It’s his first day going in to the office for his new job. It’s a big promotion: he’s got an office just for himself waiting at corporate headquarters, a small team reporting to him, and a hefty raise. It's a big deal for both him and his partner.
He finishes buttoning his company-issued shirt, not loving how he has to let his belly hang over his waistband into the shirt-created hammock, but he’s a bigger guy and this is just how it fits. He loops his belt and tightens it under his belly, pleased enough with his appearance to start the big day.
Out of the bedroom and down the hallway, his lovely girlfriend is anticipating his arrival in the kitchen. The smell of sizzling sausages greets him even before she can.
“Oh you,” he grins, coming up behind her and using his extra height to rest his chin on her head, his belly at her back. “I told you there’s cafeterias there and I can get a discounted breakfast.”
“And lunch,” he adds, noticing his lunchbox, which is waiting for him on the counter and seems to be packed quite full.
“Well it’s just your first day, Mr. Big Shot,” she says. “Wanted to make sure you aren’t going in hungry, just in case you’re too busy to sneak away.” Sausages tumble from the skillet, landing next to the fried eggs and buttered toast. “And it’s just a couple snacks,” she adds, nodding to his lunchbox.
He knows better that to argue once the food is on his plate, and he is hungry, after all. He takes big bites to finish the breakfast off quickly and moves to get himself to work. Thanking her again with a kiss, work bag and lunchbox in hand, he makes his way down the six steps from their front door, turning to wave back at her partway down the driveway, then settles into the car for his commute, knowing she’s off to work shortly after.
The headquarters building is huge, but with a couple friendly directions he finds his office without much trouble. There won’t be any difficulty finding the cafeteria either, he thinks, noticing the unmistakable smell of bacon wafting in from nearby. His is the last office on the corridor before it opens into the large dining room, lines of people queued up for a company-subsidized meal, and this is just one of several that open at all hours of the day. He muses briefly whether it’s a coincidence that a bigger guy got the office closest to all this food, or if it’s some karmic strain placed on his diet in particular.
The first day is always slow, he tells himself, not worrying too much when he’s back on his feet ambling out of his office towards the breakfast line less than an hour later. He knows he’s already eaten, but figures trying the food is necessary before committing to eating here every morning. After a short line he’s got a hefty breakfast burrito with bacon, a large cinnamon roll oozing icing, and coffee in-hand as he returns to his office.
The food is excellent, and though he plans to stop himself before eating an entire second breakfast, the idle bites he takes while scrolling his inbox manage to entirely clear his plate before he realizes how much he’s eaten. His belt feels a little snug around his middle as he sits up to check his phone. His girlfriend is checking on him, sweet and thoughtful as ever. He replies:
Easy start, just had a second breakfast here, can’t make a habit of that!
She’ll be glad he’s not going hungry, and he really doesn’t have any chance of regaining his appetite before his new team comes by at 11:00 and suggests they get an early lunch together. He’s certainly not very hungry after two breakfasts, but in the interest of camaraderie he joins them. A cheeseburger, ample side of fries, chocolate cookie, and large soda later, he’s back at his desk having eaten three complete meals before noon.
Settling into his chair, he’s ready to be a productive employee for the afternoon, avoid eating any more that he already has, and finish out the day.
Except he can’t help that the lovingly-packed lunchbox sitting on his desk is drawing his attention. Pretty soon there’s a lull in his work and a hunger in his belly. He opens it up and finds a lovely, tempting assortment of treats. A bag of chips that he can’t help but tear open to have just a few, then munch away on the whole thing. Then there’s some chocolates. A bagel. Some cookies.
Before he realizes, the lunchbox is empty and his belly is uncomfortably full. He pulls at his belt a little, trying to adjust his bulk beneath the bloat. He decides to take a walk from his desk since he’s reached a good stopping point. Ease his digestion a bit.
But the walk from his office leads him right past the cafeteria where he talks himself into picking up a rather large blueberry muffin that he’s finished off before even making it back to his office. Brushing crumbs from his front as he reaches his chair, plopping down a little more heavily than he means to and wincing at the groan it makes beneath him.
He’s too full to manage any more excursions for the afternoon, more than content to stay stationary in his office for the remaining work hours. It’s an easy drive home, he changes into his joggers and a t-shirt, noticing his still-bloated belly is peeking out from below the latter despite his attempts to tug it back down.
When his girlfriend arrives home, her eyes dart towards his middle and he just knows his belly must be spilling out again.
“Good first day?” she asks.
“Yeah, not very busy. I’ve gotta eat way less or else you’re gonna have to roll me to the office in a few months,” he says with a half-hearted chuckle, some small part of him genuinely worrying he’ll put on a bunch of extra weight with this job if he doesn't manage to keep himself in check more than he did on this first day.
She smiles warmly and starts getting their dinner ready in the kitchen, her mind swimming with thoughts about how he’d look and feel with more than a few extra pounds softening him up.
Dinner is sauced pasta. It’s heavy and filling and though he doesn’t want to ask, he’s very appreciative when she takes his bowl and refills it for him. Garlic bread, the plate resting between them in the couch, disappears between bites of sauce. He’s rolled onto his side by the end of the meal, his belly oozing out in a thick slab onto the couch cushion as he stifles a belch and complains how much he’s overeaten already that day.
But when she brings a package of cookies over for dessert, those complaints seem to melt away and his hand is drifting between his mouth and the next sugary bite. She watches on, marveling at the visible size of his stuffed belly and how he. Just. Keeps. Eating.
She offers him a hand to heave him off the couch, patting his swollen belly affectionately as he grumbles something about not making a habit of eating like this.
Except the habits are already forming.
