Fictional Gainer

[fictionalgainer]

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[fictionalgainer]

Matthias Pt. IV

The scooter groaned when he mounted it now—a visceral, metallic creak that hadn’t been there three weeks ago. Three weeks, and the scale had blinked 180kg at him this morning, the digits glowing like a verdict. He’d stared, shirtless, his belly hanging so low it obscured the number if he didn’t lean back. The sweatpants he wore now had given up entirely. The waistband cut a deep pink stripe under his gut, straining so hard the stitches threatened to burst.

The ride to the store was a symphony of discomfort. The scooter’s shocks bottomed out over every pothole, each bump punching his gut upward, the momentum sending ripples through his flesh that didn’t stop until he braked. His ass spilled over the saddle, the metal frame biting into his hamstrings, forcing him to lift his bulk slightly every few minutes to let the blood back into his legs. The wind needled his exposed gut—the hood*<35mmie hem had surrendered halfway there, a crumpled ridge of fabric trapped somewhere north of his navel. The cold didn’t bother him as much as the shame, the way drivers slowed to gawk, the silent laughter in their eyes. He pretended not to notice.

By the time he waddled into the convenience store, he was gasping. The automatic doors barely accommodated his width, the rubber edges scraping his hips as he squeezed through. The owner, a balding man named Raj, didn’t look up from his phone.

“You’re late,” Raj said, scrolling. “Again.”

Matthias leaned against the counter, chests heaving. Sweat glazed his temples, pooled in the crease between his second and third chin. His belly pressed against the countertop, the glass smudging with a greasy halo. He could feel his shirt riding up again, the small of his back tacky with sweat where the fabric had rucked. “Shut up and pay,” he panted. “Or I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Sit on me?” Raj snorted. “Your boys aren’t here to back you up. Get out.”

The threat curdled in Matthias’s throat. He’d rehearsed this, planned to sound menacing, but his lungs were still raw from the walk. He adjusted his hoodie, tugging it down in a futile ritual. The movement made his belly quiver, a grotesque dance under the fluorescent lights. “I’m not playing,” he growled, but even to him, it sounded like a wheeze.

A shadow flickered behind him.

He turned, too slow, too heavy, and the kick caught him just below his hip. The thud echoed in the cramped store. The owner’s son—140kg of soft, teenage blubber poured into a football jersey—grinned at him, his belly jiggling under the stretched fabric. Matthias stumbled, arms windmilling, but his legs betrayed him. His knees buckled, and he went down hard onto the linoleum, the impact shuddering through his flesh. His gut bounced like a waterbed, the underhang splap-slapping against the floor.

The humiliation burned hotter than the pain.

He rolled, snarling, but getting up was a production. He braced his palms against the floor, pushing until his shoulders screamed. His belly hung like a sandbag, pulling him forward, and when he finally managed to plant one knee, the sweatpants slid down his ass, the waistband snapping against his thighs. “You little shit,” he roared, but the son was already waddling—actually waddling—around the counter, his thick calves shaking with laughter.

Matthias lunged. His first step sent a shockwave through his fat, every jiggle a reminder of what he’d become. The son darted past cases of beer, his jersey riding up to expose a pale, dimpled back. Matthias lasted three strides before his lungs gave out. He doubled over, hands on his thighs, spit stringing from his lips. The boy vanished out the door, cackling.

Raj stood above him, smirking. “See you next month. If you make it.”

He limped out. The scooter seat groaned louder than ever when he climbed on. His body ached, his knees throbbed, and the hoodie lay in ruins, shredded where it’d snagged on the store’s door. He drove straight to the Burger King two blocks down.

The parking lot was blessedly empty. He ordered at the drive-thru, voice hoarse. “Two Whoppers. Large fries. A Coke. A… a family-size tendercrisp. And the biggest Oreo shake you’ve got.” The intercom crackled, but the acne-scarred kid at the window just blinked when Matthias pulled up, his scooter tilting under the weight of the bags.

He ate in the parking lot, still straddling the seat. The first Whopper vanished in three bites, the grease smearing his cheeks. He’d unbuttoned his pants on the ride over, the zipper teeth straining against his gut, leaving angry red marks. The tendercrisp strips went down whole, chased with gulps of Coke. His belly pressed against the handlebars as he worked, the plastic digging into his abdomen, leaving pink divots. The shame from the store faded with every swallow, replaced by the warm, leaden fullness pooling in his gut.

He warranted a glance*<35mm at his reflection in the drive-thru window—a hunched titan, sweat glistening on his swollen neck, the scooter buckling beneath him. The fries were cold by the time he finished, but he ate them anyway, licking the salt off his fingers. The shake went last, so thick he had to crush the cup to gulp it.

By then, his jeans were fully undone, the fly gaping, his gut spilling over the band like dough. His hoodie lay on the asphalt where he’d flung it in frustration. He’d need new clothes. Bigger ones.

Just this once, he told himself, staring at the empty bags. I’ll start tomorrow.

The scooter wouldn’t start on the first kick. He leaned, put his full weight on the ignition. The engine coughed. His belly folded over itself, squashing against his thighs, the fat gurgling softly.

Tomorrow, he thought, and revved the engine.

[fictionalgainer]

Sergeant Miller Part I

The air in the barracks gymnasium hung thick and stale, saturated with the scent of sweat and desperation. It was 0600 hours. Miller, sergeant, 507 pounds of strained uniform and quivering flesh, stood – or rather, leaned heavily – against a worn concrete pillar. His breathing was already a ragged wheeze. Below the straining buttons of his BDU blouse, his immense, flaccid belly swayed like a waterbed, a vast, pale landscape of stretch marks and deep creases that seemed to absorb the harsh fluorescent light. Every slight shift of his weight sent tremors through the gelatinous mass, ripples cascading outwards with a soft, wet slap against the tight fabric of his undershirt. He watched the new Lieutenant Colonel, Travis, stride onto the polished floor, his own physique a cruel reminder of a bygone era – lean, sharp, radiating contemptuous energy.

