of his stature, this was a pipe dream at best. Almost as soon as he passed through the village gate, Mara the milkmaid spotted him.
“Daniel!” she called, waving from outside the general store where she was ostensibly dropping off some fresh bottles of her farm’s best export. “Well now—look at you! Last week when you were by to repair the barn door, you looked like you hadn’t had a good meal in weeks - but now it looks like you’ve been drinking a gallon of Bessie’s finest a day and then some!
The moment the words left her mouth, he felt it hit. That heat—low and deep, like a forge lit behind his navel. Fear surged through him. I have to get home.
He mumbled a reply, heart thudding, and walked away quickly, his belly jiggling with each step as it subtly swelled larger.
The waistband of his pants creaked. His biggest shirt, still not quite to the point of claustrophobia that morning, now grew torturously thinner and thinner across the fleshy mounds of his chest that were swelling larger with each step.
By the time he made it back to his cottage, he was breathless—not from exertion, but from the pressure, the weight, the growth.
He stripped frantically, popping buttons as he did. His shirt gave a final snap and tore at the seam under the arm. He staggered into the washroom and looked in the mirror and froze.
His belly now dominated his silhouette—heavy, low-slung, and dappled with the dark trail of hair running down from his chest. It bounced gently as he shifted, slapping softly against his thighs. He cupped the underside of it in both hands and gasped at the sheer mass. It nearly overflowed his palms, warm and pliant and undeniably fat.
His chest had thickened again, each pec - he stubbornly refused to think of them as moobs - now visibly resting on the upper swell of his gut, the softness tugging them down into a rounded teardrop shape. They moved as he breathed, rising slowly, jiggling faintly with every exhale.
His thighs looked packed into his trousers like rising dough into too-small tins. Each step made them rub audibly, and he could feel the strain in the seams.
He turned slightly—and winced.
His backside had grown large. Round and heavy, pulling the waistband back at an awkward angle, dimpling the fabric. It pushed outward now, full enough that sitting down would test the frame of any chair.
“Oh god,” he whispered, gripping the edge of the sink.
It creaked under his weight.
“I’m—I’m going to keep growing.”
He stared at himself, chest heaving.
Two comments. Just two small comments! And now he was, truly…. Fat.
The sun hadn’t yet crested the hills when Daniel forced open the rounded door to the smithy and stepped inside. It had been a week, and his efforts to avoid the watchful eyes… and words of his fellow villagers had so far been successful. Thankfully, the other occupant of the smithy - his Master, Harlan - was caring for his ailing mother in the next village over, leaving Daniel to mind the smithy alone. He had mounted a sign outside the door that read “Taken Ill - Written Orders Only”. Which wasn’t really fair, seeing as only some of the village could read, but it was better than losing his source of income… very much needed since his appetite seemed to have grown with his newly sprouted flab.
He grunted as he moved sideways through the rounded door. A soft thump followed as his wide hip clipped the edge of the door. The impact made his apron flap, the strap tugging against the back of his neck where it cut deep into thick, sweat-dampened skin.
The forge was hot already—he’d banked the coals the night before in a desperate attempt to finish his work as quickly as possible and retreat to the safety of his home.
His heavy boots thudded across the floor, echoing dutifully in the wide space. He moved with a cautious sway, having to plant each step carefully to keep his thighs from chafing. The canvas trousers he wore were faded and dark with sweat around the seat and inner legs. They clung tight across his hips and buttocks like sausage casing and creaked ominously with each step. The linen shirt, soaked from chest to belly, was pulled tight enough across his torso that his widening nipples were visible, pushed out by the soft weight of his chest.
Daniel rolled up his sleeves as far as they could go and tied his apron across the front.
It didn’t fit anymore—not really. The knot around his back left the leather pulled taut like the head of a drum. The top strap bit into the base of his neck and dragged the apron high on his belly, exposing the rounded underside every time he leaned forward. The sides of his belly spilled past the edge of it, hanging softly over the waistband of his trousers.
Still, he set his jaw and went to work.
For the first hour, it felt almost like the old days.
The clang of hammer to steel echoed through the space as he worked the iron flat, sweat dripping down his forehead and into the bristled dark hair on his chest. His arms, still strong from years at the forge, swung the hammer with practiced rhythm. But even through the familiarity, a growing sense of despair was building.
When he leaned to reach for tongs, his gut swayed forward, brushing the edge of the anvil. When he bent over, the soft curve of his belly rested heavily on his thighs. His chest jiggled each time he pounded the hammer down, slapping softly, fleshily, against the inside of his apron. His hips seemed to almost roll with his steps, making his ass shift and wobble with an embarrassing weight he hadn’t yet gotten used to. Each movement made his body bounce.
After two hours, the inner seams of his trousers had darkened with sweat. The back of his shirt had split just beneath the shoulders, giving way under the pressure of his broadening back. The bottom two buttons across his belly had already popped off.
He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and grunted, stepping back from the anvil.