He winds up ravenously hungry upon arriving at the office if he doesn’t eat something before leaving home. And he usually takes himself for a mid-morning cafeteria meal, telling himself he’ll eat less at lunch if he’s not starving at midday. But he always manages to eat a full lunch anyways. Then he’s grabbing extra snacks or diving into the lunchbox when he’s bored or between tasks, which happens quite often. His dinner portions get bigger, too, and he’s never been one to resist sweets after dinner. All while spending most of his day planted at his desk or on the couch, hardly moving beyond his steps to and from the car and cafeteria.
Inevitably, he starts putting on a few pounds.
He can feel the extra effort it takes to fasten the buttons on his shirt. She can see the extra fullness on his belly and sides and chest. After a few weeks, he moves to the next hole on his belt. A couple weeks after that she suggests he gets a couple new pairs of work pants with some of the extra money coming in and it's unspoken between them that they'll need to be a size up. He sheepishly puts in a request for company-issued shirts in the next size, thinking they look huge until he puts them on and finds they fit rather well.
Every extra bit of space his clothes allow for, his body slowly grows to fill. Within a couple of months, she sees the red indentation lines from the tight squeeze of his pants starting to reappear on his hips when he changes after work. He's too stubborn to admit his home clothes need upsizing too, but his shirts are undoubtedly riding higher and higher up his rounding belly and his joggers are struggling to stretch over his thighs while straining against his ass.
The buttons on his work shirts are pulled taut against his middle, even at the start of the day. He's approaching the last hole of his belt. He's adjusted the seat in his car back further to accommodate the extra space his belly needs.
The inescapable evidence that he's slowly ballooning does get to him sometimes. He'll try to cut back for a day, managing to limit himself to only four meals, but his appetite returns with a vengeance shortly after and he eats himself out of anything approaching a calorie deficit. He feels his office chair slowly sinking lower each week and finds it harder to heave himself back to his feet at the end of the day, but hasn't bothered to find out if the gas lift can manage to hold him any higher with his extra weight.
His next concession to his growing corpulence is his belt. There aren't any holes left that can make it larger. He can squeeze it on at the beginning of the day, but it's pinching him under his belly by his mid-morning meal. When he sits down after lunch, it's uncomfortably tight. When he finally gives in and fumbles under his shirt-clad belly to undo his belt at his desk after lunch the first time, it's a relief to feel the pressure subside as his bulk rolls forward, unrestrained into his lap. Snacking that afternoon comes even more easily, and though he's tempted to just fully undo the button of his pants, he doesn't bother.
Within a couple weeks, he genuinely needs to undo that button when he sits to avoid his pants bursting open entirely. His belly sits firmly in his lap anyways, even if someone comes in to meet with him they won't be able to tell. And he hardly moves from his chair after lunch, so he rationalizes to himself that he can just unbutton until he's digested lunch, then refasten everything into place before he commutes home.
It all works fine until the first time he really can't seem to get them buttoned up again, even with a bit more effort than his usual struggle entails. Then he ends up more flustered than usual when it takes a couple tries to even heave himself out of his office chair, which has sunk to the lowest height and fails to hold up any higher for more than a few minutes if he’s sitting in it. Fortunately his pants are tight enough on his hips that he makes it to his car without them slipping down.
Arriving home, he's ready to curse out pants entirely when he can't seem to get his joggers up over his thighs. He foregoes pants and makes his way to the kitchen in just an ill-fitting shirt and his underwear, rummaging around the cabinets for his pre-dinner snacks, reaching up so his belly is firmly resting as a stack of rolls on the counter. He goes for the chocolate cookies that he's tried to keep from himself on the top shelf, knowing he'll devour the whole package.
His girlfriend comes in and gets a fresh view of him: the stretch marks dappling his sides and middle, the width of his back, the heft of his thighs. Every inch of him full and heavy; all before she's gotten a chance to make her growing guy his dinner. He's snacking right before a meal, but that's become a normal part of the routine over these few months as he's gotten a bit bigger.
A bit bigger, she admits, might be underselling it.
She pretty sure he's buying at least a few extra meals every day at work to have gotten so much heavier so quickly; it's been six months since he got promoted and he's easily put on fifty pounds, which added to his already-bigger frame has made him rather huge. She knows he works hard, she wants him to be happy eating as he pleases, and she certainly doesn't mind how the extra weight looks on him (or feels when he's on her). She allows herself to take in the dimpled hang of his belly, the fullness of his face, the way his chest and sides pull against his shirt to complement his every pound.
She walks up and gives him a peck on his cheek, her hand resting naturally against the side of his belly.
"Long day?" she asks.
"Mmmm, you could say that," he says. He gobbles up another cookie. "Couldn't quite get my pants buttoned after lunch," he admits, his face flushing as if his climbing weight wouldn't have been evident enough without this latest event. "It's been a real workout to button them at all actually. I've gotten too fat for them, I think…"
"We should just get you some new pants, I've been telling you it's silly to try and fight with your clothes like this," she says, leaning on the counter next to him, knowing his uncertainty about his size deserves to be handled with caution and care. "Let's get some dinner in you, then we can order some."
He pops another cookie in his mouth, shrugging. "At this rate, between your cooking and my job, I'm going to end up weighing a thousand pounds," he says, chuckling, as he heads for the couch with his snacks in-hand. They both know if he gets bigger pants, he’s nearly guaranteed to end up filling them out in no time.
She makes him a lovely dinner and he eats a little too much of it. He once again can't help himself at dessert and gratefully accepts her hands on his middle to soothe his aching belly after the meal, groaning as she affectionately feels up every pound that his new job has added to him; her fingers affectionately working across the rolls that his raise has gone into growing.
Soon enough his new pants arrive and she punctures an additional hole in his belt. He knows he’s bigger than ever, but for the first time in weeks nothing he's wearing feels too tight.
And the extra space only seems to give him more of an appetite. He doubles up on cafeteria breakfast, taking the overfilled tray back to his office and pushing his chair in close enough that his belly is pressed against the edge of his desk while he leans in and eats.