"Alright, listen up!" Travis barked, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. Miller flinched, the sound vibrating unpleasantly in his own barrel chest. "The stats are in, and they're a disgrace! This base is a goddamn obesity clinic! Starting today, that changes! PT, every morning. Diet plans. Accountability!"

Miller’s gaze drifted past the officer, scanning the assembled soldiers. It was a gallery of defeat. Men, and some women, whose bodies had long since surrendered to the same sedentary spiral he inhabited. Uniforms were comically tight, fabric straining over distended guts, thighs that rubbed together with audible friction. Buttons looked ready to fire like shrapnel. He saw Private Davies, a man whose chin had vanished into a cascading series of folds beneath his neck, already beet red, sweat plastering his thinning hair to his forehead just from standing at attention. Then he saw Rob.

Rob was a mountain. 573 pounds, easy. His uniform wasn’t just tight; it was a losing battle against sheer, overwhelming mass. The lower buttons of his blouse were perpetually undone, failing to contain the vast, doughy overhang of his gut, which sagged nearly to his crotch. His thighs were immense columns, pressing together so tightly they forced him into a permanent, waddling gait. His face, usually jovial and open, was currently flushed, a sheen of sweat already glistening on his forehead and upper lip. He clutched a half-eaten protein bar – a cruel irony – in one meaty fist. Food. Always food. Miller knew Rob’s ritual: breakfast tray piled impossibly high, snacks constantly ferreted away in pockets or hidden in lockers, a late-night parade to the vending machines. His caloric intake was a staggering monument to addiction, fueled by boredom, stress, and a profound, almost childlike naivete. Rob genuinely believed, deep down, he could ‘start tomorrow’, completely blind to the fortress of fat he’d meticulously constructed around himself.

"Right!" Travis continued, oblivious or indifferent to the collective wave of panic rippling through the room. "We start with a warm-up! Ten laps around the gym! Move it!"

A groan, collective and involuntary, rose from the assembled mass. Movement was agony. Miller pushed off the pillar, his belly swaying violently with the momentum, colliding against his thighs with a soft, fleshy thwump. The first step sent a wave of exhaustion through him. His breath hitched immediately, becoming a ragged, wet gasp. Each footfall was heavy, deliberate, a monumental effort. The fabric of his pants, stretched impossibly thin across his vast thighs and sagging ass, rasped loudly. He could feel the jiggle intensify with each labored step, his entire torso quivering like disturbed jelly. He risked a glance at Rob.

Rob hadn’t moved. He was staring at the protein bar like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic. His breathing was already audible – heavy, labored puffs. "C'mon, Rob," Miller wheezed, pausing beside him, leaning forward slightly, hands instinctively bracing on his knees. This caused his gut to poureth over his belt in a colossal, undulating apron, obscuring his boots entirely. "Gotta... try."

Rob looked up, his small eyes wide, innocent, and already defeated. "Sarge... I... I can't breathe just standing," he puffed, his voice thick. He took another desperate bite of the bar. "Maybe... maybe later?"

Miller knew. Later was never. He also knew Rob’s gear – his vest, his helmet – were useless relics. Rob could barely fasten his pants. Putting on body armor? An impossible fantasy. He watched as others began a painful, slow shuffle. Davies was already staggering, leaning against a wall after three steps, his face purple. Across the gym, a medic was helping a soldier who’d simply crumpled to the floor, gasping like a landed fish.

"Waddlers! Get moving!" Travis yelled, his voice like a whip crack. Miller flinched again. Waddlers. The word stung, accurate and brutal. He forced himself forward, each step a battle against gravity and his own suffocating bulk. The jiggling was constant now, a visible torrent of flesh surging back and forth with every movement. Sweat stung his eyes, soaked his collar, turned the fabric clinging to his massive back into a dark, damp pallet. He made it ten meters – barely a quarter of one lap – before his vision began to tunnel. His chest felt crushed. He stopped, leaning heavily, his belly slamming against his thighs, the air forced out of him in a wet gasp. He watched Travis’s expression shift from zealotry to something closer to horrified realization as he surveyed the gasping, sweat-soaked, immobilized parade of obesity littering his gym floor.

Miller found Rob near the exit doors, slumped against the wall, the empty protein bar wrapper clutched in his hand. He was eating a donut now, procured from god-knows-where, crumbs dusting his monumental chest. His breathing was a desperate, rhythmic hiss. "Told ya, Sarge," he mumbled around a mouthful, his voice devoid of its usual cheer, flat with exhaustion and the simple, crushing reality. "Told ya I couldn't." He took another huge bite, his eyes fixed on nothing, already retreating into the familiar, numbing embrace of sugar and fat. Miller leaned beside him, the vast, hot expanse of his own belly pressing against Rob’s equally immense side. The simple act of breathing was work. The gym noise faded into a dull roar. They were trapped. Utterly, completely trapped by their own flesh, by the relentless gnaw of hunger, by a system that had let them balloon into these grotesque parodies of soldiers. The new regime wasn’t salvation; it was just another cruel mirror reflecting the inescapable cage they inhabited. Miller closed his eyes, feeling the sweat trickle down the deep canyons of his back, listening to the symphony of strained breaths and the soft, ceaseless jiggle of hundreds of pounds of defeated flesh. The cycle continued. The buffet line awaited.

