#fat fiction

[violetbeauregut]

Violet's Big Misunderstanding

It's been a while but I was inspired to write another feedee fantasy ❤️❤️❤️

Violet was browsing the ice cream section at the grocery store with her feeder at her back, absentmindedly rubbing her belly, when she heard the question. 

“When are you due?” The middle aged woman asked, her cart skidding to a halt. She gestured to Violet’s big, swollen belly and gave her a hopeful smile. Violet could see the barest hint of uncertainty in that smile. This woman knew it was impolite to make such an assumption, but was making the gamble because Violet’s feeder was worshiping her gut in a way that was almost always reserved for pregnancy. 

She felt her feeder press closer to her. He used the hands on her belly to gently steer her to face the woman. He ran a hand along the curve of her belly and said, “She looks ready to pop, doesn’t she?”

The woman chuckled goodnaturedly. “Any day now, then?”

Violet could almost feel his mischievous grin. He patted the side of her belly lovingly. “I swear she’s getting bigger by the hour.” 

“Well that’s perfectly natural, dear,” the woman said to Violet, reassuringly. “I was as big as a house by the time I had my first.”

Violet blushed deeply. Because her feeder had so readily played along, she was too ashamed to admit that she was actually just obese and not on the verge of giving birth. It was moments like these where she wondered if she had let things go too far–if she had let her gluttony and lust take her past the point of no return. It certainly felt that way, as her embarrassment at being so fat she was mistaken for pregnant warred with her arousal. 

Her feeder peered down at her, assessing her red cheeks and quickened breath. He moved around to her side and put a hand over her shoulders before making a show of squeezing her against him and rubbing her thick upper arm. “Aww, honey. There’s no need to get embarrassed; you are eating for two.”

The older lady nodded enthusiastically, saying, “He’s right. You’re pregnant, sweetheart, not fat. You just focus on growing that baby and you can always lose the weight later.” She turned her attention to Violet’s feeder. “Now you get that beautiful girl home and get her whatever she wants to eat. Make sure she stays off her feet too. Carrying around that belly is hard work.” 

Once the woman had given her fill of advice and walked away, Violet turned to him. “I can’t believe that just happened.”

He laughed again, reaching down and giving her gut a quick slap. “With how good you’ve been lately, piggy, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.” 

She blushed again, looking down at her distended belly. It was hanging heavily between her hips– a testament to how much fatter she had gotten recently. “I feel bad about lying to that woman though.” 

He pinched her chin and tipped her face back up to look at him. “Nothing we said was a lie. You are eating for two– for you and me. She made the assumption. And don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that. I know how wet you must be right now.” When she didn’t respond, he continued, “In fact, I know you enjoyed it so much that we are going to keep going. Okay, piggy?”

She nodded. She couldn’t help herself. If he gave her a choice, she would always surrender to him like the obedient sow she was. 

–

Violet waddled around the store holding an open bag of mini powdered donuts. The white sugar dusted her lips, fingers, and shirt (which had gotten so tight that it was riding up, exposing a strip of belly). The shopping cart was always in reach and trailing beside her. In addition to the fattening foods that were a regular part of their grocery runs, open wrappers and containers were littered inside. She had already eaten what would be a week’s worth of snacks for most people. 

It was frowned upon to eat in the store and then pay for the items during check out, but anytime an employee looked at her disapprovingly, her feeder would shrug dramatically and say, “cravings,” in an apologetic tone. She was left to gorge in peace after that. 

Violet was getting increasingly out of breath. Not only was she stuffed so full that her stomach was compressing her lungs, her walk through the aisles was more exercise than she was now used to. Not to mention that her heart rate would pick up everytime her feeder would make loud, teasing comments down the busiest aisles like, “pick up two, baby, I know that you’re going to gobble one up on the car ride home,” “let’s get the one with less sugar, the doctor said a forty pound gain was average, but you’re getting close to seventy,” and “careful, I know you feel like you have free reign to eat as much as you want right now, but remember that the weight has to come off eventually.” 

“I need to sit soon,” she panted. 

“Poor baby, I know that big belly is getting hard for you to carry,” he said. “Let me help you.”

He stepped behind her and let his hands trail over her wide hips until they snaked underneath her gut. He lifted her belly up with a quiet grunt that made Violet smile. 