The double portion doesn’t even feel like that much when it’s gone, but his chair creaks beneath him like it knows how much he's eaten. He can feel the edges of his butt sagging over the sides of the seat, the arms of the chair more snug against his waist, but he’s not one to worry until something actually becomes a problem.
Eating double helpings, however, seems to bring the next problem on twice as fast. He’s having an impromptu with one of his team members one morning the following week, leaning back and eyeing the clock and deciding if 10:30 is too early for his first lunch, when the usual creak from his chair beneath him rings out as more of a strained groan…
The person across from him doesn’t say anything, but they’ve watched their boss balloon since getting this job so it’s no surprise he’s straining the limits of his office furniture.
“Did you notice if they had the cinnamon rolls out when you walked by?” he asks, trying not to notice the way his team member’s eyes drifted towards his belly before saying they weren’t certain. It’s when he goes to stand up and find that the chair doesn’t let go of his sides that he knows he’s in trouble. He makes it only an inch off the seat, his hips hitching on the arms, before landing back down, hard, his body wobbling within the .
The tearing of a seam comes first, as he feels his bottommost shirt button give way just below his bellybutton. Then there’s a sharp crack as the impact of his weight proves too much for the chair and he’s sent tumbling backwards, landing on his back, still wedged in the seat that’s come completely detached from the base of the chair. He's stunned for a moment, still feeling himself wobbling from the impact of his landing.
The crash is loud enough that others come running in to help, and it does take a couple extra set of hands to get him freed from the clutches of his seat and back onto his feet. He does his best to tuck his belly back in, but that’s mostly a lost cause with the missing button.
He’s treated very apologetically by the people in management who show up next, and he’s assured that a more study, suitable chair for him has been ordered. In the meantime, it’s suggested he works from home for the next couple of weeks until it arrives.
All things considered, he’s quite pleased at the idea of working from home for a bit. He heads to pick up some lunch, having a laugh with a couple coworkers about his bit of furniture drama that morning. After eating his fill (and allowing himself a couple extra sides in light of recent events) he returns to his office to gather his things and sends a picture of the destroyed chair to his girlfriend:
Looks like I’m working from home for a couple weeks. Any chance you put in with your boss for some remote days to join me?
Her response is swift and affirmative, her mind swirling with relief that he’s not hurt and something like pride that he’s managed to outgrow something so sturdy as an office chair.
She can hardly wait to have whole days to spoil him and watch his appetite in action. She's spent months wondering how much eating he gets up to during the day, but now she'll get to spend extra time with him and see first-hand how much he can really put away when he's got hours uninterrupted to indulge.
She can’t help herself from wondering what he might outgrow next if this trend with his weight continues…
| Part 2 >>>
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This is heavily inspired by @evermore-xxl’s fantasy about her partner gaining (substantial) weight after getting an office job, the many snacks she actually packed her partner for work that did, in fact, leave him straining his clothes, and that very same (fat, non-feedist) partner @cryptidmothmen who recently joined tumblr! Give 'em both a follow if you haven't already!
your massive pet catboy sits plump and pretty on the comparably narrow loveseat. although you bought it just a couple short months ago to accommodate their new, fattening body, they’re outgrowing the big plush chair already. their hips spill over the sides, the fat of their ass bunches up behind them and pushes their body awkwardly forward. that massive belly hangs down even more because of it and you can’t help but stare.
they shift around as best they can, the poor thing, muttering something about their size, or how hungry they are. it’s always one of the two. but you’re perplexed, you just fed them a full meal complete with 2 batches of desserts just 20 minutes ago, and they’ve already gotten so hungry to the point of whining? apparently the huge kitty’s equally huge appetite just will not surrender… and the fatter they grow, the worse it’ll get.
Just a little short thing this time, featuring a certain Hylian hero discovering the joys of cooking with butter! Inspired by @plumpybread whose art helps me visualize how to write larger sizes WAY better than I used to. I know he's like, a legend in the community already but if you haven't seen his work somehow, please check it out! His art is so good!
A cool breeze blew through the air in Rito Village, blowing south from the Hebra Mountains. Link suppressed a shiver, feeling the brisk chill around the bottom of his tunic. He adjusted the feather-lined garment quickly, pulling it down to cover his abdomen, but it immediately started riding up on him as soon as he continued walking. The Hylian grumbled to himself, opting to try and ignore it while he stocked up on supplies at the general store. Link walked into the cozy open-air hut, nodding at the Rito shopkeeper with a warm smile as he piled all of the goat butter the shop had in stock into his satchel. He handed a pouch of rupees to the Rito as payment before walking out of the store to head back out adventuring Hyrule.
Link didn’t want to admit it to himself, but the Hylian has packed on some pounds in recent months. Once he had discovered the joys of cooking with goat butter, he never looked back, and the delicious, creamy, fattening substance had clearly affected his waistline. The sliver of pale, soft chub that peeked out from his warm Rito Tunic gave him a slight muffin top, and his thighs ever so slightly brushed together when he walked. Link seemed ignorant to these changes to his body, though; mentally, he attributed his tighter clothing to an ill-advised attempt at making a fan powered raft that fell apart, plunging him into icy cold water while fully clothed. To him, the cold water must have shrunk his clothing somehow! It couldn’t have anything to do with his new culinary obsession, surely!
The pudgy Hylian sat at a cooking pot, sorting through his available ingredients. Link pulled out a slab of prime meat, a large hearty bass, some Hylian mushrooms, and a stick of goat butter. He paused, thinking for a moment. If just one stick of goat butter improved the flavor of a dish so much… Why not use two? Reaching into his bag, Link grabbed another stick of butter, and tossed it into the pot with the rest of the food, watching it melt and coat the meat and mushrooms, sizzling delightfully. As soon as his meal was done, Link immediately took an eager bite, too hungry to wait any longer. The flavors exploded in his mouth, coating his tongue in a rich, oily sensation. This was amazing! He scarfed down the rest of the pile of meat, seafood, and mushrooms, patting his pudgy stomach in satisfaction. Link knew one thing for sure now: he was going to have to keep trying butter in more recipes if it made them taste this good!