[fictionalgainer]

Matthias Pt. 3

It started. He sat. He held the handlebars. He did not pull out of the parking spot.

The edges of the static were louder now that there was nothing in his hands, nothing going into his mouth, just him sitting on the scooter in the cold October lot with the engine idling. His stomach gave a sound — not a growl exactly, more of a low negotiation, somewhere between full and insisting. He knew what it was asking. He'd been ignoring it at this level for the last six months the way you ignore a dripping faucet, until the point where the drip became impossible to ignore and then he stopped at somewhere and that was that.

He sat for maybe forty-five seconds.

Then he shut the engine off, swung back off the scooter with the reverse of the same sequence — thigh compress, belly lurch, hoodie ride-up on the right side, cold air on hip — and walked back toward the gas station.

The hundred meters back felt longer. His thighs were already complaining from the first crossing, a friction-warmth along the inner seam of the fat there that built with each step. His belly swung in its usual rhythm, the underhang bouncing against his legs with the metronomic persistence of something that had no investment in decorum. He was breathing audibly by meter sixty. Not labored, not in crisis, just — present. The breathing of a body that had a lot more of itself to move than it used to.

He went back to the gas station.

Two liters of Fanta. Three sandwiches in the cold case — turkey, chicken salad, BLT — wrapped in triangular plastic. A packet of muffins, four-count, chocolate chip. Then the ice cream from the freezer by the door, a triple scoop in a waffle cone, pre-made, sitting in the rotating display. He didn't think about any of it particularly, just assembled it, carried it to the register in two armfuls, paid, and came out with a bag that weighed something serious.

The walk back to the scooter was its own event.

He had the Fanta open before he'd gone twenty meters, the bag hanging off his left forearm, the ice cream in his right hand. The cold of the ice cream in October air meant he needed to eat it fast or it would start to drip badly, so he worked on it steadily while he walked, tongue and mouth occupied, and the walking and the eating together left no hands free for clothing management. His hoodie climbed with the walking. His belly swung. The cold air opened up along the underside of the overhang again with every step, that specific chill touching freshly exposed skin, and he couldn't do anything about it because: cone in right hand, bag on left arm, drinking Fanta when the cone was in manageable territory.

He was halfway across the lot and his belly was out below the hoodie — not an inch, not a polite sliver, but the full underhang, pale and heavy, visible to anyone at the right angle, which in a parking lot with cars bouncing light in every direction meant basically everyone. He didn't know how much was showing. He couldn't look down while walking without losing his balance and his hands were full. So he walked and his belly was where it was and the cold kept telling him about it and he kept not being able to do anything about it.

He made it back to the scooter. Breathing worse than before. The walk had put a real heat in his thighs now, and his lower back ached in the specific way it ached when he'd been on his feet too long, a deep pull from somewhere behind his kidneys. He set the bag on the scooter seat, took a long pull of Fanta, and held the ice cream in one hand while he fixed his clothes with the other. Shirt hem down, impossible. Hoodie hem down, marginally better. He pulled the hoodie hem and tucked the shirt simultaneously, got them both to the base of his belly, held them there with two fingers while he tried to eat ice cream with the same hand, which didn't work, so he balanced the cone against the scooter seat and used both hands to do a proper readjustment.

That lasted about four seconds after he let go.

He ate the sandwiches standing at the scooter. One, then the second, then the third. The turkey first, then the chicken salad, then the BLT while the Fanta was half gone. Between sandwiches he drank. Between drinks he ate. His jaw worked steadily and the sugar came in waves and his belly took it all in with the quiet industry of a machine running exactly as designed — not satisfied, exactly, but processing, accumulating, the mass of everything settling in the deep soft interior of his gut and his body logging it and saying yes, continue, more of this. The muffins went fast, one after another, dense chocolate chips, sweet crumb pulling apart in his fingers, dusting the front of the hoodie. He didn't bother with the crumbs.

When the second sandwich was gone and the Fanta was down by half, something shifted. Not fullness — or not just fullness. The static really did go quiet. Genuinely quiet, the background insistence that had been running since the first snack wore off, the constant hum of want, quieting to something that felt like neutral. He stood at the back of the parking lot eating the third sandwich and felt his body processing the input, the warm settling weight of everything he'd eaten in the last twenty minutes sitting heavy and real in the enormous middle of him.

His belly had grown visibly tighter. Not stretched, not uncomfortable exactly — just full, in a way that made the fat sit more forward than usual, the underhang pressing lower, the whole mass having a solidity that it hadn't had when he'd been hungry. The sweatpants dug into the lower belly a little harder. He reached down and adjusted the waistband uselessly. It went two inches. Stopped. His belly didn't care about the waistband. Never did.

He finished the last muffin. Drank the rest of the Fanta. Stood for a moment holding the empty bottle and the empty bag and the quiet settled feeling of having done enough damage.

He got on the scooter.

Same sequence as before: right knee up, belly lurch left, cold air on the hip as the hoodie rode with the raised arm, swing, land, suspension groan, seat disappearing under him, thighs pressing outward. He sat. He did the clothing adjustment — back first, waistband up what little it would go, hoodie down, then front, shirt and hoodie hem adjusted, pressed to the belly bottom, held for a three count. He started the engine. It caught.

He sat there for a second, both hands on the handlebars, belly sitting in his lap like it always did, rounded and warm and very full, pressing against his forearms. The Fanta and the sandwiches and the muffins and the ice cream and the earlier burrito and Haribo and Coke all sat in the deep architecture of his gut doing their collective work. His body was quiet in the way it was only quiet after enough, and enough had always been more than he thought it would be, and then more than that.