Before she could even let him know what a relief it was to have him take some of the heft off of her lower back, a young woman popped up in front of her, excitedly holding her own swollen belly. Her’s, Violet could tell, really was a baby bump–and Violet could also tell by the way that only her belly was round while everything else looked tight and toned, that this woman was naturally thin and fit. She looked down at her stuffed, barely clothed pork belly that was covered in crumbs and sugar. She was immediately flooded with embarrassment. 

“Oh my gosh, we’re like twins!” The woman exclaimed. “I'm thirty-four weeks, but you look so much bigger than me! How far along are you?” 

“Any day now,” Violet mumbled, unwilling to lie so blatantly. 

“Oh how exciting! I’m sure you are both so ready. I know I can’t wait for my due date. I’m so sick of being this big and waddling around everywhere.” 

Her feeder laughed softly. “I bet! I’m sure you aren’t used to having to carry all that extra weight in your belly. You’re lucky though,” Violet’s feeder said, moving his hands to the side of her belly. “You’re all baby, but my Violet is swelling up everywhere.” 

After a few more pleasantries and the other woman’s sympathies that poor Violet’s fat distribution might mistakenly be seen as obesity rather than pregnancy, they finally got to the checkout line. 

“Have you finally gotten enough to eat, piggy?” He whispered in her ear. She nodded, rubbing the top of her tight belly. 

“I don’t think so,” He said with a smirk. He pointed to the rows of candy bars lining the top of the conveyor belt. He grabbed a handful of her lardy lower belly and gave it a little shake. “Go grab about six of them. You are eating for two after all.” 

She shuffled around to the front of their car and grabbed handfuls of chocolate, realizing too late that lifting her arms to reach the candy left her belly largely exposed and her deep red stretch marks on full display. She quickly scanned the faces of the shoppers around her as she desperately tugged her top down, but no one was staring at her or giving her the usual disapproving looks. Just when she thought she was in the clear, a hand that did not belong to her feeder landed squarely on the most round part of her belly. 

A large, strange man was now groping her stuffed gut. He rubbed hard circles into her belly and turned his head to speak to Violet’s feeder as if she were not even there. She was furious– were pregnant people really supposed to be okay with being touched without permission? Her feeder eyed her without responding to the man, ready to jump in at the first sign of her distress, but she gave him a look that kept him in his place. Violet let out a tremendous burp and giggled. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I ate too much.” 

“Oh, it’s alright,” he said, patting her belly again gently. “That’s to be expected with mothers-to-be.”

She feigned a look of surprise. “What? I’m not pregnant.”

The man looked at her and then back at her feeder as if waiting for him to contradict her. Her feeder just shook his head and Violet could tell he was trying to hold back a laugh. 

“No baby, I’m afraid,” he said to the horrified stranger. “Just a lardy pig belly.” 

The man released her and stumbled back, offering apologies as he fled. Her feeder hugged her from behind, his hands wrapped around her middle. He smiled into her hair and gently squeezed her fat, testing the softness with his large hands. “You sure are proud of this huge blubbery gut, aren’t you?”

“Aren’t you?” She challenged. 

“Oh yes, greedy girl,” he said, rubbing the swollen curve of her belly that had started their little rouse in the first place. “Now open that box of snack cakes and make it bigger for me. Next time I want someone to ask if you’re carrying twins.”

#fat piggy #feedee babe #feedee belly #feedee fic #feedee fantasy #fat fiction #fat belly #fatty #feedee girl #gaining weight on purpose #fat girls #feedee feeder #feed me #feedee encouragement #stuffed fatty #stuffed feedee #stuffed girl #stuffed piggy #sexy belly #gaining fat #piggy girl #fat girl #feed my belly #obese belly #belly k!nk #gaining kink #feeding kink

[mangoschub]

Make me so pathetically obese.

Feed me until it's downright sad how heavily I breathe from the slightest bit of exercise aka the short walk back to the car from McDonald's.

Relish in how everybody around me is judging how I could possibly have blimped up so huge before the age of 20, knowing you enabled my addiction and made me unshakeably obese.

Get me so heavy I sound downright delusional trying to boss people around, my muscles and endurance caked under a profuse layer of thick fat. So dependent on someone who can actually touch their toes for the simplist of tasks. So dependent it's so easy to answer "Or what fatass" knowing I can't do anything in response.