Months passed, and Link’s reputation for cooking rich, decadent meals for himself grew. Shops all over Hyrule knew to stock up on extra goat butter, as the eager Hylian hero would travel to each and every settlement just to get his fix. As his desire for egregious amounts of butter grew, so did his waistline. Link had absolutely blown up since discovering that adding more butter to his cooking made it taste even better. The Hylian man was undeniably morbidly obese, and many of the citizens of Hyrule were a little bit worried about how rapidly he had descended into obesity, but none of them felt brave enough to try and broach the subject with the rapidly-fattening hero.
Link has taken to using his Purah Pad to teleport him directly to each town to minimize the amount of walking he had to do. For some reason he had been getting very tired even from brief walks lately, and his horse had been similarly exhausted just from short rides. Link materialized outside the shrine at Hateno Village, taking time to gather himself before the arduous walk downhill towards the general store. He somehow still didn’t realize the cause of his growing problems was the hundreds of pounds he’d packed onto his body in mere months. Link’s body was bloated with lard, to the point that he was nearing half a ton of fat on his once-lithe frame. His face was framed by a set of cherubic chipmunk cheeks, already flushed and sweaty just from a few slow, wobbling steps away from the shrine. His neck was buried under a ring of flab, graduating him from a double chin to a pronounced triple chin. His once-toned arms were replaced with bloated sacks of blubber the size of pillows, sagging down his sides and forcing his arms out at an angle even when not in use. His elbows were long buried under all of this lard, and even his wrists and hands were beginning to plump up at the joints, making bending his fingers and grabbing food a chore. His pecs had ballooned into flabby breasts that were just starting to droop down either side of his gut. The tunic he currently wore, his blue Champions Tunic that he was given over one hundred years ago, was stretched tightly across his chest, functioning more as a bra than a more decent article of clothing and riddled with rips and tears from stretching across so much flab. His former muffin top had graduated into a stack of fluffy love handles, pooling over the straight waistband of his trousers and , when combined with his flabby chest, were half of the reason his arms stuck out at such an angle now. His bloated thighs touched at every point no matter how far apart his spread his legs to walk, forcing him into a pronounced waddle. He couldn’t even bend his knees anymore; the flab from his thighs had long since enveloped the joints, joining his meaty calves in the downfall of his once-proud stride.
His biggest asset, however, was his gut. The slab of lard was a monument to his gluttony, forming an apron of flab that sagged down to his buried knees. Every slow, measured step he took, his stomach slapped against his meaty thighs, sending his entire flabby body jiggling and wobbling endlessly. The obese hero was sweaty and exhausted after just a few steps, panting and wheezing from the exertion of shifting just under half a ton of fat with every shuffling step, but his craving for butter-soaked food kept him from giving up on his journey to the store.
When the sweaty, huffing pile of lard finally made it, he shoved the door open with his titanic gut, dreading what came next. Link knew intimately well that doors and him didn’t mix these days, even if he refused to accept or acknowledge why. The Hylian was an absolute wall of flab and rolls, trying to force himself through a tiny doorway. The shopkeeper could only stare in horror and fascination as the legendary hero attempted to squeeze his enormous bulk into the store, wheezing from the exertion. He grabbed the doorframe with his pudgy fingers, trying to force his double-wide hips through, but his rolls and folds were firmly wedged. Link continued panting and groaning, his bulky body oozing around either side of the door frame, when an ominous cracking noise started to occur. Suddenly, with a loud snap, the wood of the doorway and the surrounding walls splintered, and Link stumbled through into the shop, his entire body wobbling from the sudden forward momentum. Barreling forward at speeds his obese form weren’t meant to handle, the lard-laden Hylian hero overbalanced, landing on his cascading gut with so much force that it shook the entire building. Merchandise clattered to the floor from the display shelves as shockwaves rippled through his body like an ocean, and he lay on the floor gasping for air after all of his weight knocked it out of his poor, overtaxed lungs. The shopkeeper looked at the damaged doorway in horror, knowing that no matter how much butter the legendary hero was here to purchase, it wouldn’t pay for the repair costs, especially with his increased visits. Something had to be done about the gluttonous hero, but what?
After the disastrous incident at the Hateno General Store, shopkeepers around Hyrule had begun taking Link’s purchases to him as he waited outside their shops, to minimize damage done to their buildings. It was a solution, for sure, but many worried about what would happen when Link grew too large to make the short walks to their stores from the teleport points at the towns’ shrines. Many ideas were proposed: shop stalls set up right at the shrines just for Link, some sort of horse and cart system to carry the growing hero to his destinations, even a conveyor belt to carry him to the store entrances was suggested! However, Link ended up solving the problem himself while cooking one day. He’d begun using his Ultra Hand powers to help him grab ingredients once his arms became basically useless at grabbing things around his enormous bulk. As he sat on a log that his fat ass almost completely devoured, using his prosthetic’s powers to move a fourth stick of butter into the cooking pot for the large hunk of gourmet meat he was sauteeing, Link got an idea. He used his fat sausage fingers to switch the function of his hand to the Copy ability, which usually only worked for building materials. He noticed that the sticks of butter were able to be copied, somehow. Confused, Link decided to try it out, multiplying one stick of goat butter into ten, and moving the pile onto his chest where he could inspect them better. The sticks of butter had a gentle greenish-blue glow to them, but otherwise appeared to be normal sticks of butter.