He pulled out of the parking spot, rolled toward the exit, and felt the scooter suspension labor quietly under his weight the way it always did, saying nothing out loud but saying it.

The hoodie hem had already started climbing again before he reached the street.

[fictionalgainer]

Matthias Pt. 2

The Haribo were family size. He'd reached for the regular and his hand had adjusted automatically to the larger bag without his brain particularly authorizing the change. He poured a loose fistful into his palm, tossed them in, chewed while pulling the Coke back up for another drink. The sugar moved through him in a wave — bright, immediate, correct. The static quieted a notch. He leaned against the scooter seat, not sitting on it but resting his weight against it, and ate methodically, tipping the candy bag up every few handfuls, chewing without tasting much, just executing the process. His belly rested against his forearm where it pressed against the seat. He could feel the weight of it, the heat of it through his shirt.

The burrito came out of the bag when the Haribo were half gone. He unwrapped the foil one-handed, holding the candy bag in the crook of his elbow, and started on it. The sauce was too sweet in the specific way gas station burritos always were, and it was good, exactly what he needed, and he finished it in eight or nine bites without really pausing between them. The chicken and rice hit the bottom of his stomach in a warm settled mass. He crumpled the foil, pocketed it, went back to the Haribo.

Coke gone. Haribo gone. He held the empty bag for a second, then folded it and put it in the plastic carrier.

His belly didn't feel satisfied. This was not unusual. His belly rarely felt satisfied in any way that lasted — there was a temporary quiet after eating, a lull in the static, but the edges of it were already returning, the soft insistent voice starting up again in the background even with food still warm in his gut. He'd learned to recognize the difference between the first wave of fullness and what came after it. What came after it was where he actually lived. And right now, standing in the back of a parking lot with an empty Coke bottle and a burrito wrapper, the second wave hadn't arrived. He was still in the first lull, the edges already fraying.

He got on the scooter.

The swing-leg-over motion required raising his right knee to somewhere near hip height to clear the seat. This compressed his right side, folding the belly slightly left, the mass shifting in a lurch, and pulled the hoodie up on the right with the raised arm. He registered the cold air on his right hip fleetingly as he brought the leg over. Came down on the seat with his full weight and felt the suspension go all at once, the seat flattening beneath him, the plastic panels pressing into the outer edge of each thigh past the point of comfort. His ass spread over the seat and past it, the seat disappearing under him, nothing but scooter plastic against the outer third of each cheek.

He sat. His belly sat. It pressed against the inside of his forearms where they rested on the handlebars, and it pressed against his thighs, and it occupied his lap in a warm heavy arc that sat forward and outward and simply was. He adjusted his arms out slightly to accommodate it. Normal. Just Tuesday.

The clothes needed attention. He reached back first — the back was always worse when seated, the seated position doing its predictable work on the rear waistband. He found the situation as expected: sweatpants down, the rear waistband somewhere in the middle of the ass crack's geography, his lower back exposed from there up to where the hoodie had also retreated to kidney level. He pulled the waistband up with one hand, got two fingers of improvement, pulled the hoodie hem down with the other, felt it catch on the sweatpants waistband and hold. Good. He checked the front. The hoodie covered the belly, barely, the hem sitting at the absolute southern limit of the fat in front, a millimeter's grace. The shirt beneath it was showing below the hoodie in a half-inch strip. He tucked the shirt under the hoodie hem with two fingers and accepted the result.

He tried to start the engine.

[fictionalgainer]

Matthias Pt. 1

The gas station doors slid open and Matthias stepped out into the cold with the plastic bag swinging against his thigh and the Coke already open, cap spun off and pocketed before his second step on the concrete. He drank walking. Not sipping — drinking, throat working in long swallows, the cold carbonation detonating against the static that had been building in his chest since the last thing he'd eaten, two hours ago, two entire hours, his body running its loud complaint the whole time and finally getting what it needed.

The parking lot was maybe a hundred meters end to end. He'd had to park at the back because the front spaces were full, which meant the full hundred meters now, from the entrance to where the scooter sat under the light at the far end of the lot. One hundred meters. He knew it was nothing. He knew that in the same detached way he knew other facts that had stopped being relevant to his daily life — like the fact that stairs existed, or that running was a thing humans could do. A hundred meters was nothing. And yet.

He was breathing through his mouth by the halfway point.

Not gasping. Not stumbling. Just — working, in a way that walking flat ground shouldn't require work, his lungs pulling harder than the effort warranted, a mild burn starting in the tops of his thighs where the fat rubbed with each step. His belly moved with the walking in that way it always did now, the full soft mass of it swinging in delayed pendulum arcs off his forward motion, lagging a beat behind his stride, carrying its own momentum like it had its own agenda. The underhang bounced against his thighs in a soft percussive rhythm. Each step: impact, ripple upward through the gut in a slow seismic roll, spread to both sides, return. The hoodie hem responded to every oscillation, creeping upward in fractions each time the belly swung forward and pulling the shirt beneath it in sympathy, both garments engaged in a steady retreat from where they were supposed to be.

He reached up with the Coke hand to tug the hoodie hem down. Felt it drop a centimeter. Took another step and felt it climb back.

The sweatpants were their own issue. They rode below his belly — had been riding below his belly for three weeks now, since the morning he'd tried to pull them up and his belly had simply refused to allow it, the waistband catching on the underside of the overhang and losing. Every day since he tried. Every day the result was the same: the sweatpants climbed to the lower belly, hit resistance, stopped. The elastic gave up. The waistband sat in a crease between his lower gut and his pubic fat and stayed there, his belly hanging freely over and in front of it, nothing underneath supporting the mass. No compression. No containment. Just physics.