That was when he heard the familiar gravel-rumble of a pair of uniquely heavy boots on the dirt outside.
Daniel stiffened. His heart rate doubled. He wasn’t supposed to be back yet. He wasn’t supposed to be back yet. But it was too late to hide.
“Damn, son,” rolled a deep bass from the doorway. “Didn’t know you’d be in so early.”
Daniel turned—slowly.
Harlan the Smith was a bit of a local legend - or, depending on who you talked to, a local sideshow attraction. As large as most men at just 9 years old, Harlan was born to a single mother who was to tell the truth, quite ordinary herself. The truth of Harlan’s paternity was a mystery - but rumor was he had at least a few cupfuls of hill giant blood in his veins. Harlan stepped inside, ducking the doorframe. He was massive, same as ever—shoulders wide as barrels, unkempt red hair threatening to brush the ceiling, and his beard dusted with soot already. The master blacksmith wore only his own apron, and his thick, hairy chest glistened in the heat.
Despite his size, Harlan was an easygoing man - a gentle giant. Daniel had always assumed that when you were as large as Harlan, not much would give you pause. But there was a first time for everything. Harlan stopped mid-stride, eyes roving over Daniel’s form without shame He blinked— once, twice – then grinned.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, his voice thick with mirth. “You been eating spare anvils while I was gone?”
Daniel’s stomach clenched. His face grew pale as he realized where this was going. “Harlan, no, wait - don’t –!”
But Harlan, for all his virtues, had never been the best listener.
“Look at you,” he chuckled. “You’re getting bigger than me.”
And just like that—the heat started. Hotter, and more intense this time, inflating him like a bellows.
His body expanded in an instant: the soft flesh of his chest pushing outward into thick, heavy mounds. They lifted his apron slightly, bouncing as they settled. His belly surged forward eagerly, the apron leather groaning in protest. It flowed out, forward and down, forming rolls of pillowy lard that stretched far below his waist.
His ass swelled next, cheeks lifting and rounding, forming a shelf that stuck out starkly from his backside and making his stance widen to keep balance. A loud pop echoed as the inner seams of his trousers gave out. Then the outer seams. His shirt, now stretched paper-thin, tore open like parchment, the sleeves falling limp at his sides.
And then—he grew taller.
His spine stretched, knees straightening as he gained inches. His feet flattened against the ground, heels lifting momentarily before resettling with a heavy thud. The apron, once comically short, now seemed right-sized again… but only just. The leather tugged painfully at his neck and the curve of his belly still bulged beneath it.
Daniel stood there, panting, naked beneath the strained leather. Only the apron remained—just barely covering his groin and dipping into the warm fold beneath his belly.
The workshop was quiet.
Then—fwump.
Harlan reached out and gave Daniel’s side a curious squeeze. His big hand sank into the soft, yielding fat above Daniel’s waist.
“Gods…” Harlan muttered. “You’re like a cushioned anvil. You always had weight on you, but this—this is substance.”
Daniel flushed crimson. His belly gave a subtle bounce as he inhaled.
Harlan gave him a look—half impressed, half amused. He patted Daniel’s belly softly, then clapped him once on the shoulder.
“You really are bigger than me now,” he said. “Hell, you might even be a stronger smith too—if we can find a way to keep that belly out of the fire.”
Daniel didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
____________________________________
The forge had settled into quiet after the clangor of steel. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the coals and the occasional creak of leather as Daniel shifted his bulk.
He sat gingerly on the wide bench against the wall, half-expecting it to buckle under his weight. It groaned like a ship hull but held. His belly pooled in his lap, warm and sweat-damp, soft enough to mold around his thighs. The leather apron pressed tightly into his middle, the top strap wedged between his rounded shoulders and thickened traps. He couldn’t see his feet past his belly anymore, not unless he leaned way forward.
Harlan emerged from the back room holding a bundle of dark cloth in his arms.
“I figured you might need a change,” he said, tone light. “Lucky for you, I’ve been hoarding old gear since my thirties.”
Daniel swallowed hard.
“Won’t rip?” he asked hoarsely.
Harlan’s grin widened. “If it held me in my prime, it’ll hold you just fine.”
He set the bundle down on the bench beside Daniel, then crouched—not without effort—to begin unfolding the pieces.
First came a long black undershirt. It looked like it had once belonged to a bear. Then a pair of drawstring trousers, wide in the waist and deep in the seat. Finally, a thick wool tunic, softened by age and wear, still smelling faintly of soot and pine tar.
Daniel hesitated.
“Well, don’t just look at it,” Harlan said. “Let’s get you dressed. Unless you’d rather stay in that poor, overworked apron forever.”
Daniel grunted and stood, wobbling slightly. The bench gave a relieved crack beneath him as he rose. Harlan caught his elbow briefly to steady him—just enough contact to make Daniel acutely aware of how their bodies touched now.
Daniel’s flesh was soft, warm, giving. Harlan’s was firm, but not without weight.