Funnel such an excess of boost and shakes into my greedy mouth I'm pinned down. So weak guys aren't even slightly intimidated by my blubbery overmass moaning, groaning... overexerted just trying to get up off a chair. So pathetic anyone not gluttonous enough to eat a days worth of calories in a meal can't help but turn and laugh at my expense at the "lardass" trying to boss them around when he can't even see his penis, let alone his toes.

#chub #chub kink #chubby #gay chubby #chub4chaser #chub4chub #fat man #gay gainer #male weight gain #gay belly #fatboy #fat belly #fatty #fat #fatfiction #fat fiction #gaining weight on purpose #weightgain #wg encouragement #wg kink #weightgainencouragement #weightgainstory #weightgainfiction #obesity #getting fatter #wg text

[pangtasias-atelier]

Summoner's Sedentary Supports: Seteth

Got this churned out in between a very, very long piece that I don't know when exactly will be finished so enjoy this indulgent nonsense involving ridiculous sizes again lol

Warning: This is a fetish story!

In the very distant, most remote wing of the Order of Heroes brick white castle—the area originally physically remodeled a couple of years back before being magically reinforced another year afterwards—the entire wing is only occupied by the Order's summoner and all of the men he's supported. The area would appear vacant from the lack of activity in the expansive hallways, if not for the loud whirring of machines sounding out from every room alongside the small yet incessant tremors that ring out from varying unknown gurgling sources, said sources all ones that Kiran intimately knows and takes care of. The only room that currently displays some different sort of sound is Seteth’s.

“Look how comfortable you are once you start enjoying yourself,” Kiran lays down on Seteth. Despite weighing a hefty 600 pounds, Kiran's own girth is nothing more than a speck when next to Seteth; he only takes up a miniscule of space on Seteth's corpulence, the rest of Seteth's titanic body more than large enough to fill up every inch of his office back in Fodlan.

Seteth's flab fills up his current room even now, his stomach alone that's larger than a demonic beast pressed up against the wall and seeps past the door the few times it’s opened. Though he thankfully has no need to concern himself over running out of room through Kiran's magical assistance in giving him an ever expanding room to keep up with Seteth's ever soaring weight. 

Seteth's face is marred with a blush; his engorged, bloated cheeks are embarrassingly red. His jowls spread out to the sides with all the weight piled onto them like the rest of his body. Each over bloated cheek rests heavily on Seteth's shoulders, his; the bulging porcine jowls take up a portion of Seteth's vision — the rest of it taken up by the expansive nature of his figure when Kiran isn't tending to him. Seteth's cheeks drape past his numerous folds of neck fat that leave his neck looking like a stack of pancakes. 

Seteth's blush only grows brighter as Kiran pulls out his feeding tube, the deluge of slop still one of the most intoxicating concoctions to him despite eating more than enough of it to fill up a pond every single day. “I…” Seteth takes a small break, wheezing to catch his breath.

“You what?” Kiran peers down at Seteth from his position of resting on Seteth's back.

"P-Perhapsh II aahm …-hfffbUAARRP-... enjooyiing' mysheehlf,” Seteth's embarrassment grows after his burp, the ever stoic well put together man still unable to lose the habit, even when he weighs enough to outsize an entire house. 

Kiran pets Seteth's head, running his sausage fingers against the green strands of Seteth's hair. “Really? I couldn't tell. I thought you just allowed yourself to become a useless blob on a whim,” Kiran's hands drift lower and gently pat Seteth's porcine jowls, his cheeks far too large for him to hold  —even with both hands. “I guess that explains all the moaning and the way you greedily devour everything I give you,”