The immediate consequence of this, the one he hated most, was how much everything moved. Before, the sweatpants had held the lower belly snug against him, damping the oscillation somewhat, keeping the jiggle from going fully feral. Now the bottom third of his gut was unsupported, and it swung and bounced with a looseness that had taken him a while to get used to and that he still hadn't fully gotten used to, because getting used to it required accepting what it meant. The cold air hit the underside of the overhang every time it swung forward on a step. Every single step, a crescent of cold against the most sensitive stretch of skin on his body, recently exposed, still registering that exposure as newsworthy.

He reached the scooter. Stopped. Put one hand on the seat and breathed.

His chest rose and fell. The fat across his back rose and fell with it. Sweat had already broken along his spine and under his belly in the warm fold where skin pressed against skin — it was October cold out here and he was sweating from walking a hundred meters across a flat parking lot. He gave himself a few seconds, staring at the gas station entrance, not thinking anything specific.

Then he opened the candy bag.

[fictionalgainer]

Summary of all my stories

Free :

Adam's weight gain

Nate's glasses

Patreon :

Max's weight gain

Jackson's secret

Link to my Patreon : https://www.patreon.com/FictionalGainer

[fictionalgainer]

Max's weight gain story summary (Patreon story)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

The remainder is available on Patreon !

[fictionalgainer]

Jackson's secret story summary (Patreon story)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

The remainder is available on Patreon !

[fictionalgainer]

Nate's glasses summary (free story)

Part 1

[fictionalgainer]

Adam's weight gain story summary (free story)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

[fictionalgainer]

Nate's glasses part I

In my little slice of heaven, an apartment decked out with the latest tech and a collection of history books that could rival a small library, I’m more than just Nate. Here, I’m a digital warrior, a historian, and a king in my own right. But even kings have their curiosities, and mine revolve around a daily mystery at the office.

Take Kevin and Luke, for instance. Every day, they show up in those oversized hoodies, like a uniform. It’s got me thinking – are they hiding a love for late-night snacks and lazy Sundays, just like me? But who am I to talk? I'm not exactly the model of fitness here, though I'd like to think I carry my 'extra comfort' well. Well, that's what I tell myself, anyway.

One day, I muster the courage to poke around a bit. I sidle up to Kevin's desk, leaning against it with my best attempt at casual. "Hey, Kevin," I start, "you ever dive into cooking? I'm thinking of trying some new recipes, you know, to mix things up. Maybe something healthy but tasty?"

Kevin looks up, a little surprised. "Cooking? Can't say I do, Nate. My culinary skills stop at microwaving popcorn. But hey, if you find something good, let me know. I could do with a change from takeout."

As I walk away, I can't help but wonder if I'm just seeing what I want to see. 'Maybe he's just not into cooking,' I think to myself. 'Doesn't mean anything more than that, right?'

Next on my detective trail is Luke. I find him by the printers, stacking papers. "Hey, Luke," I say, a bit too enthusiastically. "You into any sports? I'm thinking of getting more active, you know, trying to live that healthy lifestyle."

Luke gives me a curious look. "Sports? Not really my thing, Nate. I'm more of a book and coffee kind of guy. But good for you, man. It's important to stay healthy."

His response leaves me none the wiser about the hoodie mystery. 'Maybe they're just comfortable wearing them,' I ponder, feeling a bit silly for my overthinking.

Back in my apartment, my gaming haven, I dive into my online adventures. But as I play, I can't help but reflect on my own choices. 'Am I projecting my insecurities onto Kevin and Luke?' I wonder, my character pausing mid-battle. 'Maybe I'm the one who's uncomfortable with what's under the hoodie.'

The night moves on, filled with virtual victories and defeats. As I shut down my computer, the enigma of Kevin and Luke's choice of attire still plays on my mind. It's a harmless curiosity, but it also mirrors my own uncertainties. 'Who am I beneath my own hoodie?' I ask myself, half-jokingly.

As the sun rises on another day, I find myself staring at my reflection in the mirror. There I am, 22 years old, and well, let's just say I'm carrying a bit more than the average guy. About 95 kilos of 'a bit more,' to be precise. I tug on my baggiest hoodie, the one I convinced myself hid my pudge. But let's face it, the shape of my belly is becoming a more prominent part of my silhouette, no matter how much I try to suck it in. 'Maybe it's time for a new wardrobe,' I think, but quickly shove that thought to the back of my mind.

My curiosity about Kevin and Luke hasn't waned. If anything, it's grown. Could they be 'skinny fat'? You know, the type who looks thin but isn’t exactly in shape? As I get ready for work, I devise a new plan to uncover more clues. 'Today, Nate, you'll be a master of subtlety,' I tell myself, practicing a nonchalant expression in the mirror. 'Just two colleagues, chatting about regular stuff.'

At the office, I bide my time until the perfect moment. During lunch, I see Kevin in the break room, opting for a salad over the usual sandwich. 'Interesting choice,' I note to myself. Casually, I approach him. "Hey, Kevin, going for the healthy option today? Trying to stay in shape, huh?"

Kevin looks up, a forkful of lettuce poised mid-air. "Oh, hey, Nate. Yeah, just trying to mix things up a bit. You know how it is."

I nod, a little too eagerly. "Yeah, totally. I've been thinking of doing the same. Maybe we could hit the gym together sometime?" I ask, my heart racing a bit at my boldness.

Kevin chuckles, shaking his head. "Nate, I wouldn't last five minutes in a gym. This salad is about as athletic as I get."

'So, he's not a gym buff,' I conclude, but that doesn’t really clear up my original question.

Next, I spot Luke by the water cooler, his hoodie as ever-present as his quiet demeanor. I stride over, determined but casual. "Hey, Luke, you ever do home workouts? I read somewhere that they're pretty effective."