They were close. Closer than ever before.
“Here,” Harlan said gently. He held up the undershirt and Daniel raised his arms.
It took effort. His arms were heavier than they used to be—meaty, thick with both strength and padding. His soft chest bounced with the movement, and Harlan couldn’t help but notice.
“Your moobs,” he said with a quiet chuckle. “They’ve got weight to ‘em now.”
And just like that—it happened again.
The swell of Daniel’s chest thickened, right beneath the fabric. The undershirt slipped over his head and clung to his pecs as they ballooned subtly larger—rounder, heavier. They jiggled as he adjusted the hem, visibly bouncing like overfilled water balloons. The fabric dipped slightly where his nipples pushed forward, tugged by the new mass.
Daniel blushed hot and avoided Harlan’s eyes.
“Shit, Daniel. I didn’t mean to—” Harlan started, but Daniel waved him off.
“Keep going,” Daniel muttered. “Let’s just get this done.”
Next came the trousers.
Harlan helped guide the thick, drawstring waistband up over Daniel’s thighs. The soft cotton tugged around his hips and buttocks, each leg a careful shimmy. His belly slapped against the front, a visible mound.
Harlan adjusted the waistband with both hands, fingers brushing Daniel’s hairy lower stomach. He chuckled softly.
“You’ve always been a hairy bastard,” he said. “But it’s like your whole body’s turning into a damn rug.”
The hairs thickened instantly.
Daniel flinched.
He could feel it—thousands of fine black strands coarsening, darkening, spreading in a slow wave across his belly and chest. His arms too. The undershirt itched briefly as it molded to the new layer. Harlan’s hand brushed his forearm, and he paused.
“…Soft, though,” he murmured. “Like velvet on a boulder.”
Daniel’s stomach did a slow flip.
He stood silent as Harlan retrieved the tunic.The garment was thick wool, and it fit. A little tight around the middle, sure—but it stretched nicely over his belly and butt. The sleeves hugged his biceps with just enough give to still allow movement. It made him feel… contained.
“You look good,” Harlan added, brushing a few errant hairs from Daniel’s shoulder. “Like a proper smith again. Though… I gotta say, I am curious. As a man…under all that blubber, are ya still… .”
Daniel blinked. “What?”
Harlan smirked and leaned closer. “You know, your… proportions. If you’ve been growing like a proper man down there too, you’ll need a second hand to get around it.” he winked conspiratorially.
Daniel’s ears burned. “Harlan, I---”
And then the change hit.
Low this time.
Daniel moaned involuntarily as a slow, deliberate heaviness thickened his already not-inconsiderable manhood into a girthy log between his legs. The warmth that spread and settled with a gentle weight as his balls swelled larger than chicken eggs, painfully squeezed on both sides by his massively flabby thighs.. He shifted uncomfortably. The trousers tightened at the crotch, even pushing his underbelly up and out as his shaft expanded and grew. It was an incredible feeling - true to Harlan’s word, there was no way he would be able to wrap even his famously wide mitts around his newly massive cock.
“Damn it,” Daniel muttered under his breath - though whether it was because he had grown more or because he had enjoyed this one, he didn’t know.
Harlan’s eyes widened—then he looked up.
“Oh gods, I didn’t even mean that one,” he said with real remorse. “Sorry, I—”
Daniel exhaled, long and low.
“It’s… fine. Just try not to talk about anything that jiggles, swells, softens, thickens, or grows.”
Harlan raised both eyebrows and held up his hands in mock surrender.
“No promises,” he said with a grin.
Daniel looked down at himself.
Fully dressed, he looked almost… right again. His belly pushed out far past his belt, and his chest bounced with each breath—but he was covered. Warm. Supported.
And Harlan—well, he didn’t seem disgusted.
If anything… the older man looked almost proud.
“You really think I look good?” Daniel asked before he could stop himself.
Harlan met his eyes.
“I’ve never seen someone wear my old clothes better,” he said, voice quiet now. “You fill ‘em like you were born in ‘em.”
Daniel looked away—but he didn’t move.
The moment stretched, long and soft and warm like the fabric over his belly.
He didn’t know what to say next.
But for the first time in a while, he didn’t feel like running.
________________________________________
Dawn poured faint light across the cobbled paths of the village. The fog had yet to lift, curling low over gardens and fences like a blanket, veiling the world in silence.
Daniel moved through it like a blubbery shadow—wide, slow, careful. The tunic Harlan had gifted him strained against his mass, tucked as best it could over the broad swell of his belly and the wide, wobbling shelf of his rear. The fabric clung to him, his body already damp with the early sweat of movement. He wore it proudly, or tried to. But the curse that had made him even larger than his master meant the hand-me-downs were still just a tad too small. The seams whispered warnings to him, and he shuddered to think what would happen if he grew any more.
His enormous arms swung gently at his sides, thighs brushing with a muffled shff shff shff, his gait widened to manage balance. The leather soles of his boots creaked softly under his weight.