Seteth's body is a testament to Kiran's claims. Seteth's immense enormity spreads out in all directions, the billowing mass of lard resembling a mountain more than anything remotely human. The fact that Seteth manages to have something resembling an outfit is almost as impressive as his size. Seteth's white pants are as pristine as ever; the stretchy miles of numerous yards of fabric that make up his pants work their magic to keep him clothed. They aren't perfect with the multiple holes and tears in them from Seteth’s room sized thighs however. His thighs lack much of a shape to them, his bulging legs billowing out at the upper portion of them and tapering down at the lower parts of his legs. Seteth's feet are sunken underneath all his girth; his black boots help point out where his feet are with how large he is, his barely visible shoes similarly sinking into his flabby calves. Seteth's ass juts out behind him. His ass is even wider than his legs, the pile of fat for a rear stretching his pants. Pressed up against the back wall of his room, the lard climbs up the wall with the lack of space until the next space enlargement. Which Seteth needs when his ass is wider than his office, the enormous rear large enough to where it stretches out for several feet behind the rest of his girth. Seteth's torso isn't far too different from his lower half with all his weight being rather equally well spread out. His gut is mostly uncovered, the bottom most rolls of his gargantuan gut exposed with his shirt and capelet combo only reaching so far despite the swaths of fabric used to cover him up. Seteth manages to somehow still wear a belt; the thin strip of fabric has been cut up and more has been amended to it to lengthen for his growing waist. The belt goes around his gut, the white strip partially obscured underneath the immense weight of his breasts and arms. The part that goes around his backside is lost underneath a sea of thick back rolls. He astonishingly manages to have it clasped, the long enough to be wrapped around a carriage a couple of times specifically made for his enormity. His blue capelet is unbuttoned, the white fabric of his undershirt and his sleeves exposed; his flabby arm rolls that he can no longer move bulge against the fabric. Seteth’s biceps resemble piles of lard, the once built arm muscles hidden under a deluge of lard. The flab from his arms press up against his shoulders. And Seteth’s breasts rest heavily on his gut that surges out in front of him, his breasts nearly rivaling Kiran’s own hefty, obese state. Seteth’s gut manages to only have three main rolls, the three large portions of his belly much larger and flabbier the lower the rolls are. His breasts go past the uppermost roll of his stomach, his chest straining both his shirt and caplet. His capelet also goes nearly all the way down his back —only the lowest rivulet of flab visible as it sags past the waistband of his pants and seeps on top of his ass.

A strand of green hair drapes over Seteth’s fat forehead, even Seteth’s circlet made larger to accommodate for his enlarged girth. Seteth tries his best to blow it out of his face, his puffed out cheeks jiggling in between each deep, panting breath as he does his best to ignore Kiran’s truth about his self’s enjoyment on simply giving in and glutting out. Except the strand keeps falling back on his face.

“Need a little help?” Reaching one hand to clasp Seteth’s hand, the two’s flabby fingers trying their best to do so at their sizes, Kiran uses his other hand to push the bit of hair out of Seteth’s face. 

“Thaank ...youh,” Seteth smiles, not saying much as Kiran returns the smile/

He traces his fingers across Seteth’s blubbery face, his index finger rubbing against the shape of Seteth’s facial hair. Kiran eventually shifts his attention to Seteth’s pointed ears that are no longer hidden under his hair. “Remember when you could use your arms?” Kiran squeezes Seteth’s hand. 

Seteth’s smile widens, a small huff escaping him at Kiran’s teasing. “I eehnjoohy -huff- eaahtin… aahs much aahs Ih pleahshe..” Seteth pauses for a moment to recuperate his breath. His eyes never once waver from Kiran’s own gaze. He does squint his eyes upon Kiran pinching and shaking his cheeks. “Juuhsht ahsh y-yooouh -pant- are content’sh… toooh -uurrPPHhh- waahtch…” Seteth’s stomach grumbles. 

“It’s only been a few minutes and someone’s already hungry. Not that I can blame ya when your large self can eat enough to put almost the rest of the entire Order to shame,” Kiran teases Seteth but summons a portal without a fuss nonetheless.

Smelling the aroma of food causes Seteth’s gut to ravenously gurgle, the tons of lard demanding more calories to enjoy and glut on. It doesn’t help when Seteth already knows what awaits him with Kiran’s usual taunting, content grin. He lets out a belch while Kiran takes his sweet time, the walls of the furnitureless room rumbling from the tremors. “Whhyy dohn’tshya hurryy… -hnngh- uuhp and -wheeze- geht mee sohmee…fooood,” Seteth demands with another wall trembling belch, his own corpulence wobbling from the sheer force of it.

“Alright alright. You’ll get all the food you want,” Kiran reaches out for the first dish of countless others. “Though you’re going to have to be patient, unless you want me to make a mess like last time,” A grilled herring in hand, the fish paired with rice and vegetables —with plenty of extra butter of course— Kiran doesn’t wait much time or any at all before feeding it to Seteth.

And in turn, Seteth greedily devours the food that’s thrust into his mouth, Seteth voraciously chewing for a scant few seconds before swallowing everything Kiran feeds him. And despite the notion he used to take great care of maintaining his dignity, Seteth’s blubbery cheeks do get dirtied by the sauces of his several meal sized portions for appetizers as he guzzles down the food. Not that he cares.