Luke takes a sip of water, then turns to me. "Home workouts? Nah, not really my thing. I prefer a good walk, maybe a light jog now and then. Why, you looking for tips?"

"Just curious," I reply, my mind racing. 'A light jogger, huh? That could mean anything.'

As the day winds down, I'm no closer to solving the hoodie mystery than I was before. But it's got me thinking about my own situation. Maybe I've been in denial about my own physique. Sure, I can try to suck in my belly, but who am I fooling? As I pack up my things, I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass door. 'Still bulky, Nate,' I admit silently.

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[fictionalgainer]

Adam's story part IV

The morning after their bar outing, Adam, still amused by last night's revelations, decided to send Mike a picture of his tight-fitting clothes, the fabric straining against his newfound curves. The text was playful, a continuation of their light-hearted banter from the night before.

Mike responded in kind, sending back a photo of himself in equally snug attire. The outline of his strained corset was just visible beneath his shirt, a silent testament to his own steady weight gain. The image was accompanied by a humorous caption about the perils of 'expanding investments.'

Their texts flew back and forth, each jest more playful than the last, until they had to focus on their respective days.

Adam found himself chuckling throughout the morning, but something about Mike's photo lingered in his mind. It wasn't just amusing; it was... intriguing.

Meanwhile, Mike, dressed in a suit for his job as a finance advisor, faced his own clothing challenges. Recently, he had made the mistake of sucking in his belly during a fitting. The result was a set of suits that were a ticking time bomb of popped buttons, especially without the aid of his trusty corset.

Later that day, Adam received a text from Mike, detailing the latest misadventure with his 'pressure-sealed' suit. Adam couldn't help but imagine the scenario, and to his surprise, he found the mental image rather appealing. Was he actually attracted to Mike's burgeoning belly?

This new realization was confusing yet undeniable. Adam had always seen Mike as a friend, a buddy to joke with and lean on during tough times. But now, there was an unexpected warmth accompanying his thoughts about Mike, a warmth that extended beyond the camaraderie of friendship.

As he pondered these feelings, Adam realized that attraction was a complex and unpredictable beast. Maybe his view of Mike was changing, morphing into something deeper, something more intimate. The idea was both daunting and exciting.

He decided to keep these thoughts to himself for now, not sure how to navigate this new terrain in their friendship. But one thing was certain: his relationship with Mike had taken an unexpected turn, opening the door to possibilities Adam had never considered before.

For now, he would continue the banter and the shared struggles with weight and wardrobe malfunctions. But in the back of his mind, Adam knew there was something more, a budding interest in exploring this new aspect of their relationship, wherever it might lead.

Adam surveyed his apartment with a critical eye. Fast food wrappers and delivery bags from Uber Eats and DoorDash littered the space. He was having Mike over for the first time in ages, and the state of his place reflected his recent lifestyle. But today, it needed to change.

Frantically, he began stuffing takeaway containers into the trash and running the vacuum across the floor. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.

The doorbell rang, and Adam's heart skipped a beat. Opening the door, he greeted Mike with a nervous chuckle. "Hey, welcome to the chaos I call home."

Mike stepped in, looking around with a smile. "Chaos? More like controlled disorder. I like it."

They settled into the living room, the conversation easy and filled with their usual banter. Amidst the laughter, Adam's phone slipped from his hands, clattering to the floor. As he bent over to pick it up, a loud crack echoed through the room.

"Oh no," Adam groaned, standing up with a hand clutching the back of his pants.

Mike burst into laughter. "Dude, did your pants just surrender to the pressure?"

Adam, red-faced but laughing, shot back, "They just couldn't contain all this awesomeness."

The air between them crackled with something more than humor. Their eyes locked, and they inched closer without a word.

"Adam..." Mike started, his voice lower than before.

"Yeah?" Adam's response was barely a whisper.

There was a pause, a moment of hesitation, before they both leaned in, their lips meeting in a kiss that was both unexpected and right. It was a kiss that spoke of the unacknowledged feelings simmering beneath their playful banter.

They pulled back slightly, still close, still feeling the warmth of each other's breath.

"I didn't see that coming," Mike said, his voice a mix of surprise and something deeper.

"Neither did I," Adam replied, his heart racing. "But I'm not complaining."

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of conversation, laughter, and shared glances. There was a new layer to their relationship now, a connection that transcended friendship.

As Mike got ready to leave, he turned to Adam, "This... This was nice."

Adam nodded, a content smile on his face. "Yeah, it was. More than nice."

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Adam's story part III

Adam's morning began with a battle, not against dragons or deadlines, but against the audacious snugness of his work pants. He wiggled into them, each tug a reminder of his vanished abdominal muscles, now replaced by a soft, jiggly belly that refused to be tamed. His shirt, equally rebellious, seemed to have shrunk overnight, intent on revealing just a hint more skin than workplace appropriate.

"Here goes nothing," he muttered, leaving his apartment with a mix of apprehension and a desperate hope that his clothes would remain intact.

Arriving at the supermarket, Adam took his place behind the cash register, trying to look casual while covertly pulling his shirt down and pants up. His new uniform was a game of wardrobe whack-a-mole he hadn't signed up for.

"Hey, Adam!" called out Jenna, another cashier. "Did you get a new outfit?"

"Yeah, you could say that," Adam replied with a forced grin, his hands stealthily adjusting his traitorous trousers.

As customers lined up, Adam's discomfort grew. Each scan of an item was accompanied by a strategic shuffle to keep his clothes in check. He felt like a contortionist in a circus act he hadn't rehearsed for.