He had begun to feel strong again—not just physically, but rooted. Harlan’s affection, the way the old smith had handled his bulk with reverence and care, had warmed a place inside Daniel that had been cold for the last week. He still avoided the village like the plague, but even with Harlan as his only company, a seed of self was taking root again. He started to feel comfortable - safe, even.
So he thought nothing of slipping out far before dawn to make a few deliveries - early enough that even the farmers weren’t awake. These days, he liked the quiet. The stillness. No eyes. No words.
But someone else had risen early - or, more likely, had stayed out too late at the alehouse and simply not gone to bed at all.
Leaning against the stone wall of the pub where he was bringing a new soup pot stood Tobias—eighteen, lean and smug, arms crossed like a sneering gargoyle perched over an empty street. He hadn’t outgrown the cruelty of younger boys; if anything, he’d perfected it.
Daniel slowed mid-step.
“Well, well,” Tobias drawled, voice cutting through the mist like a knife, “if it isn’t the prodigal Smithy - and a lot more of him at that! No wonder you’ve been hiding!”
Daniel stiffened.
Not now. Not again.
The curse coiled inside him, subtle but sharp.
“You always this early,” Tobias continued, sauntering forward, “or do you just not fit when the rest of us are around?”
Fatter.
Daniel staggered. His gut ballooned forward with a sickening softness. Harlan’s oversized tunic hem inched upward, revealing a peek of his hairy underbelly, already damp with sweat and thickly dimpled.
“Gods above,” Tobias said, circling him. “Your tits are floppin’ like sacks of wet flour. What’s next—milk 'em in the square?”
Fatter.
His chest swelled outward—soft, pillowy, pressing hard into the thin fabric until his nipples stood plainly beneath the stretched cotton. The seam at his shoulders gave a faint, pitiful tick.
“Your thighs clap louder than a festival drum. You’re like a walking livestock pen, just missing the oink.”
FATTER.
His hips surged outward, thighs rounding and grinding against one another. His gut sloshed with the sudden shift, the sheer volume of it bouncing slightly with his startled motion. A sharp snap rang out as the side seam of the tunic tore near his waist.
“Seriously—” Tobias’s voice sharpened to a shout—“you’re gonna crater the path soon, you FAT tub of—”
FUCK.
His apron tie broke. The bottom swell of his belly flopped free, thick and heavy, swinging with a bounce against his thighs. The whole of his frame was now swelling rapidly, his arms thickening, shoulders rounding, legs bowing with the effort of carrying so much mass.
Daniel stopped walking. His breath was ragged. His feet planted wide.
And then, without thinking, he charged.
Not fast. But inevitable.
Tobias yelped as Daniel grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the stone wall of the bakery. Tobias’s back hit the rock with a dull thud—then Daniel’s massive gut barreled forward, squishing into him with suffocating weight.
The younger man gasped, arms pinned awkwardly. Daniel's belly poured up over Tobias’s lap and abdomen, soft and sweaty, the fabric soaked through from early labor and stress. The scent of forge heat and flesh clung to him. The weight was so complete Tobias could barely twist to breathe.
“You think this is funny?” Daniel spat, face inches from his, voice deep and trembling.
Tobias squirmed in vain. “Y-You’re crazy—!”
Daniel pressed closer. His massive chest pillowed against Tobias’s face, each moob twice the size of the scrawny guy’s head. His arms, now thick as fenceposts, braced either side of the boy’s head.
And still Tobias sneered, red-faced, breathless—but not cowed.
“You’re just a big—FAT—monster now. Fucking fat cow! Pig! Lard-ass!”
Daniel grunted as each insult triggered his curse, multiplying the speed at which his belly surged forward again, eagerly encasing Tobias in wave after wave of blubbery, pillowy fat. His ass widened into a shelf that rivaled any on the smithy wall, ending several feet from where it began at his hips. His thighs spread farther apart to keep balance, melding into one another as folds grew and filled in like pastry bags. His chin sank slightly into a collar of soft flesh, newly thickened.
For a moment, Daniel’s breath hitched—not from exhaustion, but from the horror of how much he now was. He felt it, all of it: the way the bulk of his body dominated the alley, how he pressed into Tobias, trapping him with nothing but his own flesh. His tunic split fully down the side seam now, both arms exposed. The lower fabric hung limp from under his apron, completely overwhelmed.
Then Daniel stepped back.
Tobias dropped to the ground like a sack of grain, coughing, red-faced and shaking.
He didn’t say anything else.
He didn’t need to.
Daniel turned, eyes wide, shame creeping into his gut faster than the curse ever had. His breath came fast and unsteady. His entire body bounced and rippled with each step now—slow, massive, undeniable.
Harlan’s gifted clothes were shredded - bits and pieces of the material clung to him like rags. His chest swayed. His thighs were slick with sweat and chafing. The apron string was long gone, lost between several rolls that married his gargantuan belly, ass, and love handles.