Link devoured the butter-soaked gourmet meat as he contemplated the glowing butter sticks nestled between his ample breasts when suddenly he was struck by an idea. Straining against the rolls of his arm fat, he craned his overburdened arm towards his chest, grabbing a stick of greenish butter in his fattened hands. Link brought the strange butter towards his pudgy lips slowly, his bountiful lard making it hard for him to reach his mouth with his pillowy arms. He finally shoved the stick of butter into his mouth, the oily fats coating his tongue. His blue eyes lit up as he swallowed: it was incredible! The duplicated butter tasted even richer and more delicious than normal goat butter, and that was without cooking it! Link shoved his hands under his bloated pecs, shifting their mass upwards and forcing the nine remaining sticks of magical butter directly in range of his greedy maw. The greedy Hylian began slurping down the stack of entire sticks of butter while using his Ultra Hand to create more copies, piling them up on his chest within easy eating distance. Link had no idea of the future he had just very quickly resigned himself to with this discovery, but the shopkeepers of Hyrule wouldn’t have to worry about their entryways being broken anymore.
The citizens of Hyrule whispered about what had become of their legendary hero. Shopkeepers quickly noticed his increasingly-frequent trips to their stores had stopped abruptly, leaving them with mixed feelings of concern for what could have happened to Link, but also relieved that they wouldn’t have to keep paying for hefty repair bills anymore. Only those who were closest to Link knew where he’d ended up, and why he’d disappeared altogether. When asked by any concerned Hylians, they would simply assure them that Link was fine, comfortable, and happily retired from adventuring.
Sidon, the newly-crowned king of Zora’s Domain, walked swiftly through the thick underbrush of a secluded forest region tucked away from any towns or roaming travelers. The red scaled Zora knew the way to go intimately, having made the journey many times over the year or so he’d been coming here in secret. Plus, it wasn’t too hard to find what he was looking for—All he had to do was follow the sounds of loud gurgling and slurping. Sidon crested the top of a hill, looking down into what had once been a lush, forested valley. The trees had long since been buried, the valley completely filled by a churning, wobbling mass of pale flab. He knew the mountainous blob below him was his most cherished partner, Link, the hero of Hyrule.
Sidon hopped down from the forested hill, sliding on his finned feet until he landed on the soft form below. It was harder than ever to tell exactly what part of Link’s swollen body he was standing upon, but Sidon was pretty sure it was his stomach. His gigantic gut was constantly stuffed with the replicated butter that Link was somehow constantly creating more of, causing the cascading waterfall of flab to grow more and more every moment as his body worked overtime to convert the literal gallons of butter he consumed into adipose. Sidon could feel the mountainesque stomach below his feet groaning and churning, causing the blobby body of his boyfriend to always be in some sort of state of movement even after long ago losing his mobility.
The Zora king began the long hike towards the center of Link’s growing mass, clinging desperately to whatever rolls and folds he could grab whenever a particularly strong tremor shifted the oceanic mass like tides crashing upon a shore. Sidon crested the top of Link’s stomach rolls after twenty minutes of climbing, trying to identify more parts of the blob’s body to use as landmarks. He could pretty easily find Link’s breasts due to his nipples, though they were a lot lower down than Sidon was now. Link’s tits were so huge that they’d lost all shape and form, sagging under their weight to the point that they drooped towards the lowest rolls of his gut. He could also guess where Link’s arms were from the location of his chest, gazing at the swollen pancake stacks of rolls directly above the meaty breasts. Sidon figured that Link’s hands must be buried under literal feet of flab at this point, looking at the divots where they’d long ago vanished. Even if he could unearth his fands from all of that lard, there was no way he’d be able to use them for anything aside from his Ultra Hand’s powers; his digits must be so coated in fat that they’d be barely recognizable as hands anymore.
Once he’d figured out where Link’s useless arms were, finding his head was easy. Sidon looked at the recessed dip in the blobby mountain between the boulder-sized fat deposits that used to be Link’s biceps and forearms towards where a constant flow of glowing green liquid was manifesting and pouring downward into. Sidon swiftly scrambled over Link’s bloated cleavage, taking care not to slip; he’d once made that mistake and it took him hours to wrench his leg free from the cavernous crevasse. Once he’d crested the twin hills of lard, it was easy going from there, as Link’s chins had multiplied into a nice staircase of neck rolls. As he descended down, Sidon entered what could only be described as a cavern of fat formed by the encroaching mass of Link’s flabby jowls and collapsing back rolls. He followed the green glow of magically-duplicated butter deeper into the humid cave, the sounds of hungry slurping and desperate moans growing louder and louder. Finally, Sidon reached the end of the vast fat cave and approached his boyfriend’s bloated face eagerly.
Link’s face was no longer recognizable, so covered in flab that no distinguishable features remained. Fat has long ago collapsed over his forehead, covering his eyes completely. His pointed ears were buried between rolls of cheek and back fat, as was his golden hair. All that remained was his mouth, though even that wasn’t enough to recognize him by. His lips had plumpened considerably, and were pinched between his engorged jowls into a permanent pout as he sucked down hundreds of gallons of melted magical butter. Sidon didn’t mind though, he loved Link no matter how fat he got. The Zora hero plopped himself down on one of Link’s cheeks, kissing his partner’s flabby face before settling down to watch him eat for a while. One thing was for sure, Link sure made a comfortable bed no matter where you laid on him now.
God I wish I was a well fed stepson.... My stepmom's actual kid got away from her as soon as he turned 18 because she's an insatiable feeder. then she met my dad and remarried. I was around the same age her son was when he left, so she was doting fast and often
my weight wasn't a topic unless I brought it up and it was always brushed off. she'd tell me to hush because it's good I'm well fed. she'd push food on me and Id never fight back. Partly cuz fighting her sucked, but also years into this routine I did enjoy the massive amount of food she brought me without asking .
my dad did not care about my weight and neither did I, at least not enough to change something about it. he didn't care I didn't have a job either. If what his wife wanted was a neet to push food on to be happy then so be it. All I had to do was say no if I didn't want it.
her son comes by sometimes. He makes a face when he sees me. Kinda horrified. Probably imagining this would've been him if he hadn't left.