Then came Mrs. Higgins, a regular known for her sharp eyes and sharper tongue. "My, my, Adam, you look... different. Is that the new style?"

Adam chuckled nervously, "Just trying something new, Mrs. Higgins."

She peered over her glasses, "Well, don't try too hard. You're spilling out like a stuffed turkey."

Crimson spread across Adam's face, more effective than any barcode scanner. He finished her transaction with a polite smile and a silent prayer for his shift to end.

The day trudged on with a few more light-hearted jabs from colleagues and customers alike. Each comment was a nudge, reminding him of his changing body.

Lunch break brought a moment of respite. He texted his friend, Mike: "I feel like a stuffed sausage in these clothes."

Mike replied with a laugh, "Just don't pop, man. You're too young to explode. Anyway, up for a drink tonight ? It's on me ! "

Adam replied "Can't refuse such generous offer, see you at the usual place at the usual time !"

Adam couldn't help but smile. Somehow, Mike always knew how to lighten the mood.

Later in the evening, Adam trudged towards the local bar, the promise of a few free drinks from Mike being the only thing lifting his spirits after a day of wardrobe warfare. The night air was cool, a stark contrast to the warmth of embarrassment he had felt all day.

He found Mike already there, a pint in hand, his usual boisterous self. "Adam, my man!" Mike greeted with a hearty laugh. "Ready to drown your sartorial sorrows?"

Adam managed a smile. "Only if you're ready to fund the expedition."

As they settled into a quiet corner, the conversation naturally drifted to Adam's day and his struggles with his weight. Adam sighed, "I just let myself go, Mike. It's like I'm wearing someone else's body."

Mike nodded, his expression turning serious. "I get it, man. But you're not alone in this." To Adam's surprise, Mike lifted his shirt, revealing a tightly fitted corset underneath. "Look, I've gained 10kg, and you didn't even notice."

Adam's eyes widened. "You're kidding! When did this happen?"

Mike chuckled, "While you were busy battling your pants, I was waging war with this corset."

The revelation that his always fit and confident friend was facing similar issues was a shock to Adam, but not an entirely unpleasant one. "We're in the same boat, then," Mike said with a wink.

Adam didn't feel better about his situation, but Mike had a talent for lightening the mood. He started teasing Adam, mimicking his struggle with his pants in an exaggerated fashion, causing Adam to burst into laughter.

"Yeah, yeah," Adam chuckled, "At least your corset doesn't try to escape every time you bend over."

The night wore on, filled with more laughter and candid conversations about their weight gain. Mike's ability to laugh at himself and encourage Adam to do the same was a refreshing change.

As they left the bar, Adam felt a sense of camaraderie he hadn't expected. Sure, his problems hadn't disappeared, but sharing them with someone who understood made them seem a little less daunting.

"Next time," Adam said as they parted ways, "we're going shopping for some 'expansion-friendly' clothes."

Mike laughed, "And maybe a couple of corsets for good measure!"

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I forgot to add that there is also a free tier, so you can get access to all the free content (Adam's story will stay free, and I'll make some other free stories in the future).

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Adam's story Part II

Adam's life continued its downward spiral, yet his outward demeanor remained as cocky and overconfident as ever. He clung to the belief that he could easily bounce back to his former glory, refusing to acknowledge the stark reality of his situation. The drastic change in his diet, a consequence of his tightened budget, went largely unnoticed by him in terms of its impact. Cheap, high-carb foods replaced the balanced, nutritious meals he used to consume, significantly altering his calorie intake and nutritional balance.

Adam's new job as a cashier was physically demanding, draining him of the energy once reserved for his rigorous workout sessions. He convinced himself that as long as he controlled his portion sizes, he could maintain his physique with fewer workouts. This belief, however, was a miscalculation.

Unbeknownst to him, his youthful advantage of a fast metabolism, which had once allowed him to eat without worrying about weight gain, was no longer in play. The combination of a carb-heavy diet, reduced physical activity, and natural metabolic changes due to aging began to silently take effect. His once prominent abs gradually faded, giving way to an accumulation of fat.

It wasn't until after a week-long holiday, spent mostly at home, that the reality of his physical transformation hit him. For the first time, Adam noticed that his t-shirts no longer covered his entire belly. His once-fitted pants now created a muffin top, and he had to suck in his stomach just to button them up. His clothes felt uncomfortably tight, a stark reminder of the changes his body had undergone.

What baffled Adam was that his weight seemed to have remained relatively stable, yet his body composition had shifted dramatically. The lean muscle that had once defined his body was now replaced by fat. This revelation marked a turning point for Adam, confronting him with the consequences of his lifestyle choices and the hard truth that his body wasn't immune to change.

The harsh realization that he had outgrown all his clothes hit Adam like a ton of bricks. As he rummaged through his wardrobe, a sense of disbelief washed over him. Each pair of jeans, every shirt, even his most forgiving clothes seemed to have shrunk – or so he wished to believe. The truth, however, was starkly different: it was his body that had changed, not the clothes.

With limited options and a tight budget, Adam knew he couldn't afford a new wardrobe. He was stuck with what he had. Determined to make it work, he picked out an outfit for the day, a task that had never been so daunting. As he lay on the couch, he sucked in his belly with all his might, struggling to fasten the button of his pants. The fabric strained against his waist, the seams threatening to give way. Every movement he made was a gamble, the pants uncomfortably tight, often slipping down to expose his butt, a humiliating new reality for someone who once prided himself on his appearance.

Next came the challenge with his shirt. It barely covered his now protruding belly. Desperate, Adam tried tucking it in, holding his breath to pull the fabric down. But the moment he let go, the shirt would spring up, the bottom hem creeping above his waistline, exposing his belly. It was a futile effort, a battle between his expanding waistline and the shrinking fabric.