He had to retreat.
He had to hide.
No one saw him go, but he imagined a thousand eyes. Every step home was heavier than the last. The shame outweighed the flesh.
________________________
Daniel didn’t leave his home for three days.
At first, he told himself it was for safety. He’d wait out the whispers. Wait until Tobias got bored or embarrassed and stopped telling the story. But the truth was simpler—and heavier.
There was barely a single thing he could do now without the weight of his body stopping him.
The morning sun slanted through the small window, casting golden bars across the cottage’s wooden floor. Daniel sat hunched at the edge of his reinforced cot, built by Harlan weeks ago. Even that groaned under him now, the timbers creaking like ice ready to crack. His vast belly spread out in front of him like so many overfilled sacks of flour, plush and gleaming faintly in the morning light. It rose and fell with his breath, soft as dough, crowned with dark curls of hair where the apron had stopped covering days ago.
He reached toward the bedside stool, trying to grasp a wooden mug of water. The arm moved, but not far enough. His belly was simply in the way. He leaned—but the motion tilted his balance, and he had to grab the cot frame to keep from falling sideways in his own bulk.
A sigh left him, drawn out and exhausted.
“I used to lift beams with one hand,” he muttered aloud, as if voicing it would make the truth sound more distant.
His voice echoed off the timber walls. No one answered.
He shifted forward, attempting to rise. His thighs, each now as thick as wine barrels, compressed together with a heavy shhh. When he pushed down on the bedframe to lift himself, his arms trembled—not from lack of strength, but from the sheer mass they now carried.
He rose—but only halfway.
His belly dragged downward, swaying with inertia, nearly brushing the floor. His back bowed under the effort of hoisting it all upright. With a grunt, he finally stood fully.
The apron dug into his sides so hard it left red welts. It was all he wore. The tunic had shredded to strips during his retreat from Tobias, and nothing Harlan had given him even made it past his shoulders anymore.
He waddled to the hearth, the whole room seeming to shrink around him. His shoulder brushed the shelf where dried herbs hung. He tried to squat to feed the stove, but instead just slowly… knelt. His knees splayed wide to accommodate his gut, which rested heavily on the stone floor, folding and bunching like dough dumped from a bowl.
The sweat started almost instantly.
He couldn’t reach the tinder.
With a frustrated grunt, he fell backward onto his colossal behind. The entire cabin thudded. Dust shook loose from the rafters. The cot creaked again in protest, even from several feet away.
He sat there, breathing heavily, skin flushed, belly spread like a quilt across his lap and floor, and just stared at the empty hearth.
Minutes passed.
The silence was thick. Only the occasional birdsong outside reminded him that time moved at all.
He tried to wash. That was a mistake.
The tin basin on the stand near the window used to be enough. Now, it was laughable. He stood before it, panting, staring into the too-small bowl like it had betrayed him.
When he tried to wet a cloth and reach his own back, his shoulder brushed his soft jawline. His chest was so heavy now—two thick saddlebags of flesh, swaying like overripe fruit with each motion—that his arms had to push them aside just to reach his collar.
Every movement was a struggle. Water dripped between the creases of his belly and groin, evaporating into the humid press of his skin.
By the end of it, he wasn’t clean. He was exhausted.
By midday, he gave up trying to do anything “properly.”
He lay across the cot, belly to the side, knees bent and legs spread to make room for his hips. The massive roll of his gut rested beside him like another person. His moobs rose and fell with each deep, shame-heavy breath. One arm lay sprawled across the pillow. The other rested across the hill of his belly, where his hand occasionally squeezed, idly, feeling the bounce of it.
He hated that it felt good. That his hand disappeared into softness. That it yielded, so easily, like a warm cushion.
He missed being lean. Taut. Ropey with muscle. He could still remember the days with Mason—both of them shirtless in the sun, sharing skin, sweat, stolen touches in the barn when no one was watching.
He hadn’t seen Mason in weeks.
He couldn’t. Not like this.
Daniel closed his eyes. The cabin was quiet. But it was no longer peaceful.
It was just small.
Everything was small now.
Except him.
___________________________________
The sun was just cresting the treetops when Daniel managed to heave the door open and step—no, squeeze—his way out.
The morning air hit him like a slap of cool water. Birds scattered from the eaves of the cottage, startled by the heavy thud… thud… of his slow, labored steps. His massive body shifted with each motion like a tide—shoulders rolling, hips swaying, and the sea of belly fat jostling at its own ponderous pace.
His thighs were so big now they touched nearly to the knees. His moobs rested heavily atop his stomach’s first roll, nipples low and wide. His body glistened with sweat before he even made it past the threshold.
He grunted with each step as he trudged toward Harlan’s thoughtful gift: the large animal trough at the far end of the yard. The tall grass parted around his knees, brushing against skin he could no longer see. It took him nearly fifteen minutes to reach the old thing.