I'd avoid him but my stepmom's one rule is I can't have meals in my room. I'm sure she likes watching me eat. Or at least knowing I'm stuffing myself stupid in the other room.
she pushes food on him too but he refuses pretty firmly. he gets his one meal. She brings in dessert. Its about a hundred little brownie bites. He says no, of course.
I'm a little hesitant. I'm stuffed. Anytime her son comes around it's like she's upset he won't eat so it all goes to me. She doesn't wait for an answer when she gives me a plate with at least 10 of them. My hands automatically reach for the plate, and without much thinking I'm already eating one.
I can't say I really blame him. im breathless by the end of dinner, and I'm too uncomfortable to move. My belly spills onto my legs, forcing them apart. I'm a little too snug in the chair I'm currently in.
I have a few bites before calling it quits. She swoops in to hand feed me just a few more. I just open my mouth and chew slowly.
"I thought you liked brownies," she says.
"I do.." I say between breaths.
"Mom. He's clearly had enough," her son says. This is the first time he's ever tried saying anything in front of me.
Usually, he just talks to his mom in private. I get to hear sometimes. She thought he was overreacting and ignored anything he said regarding me.
"He hasn't finished his portion," she says.
"He's had more than one!"
I'm too shy to talk in front of her son. Its been at least two years since I've spoken to anyone besides online friends and my stepmom. I'm also struggling through an onslaught of muffled burping that's making me unable to talk anyways.
My mom notices, and massages the top of my belly to help with the discomfort.
"Alright, fine. He'll finish later." she relents. They were really good brownies, in her defense. I don't want the rest to go to waste either.
"He doesn't need more."
"He wants more," she says. I think I'm supposed to agree with her but I don't say anything. She starts pushing down on my belly.
"Right, baby?"
"M...Mhm," I nod in case that wasn't enough. My face is pained. I'm trying to stifle a whine and failing. She lets up once she's happy with my response.
the aliens who keep the humans in their care well-fed definitely have my attention. i assume they've calculated everything about human care, and they know their math is correct, so the humans' "refusal to cooperate" just baffles them.
-work anon
Exactly! This might be my first Earth mission, but I know what I'm doing, and I'm determined to get the test subjects back to planetside safe and sound.
Human's aren't used to a lower gravity environment, so obviously I've safely strapped them into palce and restricted their movement so they can't injure themselves.
Back on Earth they don't even have nutrient-rich synthetic foods yet, so it makes sense that they're a little nervous about trying them. That's why I've instructed the ship's AI caretaker to use the feeding tube if they're reluctant to consume their allocated daily servings.
It's honestly sad how frail and sickly they all looked when they first got on board. Lucky for them, I took personal responsibility for calculating their rations. I simply took how much they had been eating on Earth, added a healthy buffer for the fact that they had limited resources available to them, that they would need more protection from the cold of space, and that they might be stressed from their journey. A nice round 8,000 calorie daily allowance, delivered directly via flavour-enhanced mix in a continuous flow.
It's sad that they still seem stressed out about eeverything. They must still be in the survival mindset Earth had them trapped in. If they keep resisting I'm going to add a gentle sedative to the mix and increase their rations so they know there's no need to be worried about anything at all.
At least they're starting to look a little healthier, a nice doughy softness on their funny little limbs and bellies. I can't wait until we get them back to homeworld and I can take proper care of them, I just know they're going to really flourish.
I often fantasize about being abducted and forced into gaining hundreds of pounds. I'm already a big fat boy, but I yearn to be twice as big, to have my belly so swollen and bloated with fat that I can't reach around it. Kidnap me and allow me the freedom to live as a true pig by not giving me a choice. Force feed me, keep me full to bursting 24/7, until it's all I crave. Play with my tits and slap my growing gut while I'm forced to eat nonstop.
Nothing turns me on more than stuffing myself so full of food that it hurts, to feel my skin stretch from my unbridled gluttony and have to carry around the weight of my huge meal in my belly while I digest. My sides and back ache from the strain of being such a fat pig. When I'm that full it's difficult to reach my little t-dick-- I want to grow so fat that it's completely impossible to reach with my bare hands, even when empty. I need my belly to brush the floor when I'm on my knees, I need it to be painful and tender from being constantly overstuffed.
He's standing on the scale again, the thick slab of his fat belly and sides wobbling with his labored breaths as he leans forward enough to read the number. His mouth scrunches a little. Dissatisfaction atop his oversatisfied body.
"What is it?" his feeder asks, coming up behind him and resting a comforting hand on the shelf of fat made up by his love handles. "360! Oh my god, that's great! See, I told you those shakes were making a difference, that's up twelve pounds from last month."
"It's… not enough."
"Look, you've been literally drinking down as many liquid calories as you can. Every day. Three pounds a week is a lot! I know you want to be bigger, it's just—"
"I don't just want to be bigger," he says, his hands running soothing, longing lines along the stripes formed on his belly where the skin is already struggling to stretch over the fat being packed on, pound by pound. "I need to be bigger. So much bigger."
"We can try adding more fat. Cooking things in butter and maybe fitting another shake in before bed? I know you don't sleep as well on a full stomach, but…"
"It just won't be enough," he says, more than a little crestfallen. In the last half-year, he packed on sixty pounds. Ten additional pounds of fat was finding its way onto his body every month. His belly had widened and spilled out at his sides, started hanging lower and pushing out rounder against his shirts. His chest and face were fuller, swollen with fat.