Frustrated and embarrassed, Adam decided to call in sick. The thought of facing the world in clothes that screamed his personal failures was unbearable. Confined to his apartment, his emotions spiraled into despair. In an attempt to find some solace, he turned to food, something he had never resorted to before. Binge eating became his escape, his refuge from the harsh reality of his life.

Adam's week-long binge eating spree left him in a predicament he never imagined he'd face. With his food supplies depleted, he had no choice but to return to work, a daunting prospect given the physical transformation he had undergone. The extra 5kg he had gained, a result of his unchecked eating, added a new layer of complexity to his already troubled life.

The morning ritual of getting dressed for work, once a mindless task, had now become a significant challenge. Adam attempted his usual trick of lying down on the couch and sucking in his belly to button up his pants, but to his dismay, the button and hole refused to meet. The fabric strained, stretched to its limit, offering no more concessions to his expanding waistline. It was a disheartening moment, a stark reminder of how much his body had changed.

His shirt was no different. The days of effortlessly tucking it in were long gone. Now, even the act of sucking in his belly proved futile. The fabric clung to his body, outlining his newly acquired curves, the hem persistently riding up to reveal his belly. In a desperate bid for decency, Adam decided to don a pair of sweatpants, fully aware that they were against the dress code at work. But he had no other choice; his regular clothes had betrayed him.

The sweatpants, though more forgiving than his jeans, were not without their own issues. They too were tight, clinging to his hips and thighs, and had an annoying tendency to slide down, embarrassingly exposing large portions of his butt. To combat this, Adam ingeniously decided to wear a belt over his shirt, an attempt to keep it tucked in and maintain some semblance of dignity.

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Adam's story part I

Adam, a 19-year-old epitome of athletic prowess, stands confidently as the unspoken leader of his circle of friends. His days are marked by a vigorous regimen of exercise and a meticulous diet, sculpting a physique that mirrors the chiseled statues of Greek gods. With his razor-sharp abs and broad shoulders, Adam is the embodiment of youthful vigor and vitality.

But beneath this veneer of physical perfection lies a streak of arrogance. Adam, blinded by his own physical attributes, often finds himself scoffing at those who don't match his stringent standards of fitness. He harbors a dismissive attitude towards overweight individuals, often teasing them with a snide remark or a condescending look. This behavior, though unnoticed by him, sows seeds of resentment among those around him.

Adam's wardrobe choices are a testament to his vanity. He favors clothes that cling snugly to his body, ensuring that every contour and curve of his muscular frame is on display. His friends often hear him boast about the perfection of his body, a topic he never tires of.

The local swimming pool is his stage, a place where he feels his attractiveness is amplified. Here, Adam dons a speedo, deliberately a size too small, reveling in the way it accentuates his physique. He struts around the poolside with an air of nonchalance, often catching glances from onlookers. In his mind, these glances are admiring, even envious, as he basks in the glory of his own self-perceived allure.

Adam's life took an unexpected turn after he dropped out of school at 19. His days of carefree lounging, drinking, and relentless working out came to an abrupt halt when his parents, fed up with his lackadaisical attitude, decided it was time for him to face the real world. They kicked him out, thrusting him into a reality where his sculpted abs and athletic prowess held little currency.

With limited academic achievements and no significant work experience, Adam found himself at the doors of a local supermarket, taking up a job as a cashier. The job was far from glamorous, a stark contrast to the life of leisure and admiration he was accustomed to. Long hours on his feet, dealing with a constant stream of customers, and the monotonous beep of the scanner became his new routine. The job was exhausting, both physically and mentally, leaving him drained at the end of each day.

The pay was meager, barely enough to cover his living expenses. Adam managed to rent a small, sparsely furnished apartment – a far cry from the comfort of his parents' home. The walls were bare, the furniture minimal, and the space felt constricted, a constant reminder of his strained circumstances.

Despite these challenges, Adam's pride wouldn't allow him to reveal his struggles to his friends. He put on a brave face, masking his hardships with the same cockiness that defined his persona. But his friends weren't fooled. They noticed the subtle changes in him – the tired eyes, the less frequent gym visits, the absence of invitations to his place. They could sense the challenges he was facing, yet Adam continued to hide behind a façade, unwilling to expose his vulnerabilities and accept the helping hands that might have been extended.

Adam's financial situation spiraled further downwards, forcing him to make tough decisions. One of the first casualties of his budget cuts was his gym membership, a sacrifice that hit him hard. The gym was more than a place to work out for Adam; it was his sanctuary, a space where he felt in control and admired. Now, confined to his cramped apartment, he tried to maintain his fitness regimen, but it lacked the variety and intensity of a fully-equipped gym.

His addictions to drinking and smoking only exacerbated his financial woes. These habits, once easily funded by his parents' support, now gnawed away at his meager earnings. The stark reality of having to fund his own lifestyle was a jolt to Adam, but his pride and stubbornness prevented him from admitting the comfort his parents' financial support had offered.

In an effort to stretch every dollar, Adam began cutting corners in ways he never imagined. He started wearing the same clothes for two days in a row, foregoing his usual standards of personal grooming. His showers became less frequent, a tactic to save on water bills, but this only served to diminish his once impeccable appearance.

These changes, both big and small, began to take a toll on Adam's mental health. The confident, cocky young man who once strutted around with an air of invincibility was now grappling with the harsh realities of independence and financial struggle. Isolation crept in as he found himself without a support system. His friends, once a constant in his life, were kept at arm's length, leaving Adam to face his challenges alone, without anyone to help him navigate through this difficult phase of his life.