It was made of iron and wood, meant for oxen and built long enough to accommodate two full-grown beasts. Daniel had filled it half an hour earlier using buckets and a rope line, panting all the while. It sloshed gently now in the breeze, clean and cool and utterly inviting.
He stood over it, chest heaving. The trough was tall—just shy of his waist—and he wasn’t sure how he was going to get in.
He grunted again and, with effort, leaned against the rim. His belly squashed up against the wooden edge, flesh spreading outward like dough being pressed under a rolling pin. With another huff, he hoisted one leg, then the other. The metal groaned ominously under him as he finally sloshed down into the water, waves cascading over the sides.
Daniel let out a deep, guttural sigh.
Cool relief.
He closed his eyes and let the water lap up over his thick sides and mountainous gut, slapping gently against the lower curve of his chest. His hair was damp, curling at the temples, and droplets ran through the thatch of body hair that now covered most of him like a pelt. It wasn’t a proper bath—but it was better than nothing.
Until his elbow slipped.
He fumbled, trying to catch himself, but the slick apron clung to him and the edge of the trough was too far for his short reach now. He landed back against the far side with a wet slap, sloshing water over the grass.
He sat there, soaked, and glared at nothing.
“Too fat for a damn trough now,” he muttered bitterly.
The words hung in the air for a heartbeat—then the now-familiar pressure struck.
Daniel froze. “No, no—wait—!”
Too late.
His stomach rumbled—not with hunger, but with change. His belly surged outward in the water, pushing against the sides of the trough as new mass ballooned beneath the skin, stretching, softening, widening. His moobs thickened, sagging further, slapping wetly against his stomach. His hips grew wider still, jiggling as they slowly submerged under their own growing girth.
Daniel just sat in the water, hands out to the side, watching as the level of the trough rose with him, sloshing dangerously at the rim.
When it finally stopped, he was wedged into the metal tub like a cork in a bottle, the bathwater long having been forced out by his ever-growing blubbery frame.
“…should’ve kept my damn mouth shut,” he whispered.
It took him nearly twenty minutes to heave himself out, the trough giving one last creeeeeak of protest before he toppled over the side onto the grass with a sodden thud. His soaked body rippled with the impact, slapping softly against itself.
Panting, he pushed himself upright and lumbered back toward the cottage.
His stomach swayed. His thighs rubbed. His hips—
Thunk.
The doorframe caught him.
He grunted and stepped again. Nothing. His hips had grown wider than the doorway. Fat squished outward from the contact point, soft and glistening. He pressed in harder, trying to force his way through.
“No, no, come on—”
He pushed again—his moobs jiggling, belly spreading outward like a melting cake—and finally got his left side through with a wet pop. But his right hip refused to budge.
His bulk filled the entire entryway. Arms spread, bracing the sides. The door creaked.
His body was slick with water, which helped. But his apron was gone, and there was nothing but damp skin pressing against the frame now, squeezing, deforming, resisting.
Then, from the treeline: a voice.
“…Daniel?”
His head snapped up. His breath hitched.
There, approaching from the road, eyes wide and mouth parted, stood Mason.
He looked just as Daniel remembered— broad-shouldered, still sun-browned from outdoor labor, his jaw strong and beard trimmed short. His steps slowed, gaze traveling from Daniel’s flushed face… down the sheer mass of his trapped body… to the thick hips stuck fast in the doorway.
“Daniel,” he said again, softer now.
Daniel flushed crimson. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t cover himself. His belly hung below the frame. His chest rolled forward like sacks of flour resting atop it. Every inch of him glistened. His breathing came hard.
Mason walked closer.
Daniel turned his face away, voice cracking. “Don’t.”
Mason reached the doorstep. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t mock.
Instead, he raised a hand… and placed it gently on the soft curve of Daniel’s side, where the fat bulged outward like warm bread dough.
“You’re… really stuck, huh?”
Daniel gave a tiny nod.
“I’ll help you inside,” Mason said, his hand still resting there, warm and firm. “And then you’ll tell me everything.”
With Mason’s help—hands firm at Daniel’s waist, murmured encouragements steady and warm—he finally made it through the door.
It took effort. Sweat. More than a little rocking and a loud wooden creak as the frame bent in protest. But eventually, with a breathless pop, Daniel stumbled forward, barely catching himself against the edge of the reinforced cot.
The whole house seemed smaller than ever.
Daniel stood, panting, thick with sweat and shame. His belly sagged down in front of him like a heavy quilt soaked through. His chest rose and fell, fat jostling softly. His hips had left faint red marks from the doorframe. His face—broad and flustered—was flushed with exertion and embarrassment.
“I—” he started, then stopped. His voice was hoarse. “You… shouldn’t have come.”
Mason closed the door behind them and took a slow step forward. His eyes never left Daniel.
“I had to,” he said quietly. “I heard things. From town. About Tobias. And about… you.”
Daniel looked away. “So you came to stare?”