But he needed more. And his feeder knew it.
"There is one thing we could try," his feeder says. His attention perks up immediately. "You remember my college roommate, the one that does that food science stuff? There's… something sort of experimental. But it's supposed to be pretty reliable…"
Not even a full second lingered before he could blurt out, "Yes. Please!"
His feeder goes into the kitchen and brings back a vial of liquid. He looks skeptical. "What is that some magic thing to make me gain a hundred pounds in an instant? Something out of one of those stories to blow me up?" he snorts.
"No, but it… you'll gain a pound a day. Every day that we add this into your food, if you really fill yourself with enough food, it's a metabolic—it doesn't matter, but you'll gain a pound a day with this. Should we try it out?"
He grabs one of his softened pints of ice cream from the counter, peeling off the lid and offering it to his feeder to as a vessel for the compound. "A pound a day, huh? Let's try it out."
True to the claim, when he stepped onto the scale the next day, he was exactly 361 pounds. This one pound felt more exciting than any of the previous sixty; it felt like it came with a near-certain promise of more. The compound made the shake sit heavier in his belly than normal, like his belly was somehow needing to stretch a little more into discomfort to accommodate that one single drop, but the next day brought another pound. And another the day after.
For the first week, he had fun searching for the extra pound on his body with his feeder.
"I think it was a tits pound yesterday, I can feel it," he laughs, waking up bloated on the seventh day and taking the blender into his hands to chug down the new day's shake, giggling through his greedy gulps as his feeder gropes at his swollen chest.
The first month brought thirty pounds as expected, bringing him to a heavy 390. His belly was rounder, his sides were thicker, his rolls and thighs visibly puffier with the as his body tried to allocate the weight around somewhat evenly. He was laying on the couch, his hands jostling his extra fat around, feeling for himself how much more of his belly rested against his widening thighs when his feeder brought the shake in.
"Are you sure we can't try more than a drop? It feels so good being able to tell I'm getting fatter like this…" he asks.
"If we pour the whole thing in, you'll still just gain a pound today, and then we'll be out," his feeder assures him, taking his belly in their hands and coaxing his mouth open to chug down his shake, watching as the creases on his neck bulge with his every swallow. His arms rested more against the swollen bulges of fat at his sides than against his torso. New, pink stretch marks were dappling his skin everywhere from his lower belly to his arms.
"What if I ate more?" he pleads, kneading his doughy fat with such intensity that it seemed he was expecting it to rise.
"I could spoonfeed you the most fattening thing you have in the kitchen, but you'd still gain a pound a day."
Grumbling a little, his plump face in a cute, eager pout, he goes back to tipping the blender against his mouth, making sure every drop slides down his throat.
By the end of the second month, things weren't fitting him well. His underwear waistbands had gotten tight, shirts clung to the roundness of his middle belly and let the bottom hang free. The warmth of the summer demanded shorts, but his thighs could barely squeeze into his biggest pair. His feeder shifted his wardrobe, everything elastic and forgiving and oversized as they continued dropping a pound per day into his swelling form. The 400 milestone had come and gone, the next day's pound always spurring him on.
"You could just not wear anything, you know," his feeder teasees, folding all of the once-oversized shirts that were now frayed and torn at the seams where his fattest parts strained them.
"I'd bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" he grins, lifting handfuls of his belly fat to show that there wasn't much exposed at all beneath it, given how much his thighs pressed together and his underbelly sat heavy against them. His feeder's hands admired and soothed every inch of his swelling body.
"At this rate, you'll be too big for anything in your closet next month," his feeder smirks, always wanting more of him.
Halfway through the fourth month, he was starting to feel the extra weight adding up. He was breathless, panting and red in the face from carrying groceries from the car. The exertion needed to move his body these short distances was proving enticing to both of them; it didn't take long for him to be breathless and panting on the couch for entirely different reasons.
His feeder was straddling his lap, pressing against the mass of his belly, with their thumb on his chin to guide it open for his daily shake.
"It's not getting to be too much? A hundred extra pounds isn't enough for my big guy yet?" his feeder asks, dangling the first drops of shake at the blender's edge.
"More. I can take it. I want it. Please," he says, that same eagerness from when he was a meager 360 pounds holding steady in his voice and on his face, "please make me even fatter."
As he gained, every day felt like another opportunity to feel the excessive weight affecting his body in new ways. He felt huge, and knew he'd get even bigger the next day. The next week. The next month.
His feeder started to take care of some of the little things: tying his shoes; holding the blender up so his heavy arms wouldn't get tired during his daily shake; lifting his deliciously-inconvenient rolls out of the way when their mutual affection for his body demanded reaching and spreading to reward his indulgence with even more pleasure. The almost-anxious need he'd felt to push himself to grow and grow at any cost was softened into a blissful relishing of how much of his day was filled with thoughts and sensations of food and his own fat.
Five-hundred pounds seemed like a good point to reevaluate. The number seemed so far off, until it wasn't. His weight climbed by a pound a day, but the sheer size of his body was reaching the point where even a couple weeks' worth of pounds seemed to be lost in the swollen, blob-like mass of his belly or the spreading rolls of soft fat on his sides and thighs. Spaces around his body were closing rapidly: his chin brushed his chest; his side rolls folded onto his butt; his thighs pushed each other apart until his belly was resting on the couch, demanding more and more space.
The shake with the compound would earn him his pound, but he was finding more and more that his love for the immense amounts of food he could eat was retuning. Why, after all, if he was going to gain a pound anyways, wouldn't he want to cram himself full of as many sweet, greasy calories as his growing stomach could accommodate? His feeder delighted in feeding him as much as he could handle.
"You know, five-hundred pounds was last week," his feeder says, tracing small circles on his immense belly as they dipped a spoon to scoop another mouthful of ice cream-soaked cookies into his mouth.