“No.” Mason’s voice was firm, the kind he used when something mattered. “I came because I wanted to see you. And I was worried. And because I missed you.”
Daniel shook his head, shoulders trembling slightly under the soft bulk that wrapped around his frame. “I’m not who I was, Mason.”
“No,” Mason said gently, stepping closer. “You’re not.”
He was right in front of him now. The two of them filled the room, the space between them crackling with years of things unsaid. Mason was still a touch shorter, but he didn’t flinch beneath Daniel’s size.
Instead, he reached out. His hand settled on Daniel’s bare upper arm, thick and warm with flesh but strong beneath.
“You were always a hard worker,” Mason said, voice low. “Always honest. Always kind, even when you were mad. I’ve thought about you more than I’d ever admit to anyone else.”
Daniel gave a bitter chuckle. “Thought about me, maybe. But not this,” he said, gesturing to his body—his belly, his chest, the rolls that bulged over his thighs.
Mason’s hand didn’t move.
“I always had a thing for you, Daniel,” he admitted, quieter now. “Even back when we were scrawny teens swinging hammers and sharing swigs of cider in the barn. You were strong, lean, and so sure of yourself even when you didn’t think you were. You were beautiful to me then.”
He took a breath.
“But when I saw you at the door…” His voice hitched, but he held Daniel’s gaze. “You took my breath away.”
Daniel’s eyes widened.
Mason stepped even closer, his chest brushing against the soft curve of Daniel’s belly. “You were stuck. Red-faced. Sweating. Soft all over. I should’ve been surprised. I should’ve laughed, or pitied you. But all I could think was—‘God, he’s even more him now.’ Like the world carved you bigger to match what was already inside.”
Daniel blinked. His voice was barely a whisper. “You… like this?”
Mason’s hand slid lower, resting on the upper swell of Daniel’s belly. “I love this. I love you.”
The words knocked the wind from Daniel more than any insult ever had. He stepped back, tumbling backwards onto the mass of hay that now served as his giant bedroll.
His throat tightened. He looked down, lips parting slightly. “I thought—I was sure I’d pushed you away. That no one would ever want to touch me again, let alone…”
Mason stepped forward, into the mass of bare flesh that was Daniel. The height difference was so dramatic that they were nearly eye to eye —Daniel sat atop his bed, vast and hulking, his body encasing Mason’s like an enveloping wall of warmth.
“I never stopped wanting you,” Mason whispered against his skin. “Not once. But now, Daniel… it’s not just a crush. You’ve become something else. Something incredible. And I want all of it.”
Daniel stared for a moment, not quite sure what to say - then chuckled quietly. “You’re a fool.”
“Maybe,” Mason murmured, dropping to his knees, his lips brushing the upper swell of Daniel’s chest. “But I’m your fool.”
Daniel stared at Mason—into his eyes, through the sweat and heat and shame—and saw nothing but longing. Sincere. Fierce. Real.
Then Mason surged forward, and Daniel bent backwards instinctively, falling to lay on his back with his old friend eagerly clambering atop to stop inches from his face. Their lips met in a kiss that broke past all the years of quiet glances and hesitant words. It was hungry and wild, a clash of breath and warmth and pent-up ache. Mason tasted like smoke and something sweet underneath, like cider left too long in the summer sun.
Mason’s hands roamed Daniel’s sides, sliding through the damp curl of hair across his back, gripping thick handfuls of soft flesh like he’d wanted this for years. Daniel gasped, startled by the sheer intensity—the way Mason’s palms sank into the padded swell of his waist, the softness yielding and bouncing under the touch.
“You feel…” Mason began between kisses, running his hand along the curve of Daniel’s belly where it jutted out like a heavy, living cushion, pushing his hard cock deep into the folds of Daniel’s considerable underbelly. “Gods, Daniel—you feel incredible. So… so fucking big.”
Daniel shuddered. His belly pressed against Mason’s torso, the immense weight of it folding and shifting with every breath. But something was happening.
The heat between them flared for a heartbeat—and Mason’s next touch landed just a little lower than before. A new softness met his hand, heavier, sloping more deeply, like the belly had swollen slightly larger in those brief seconds.
Daniel’s breath hitched. “Mason—wait, I think I—”
“I love your belly,” Mason whispered, interrupting, his voice thick with awe, with a reverence that stunned Daniel, and wrapped his arms and legs as far as he could around the massive swell. “It’s magnificent. Like a mountain of warmth. You carry it like it was made for you.”
Daniel groaned aloud as he felt it. His middle surged forward, slowly, subtly, but undeniably—another few inches of plush fat spilling forward even farther, his underbelly starting to cover Mason’s lap like a quivering, jiggling blanket.
“Mason, don’t…” he murmured, conflicted. But Mason looked up at him with a crooked grin.
“Don’t what? Admire you?”
He rose again, letting his hand slide around to the broad spread of Daniel’s hips. His thumb brushed along the waistband of the apron—where it had long since stopped sitting comfortably.