"Really?" he says, shifting a little, his weight making the couch groan, the distance imposed by his belly between him and his feeder making his mind tingle. "How do you know? I haven't made it onto the scale recently…"
"Because I can count," his feeder says. "The number is practically tattooed on my brain, then I add one to it first thing in the morning. Plus, these are unmistakably the tits of a five-hundred pound guy," they add, lifting and letting his swollen roll of a moob flop onto his belly. "You're 506 pounds, in case you were wondering."
"Mmmm say the number again?" he says, breathing heavily as he struggled to lean forward against his own bulk for his mouth to meet the next bite.
"Five-hundred," his feeder says, tipping the shake into his mouth, listening to his growing moans as the shake filled him and his feeder's hands pressed against the bloat. "Six pounds."
Six-hundred, he admits to his feeder, was really the number he wanted to experience. Big enough that he could retain some shreds of independence and mobility, but enormous enough to struggle a little. The colder winter months were designed for him to lounge on the couch, his body swelling to take up the tiniest bit more of it each day. The warmth of blankets, baked goods, his feeder's touch, and his own soft fat keeping him happy and growing.
He didn't need the scale anymore. His feeder would write the new number on a small dry erase board on the other side of the room so he could see it ticking up. 525. 526. 527. He wondered when he would feel it again. When he would have one of those oh shit moments about how much bigger he'd gotten. But the couch's support and his feeder's care kept him growing with ease. 541. 542. 543. The holidays arrived, with many extra treats for the big guy.
Tracking his weight wasn't enough. His feeder documented the spread of his hips, the size of his arms, the weight of his moobs. He became obsessed with finding new ways to quantify his fatness, eating his way through more and more of his day, most pleased with himself when his jowls were wobbling against his chest fold mid-chew.
The food was the work and the food was the reward.
The compound upheld its part and he continued his growth into spring as the impossibly-big 600 pound milestone loomed.
The weather warmed and with his feeder's help he emerged into the blooming yard at 598 pounds, not daring to sit on any furniture that couldn't handle his weight, feeling the warm rays of sun hitting all of the new fat that had accumulated on him since hunkering down for such a cozy, caloric winter.
"There's not that much left," his feeder warns. He looks up, face smeared with frosting as he eats his "happy 600 pounds" cake by the handful. The vial had a little less than a quarter left. "I should've known you weren't going to spread this out."
He grins. "I am spreading out," he says, leaning back on the couch and letting his fat splay outwards towards the arms, hardly any room for his dedicated feeder to join him to sit without being on or tucking under his bulk.
"What if… we just used it up," he suggests. He was heavy, very heavy, but he could still manage to move. He'd get some more movement in. The depth of his belly threatened to spill past his knees when he sat, the fat folding into thick, biteable rolls for his feeder to admire and attend to.
"You know I can't say no to you," his feeder says, their mouth locking onto their favorite roll on his neck as their hands interlaced with his and they made a meal of feeding him his shake.
The days passed more quickly now, though he moved less and less. He would accept some help heaving himself up from the couch to take few wobbling, breathless steps to the other side of the room. He spent hours with his hands running across the vastness of his own fat, knowing each day and each shake meant one more pound and one fewer day remaining that he could unwaveringly count on growth.
His hips and thighs reached the sides of the couch at 640. For fun, he showed his feeder how he'd outgrown the entryway to their kitchen by 650. "I guess it's really up to you if I get fatter now, I literally can't get to the blender" he says. His feeder only grins in return and lifts the shake to his lips again, utterly devoted.
Soon he shifted to counting down the pounds he had left to gain before the vial ran out. He estimated 30 left. Then 20. Ten, probably. Was it the 697 that mattered more or the ten?
Everything about his body drove him wild. Every dimple. Every fold. Every spot his feeder touch felt electrically charged by the swelling fat expanding his area of perception. His feeder spared no teasing detail about how utterly cumbersome his body had become to navigate and the intensity of their shared pleasure at those inconveniences grew together, too.
The last drop made its way into his shake one morning, topping him out at 714 pounds. His body was enormously fat, every part of him overflowing with soft, heavy flab that cocooned him and his feeder in their embraces together.
"I'm so, so huge…" he hasps, like an exhalation from the unrelenting journey he'd taken over the last year. His soft arms rested against his front, chubby fingers kneading constantly on his belly as though he needed to physically verify the weight was still there.
"Does it feel like you'd hoped?" his feeder asks.
"Better," he admits, taking the time to feel how the weight encumbered his limbs and begged him to stay as sedentary as he and his feeder would allow. "I can't believe we used it all."
"I can," his feeder says, warmly, their hand patting the middle of his belly to ripple out across the few hundred extra pounds caked onto his increasingly-shapeless body.
"I guess this is it then…" he says, with a sigh. His eyes and hands moving along every inch of his body they could reach, trying to soak in the feeling of being this big, knowing the compound-assisted gravy train had come to an end. His feeder's hands wrapped around him, sinking into the mass of his body.
"What if you… maintained," his feeder suggests.
"You mean… stay this big?" he asks, turning over his hands to survey his arms, thinking about the potential of carrying around this weight for more time.
"Yeah," his feeder says. "It'll take a lot of eating, but I think you might just be ready for that," they said, playfully squeezing the bulk of his cheeks. "You might need to really pile on the sweets and stuff to keep the weight on, but what's a few extra desserts a day when you're seven-hundred gorgeous pounds?"
"Feed me as much as you want, being this big I don't ever need to gain another pound," he says, moving his hips to entice his feeder to return quickly with his vanilla shake, grateful for everything the compound had given him and determined with his feeder's help to sustain all the weight he'd grown during the year.
Every single pound felt like the most important one he'd gained.
~
this one goes out to the ever-inspiring @stonednsoft, whose greed for his next pound is unmatched :)