“These hips,” Mason murmured, voice low and steady. “Wide as an ox’s. I swear they’re made to carry this weight.”
Daniel gasped again in pleasure as his hips responded to the words, ballooning outward by several inches in a slow, jiggling swell. Mason watched it with awe, even as Daniel staggered a step from the sudden redistribution of weight. Daniel questioned whether he would ever be able to get up again - and was amazed to realize he no longer cared.
Then Mason shimmied down the mass of fat that was his childhood friend, pulled up Daniel’s underbelly and dug deep into the fleshiness of his thighs.
“You’re so fucking huge. So heavy. Every part of you is more. Even… this!” Mason said, at the same time pouncing on Daniel’s foot-long shaft that was now wider than Mason’s forearm.
Daniel sucked in air between his teeth as a low, swelling pressure began just below his belly, his cock swelling larger, his massive bull balls swelling fuller, like a heat blooming from his core. The sensation was slow and molten, a gentle stretching that grew heavier, fuller, thicker. He groaned as the apron lifted slightly away from his thighs, propelled up by his thick, curved mahood. And then he saw the back of Mason’s head go down, felt his slick tongue drift across his fist-sized mushroom head, and lost control. He spasmed uncontrollably, pulses of pleasure shaking his massive frame as he came and came again.
Eventually, he came to and Daniel groaned again, feeling the fullness settle, the heavy cock now hanging heavier between his thighs, warm and soft and impossible to ignore. His stance shifted as he adjusted to the change, thighs spreading just a little farther apart to make room.
Mason looked up at him in total wonder, undercut only slightly by the thick globs of cum that dripped from his hair, head, and chest.
Undaunted, he ran both hands down Daniel’s flanks—no longer able to reach all the way around—and said with fervent awe, “You’re… unbelievable. You’re massive. You’re beyond anything I imagined.”
Another subtle swelling rolled through his lower frame as if Mason’s words were pouring into his body like heat into metal. And Daniel, with a breathless smile and trembling arms, pulled him in one more time—burying Mason in the warmth and breadth of his enormous, transformed body.
They kissed and laughed and pressed close again and again, hands exploring, touching, worshipping. Mason never once flinched from the weight. He only leaned deeper into it.
And Daniel—despite the impossibility of it all—let himself believe, if only for this one night, that he wasn’t cursed.
He was chosen.
Epilogue
The chapel stood at the edge of the village, framed by a canopy of summer leaves. Vines crept up the stone walls, green and full, like nature itself was leaning in to witness what was about to take place.
Inside, the pews were modestly filled. Word had spread about the ceremony between the village’s blacksmith apprentice—now a man of legendary proportions—and the woodsman who had always watched him from the edge of things. Some came for the spectacle, others for the joy of it. But most came for Mason and Daniel, because no one could deny what they’d become to each other.
The doors creaked open.
A hush fell.
And Daniel entered, filling the frame entirely.
He moved slowly, but with purpose, every step sending a gentle ripple through the immense body that had grown even more since that night months ago. His frame had finally stabilized, no longer cursed by accidental words. Mason had helped him with that—helped him find peace, quiet, and a sense of humor about the parts of him that would never shrink.
Daniel’s chest rose like twin loaves of risen bread under the ceremonial robes, soft and rounded and dusted with thick dark hair. His belly hung ponderously before him in a globe of warm girth, bouncing with each careful step, the fabric tailored to hug and drape without restriction. His hips swayed wide and pillowy, pressing gently against the aisle benches as he passed. He was clean-shaven for once, though the shadow of his beard and the curls of his chest hair defied taming.
He blushed beneath his tan skin as the villagers whispered—but they whispered admiringly now. Daniel had grown, yes, but he had also risen. Taller than anyone in the room, stronger than he looked, softer than most would guess, and proud.
At the altar, Mason stood waiting, beaming. His dark shirt had been let out and patched more than once, and his arms were still thick with years of woodwork and hauling. He looked at Daniel like a man seeing the sunrise for the first time—awed, grateful, and hungry to share a life beneath it.
“You look incredible,” Mason whispered as Daniel reached him, and Daniel chuckled low in his throat, his belly brushing softly into Mason’s chest.
“Don’t say that too loud,” he teased. “I just got the robes to fit.”
Mason grinned. “Maybe I’m hoping you’ll outgrow them by the reception.”
Laughter broke through Daniel’s smile, and he leaned down to press a kiss to Mason’s forehead, his arms wrapping—slowly, carefully—around his husband-to-be.
They spoke their vows beneath the old beams of the chapel, surrounded by wildflowers and flickering candles. And when the final kiss was shared, the room erupted in cheers.
The curse had taken much from Daniel. His former life, his ease, his solitude.
The growth spell that the football team got into ended up keeping them all off the field permanently... luckily, they were able to transfer to rooms with enthusiastic encouragers. They wouldn't be attending classes anymore - all they could do was eat... and grow even more.
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