Kiran pauses for a few moments to wipe away at the mess Seteth makes, the mess on his face far from a surprise to Kiran once Seteth finally gave in like he wanted to long ago when he first began to pack on a few pounds. “So messy and demanding. Not that I mind. I’ll make sure you’ll have as much food as you desire,”

Seteth only moans in response, his half lidded eyes barely paying attention as he enjoys his usual daily routine.

#my writing #fat emblem #male weight gain #ssbhm #feeder emblem #fat fiction #maleweightgain #the S supports

[envihellbender]

The cleric in the party is often thanked by people they heal with gifts of food. After a particularly long detour dealing with war sick the cleric is waddling and wheezing, struggling to keep up.

Characters: Montauk (OC), Shadowheart, Karlach, Astarion (Baldur’s Gate 3)

Content: weight gain, feedee/feeder

—

Montauk frowned and attempted to figure out where they were as Karlach and Astarion bickered above him. He tried to follow back from where they had come from but based on the directions they came from they should’ve been next to a river. However, they were on a path in the middle of a forest. They had had a bit to drink at the feast the village put on for their cleric, he supposed, that was when he suddenly realised there was a voice missing.

“Wait- where’s Shadowheart?” Montauk asked suddenly, head poking up from the map. He turned around worriedly, his brow furrowed. Astarian and Karlach looked at each other, around, then back to Montauk and shrugged.

“I last saw her at the village where we helped them refugees,” Karlach answered, she scratched her temples and fidgeted on the spot as she continued to look around.

“Oh yes! They were a delightful bunch, must have been nice getting such a huge feast for you all,” Astarian said sarcastically. His arms were folded and he pouted a little.

“Look, fangs, I’m sure if you told them they’d have slaughter some nice bears for you.”

“The feast wasn’t for us, it was for Shadowheart, I only got two portions of soup…” Montauk said offhandedly. His eyes widened as he remembered, it was quite the affair seeing Shadowheart be so spoiled, he found it difficult to focus on anything else which may explain why they had become lost.

“Yeah, and to look at your girl all full and bloating and pretending you didn’t wanna ride her until you saw stars,” Karlach grinned, delighting in teasing the awkward tiefling who was usually so charismatic but got so shy when Shadowheart was mentioned.

“I- I no, I-” Montauk spluttered, his cheeks burning in embarrassment. “I just mean maybe she- you know, got left behind.”

“Maybe her gut got stuck under the table, or she broke a bench and couldn’t get up,” Astarian suggested, a small smirk on his lips.

“Montauk would definitely have noticed if she had,” Karlach teased. “He would’ve ravaged her belly and tits right there-”

“Shut up, I’m trying to-” Montauk snapped before he was interrupted by loud footsteps and wheezing, thick panting. The three of them turned towards the noise which was around ten feet down the path towards the way they came. Shadowheart was waddling towards them, her face a deep red, her plump cheeks nearly covering her eyes that watered and gathered in the folds of her plump, dimpled face. Her plump lips couldn’t close between her jagged breaths and her chest was rising and falling rapidly. Montauk couldn’t look away, enraptured by the way her breasts rippled and shook, already plentiful but now they were gigantic and threatening to break the silver fabric that barely contained them. They sagged and hung, crushing her belly beneath them, which also rippled and shook with every breath. Her clothing no longer contained her lower fat roll, it hung underneath her best and over her breeches, the pale adipose hanging past her knees with her navel poking out. Her thighs were clearly sore and red underneath the tears on the inside and outside, and her tree trunk legs swayed back and forth as if she struggled to keep herself upright.

“Well, there’s the guest of honour herself, do you think she can make it to us or shall we meet the pig princess halfway?” Astarian chuckled. When Montauk threw a glare at him he cleared his throat and looked away. Montauk hurried over to her, having dropped the map carelessly.

“Shadowheart!” He called, wrapping his thin arms around less than half of her torso and pecking his cold lips on her warm cheek. “There you are. I’m so sorry-”

“No- no need,” she wheezed, her pale cheeks burning in embarrassment. “Just please- please I-” Montauk place a pale gold finger on her swollen lips.

“Save your breath and strength, love, we’ll set up camp. Sounds like you’ve burned off so many precious calories, we need to build them back up,” he said quietly, lust growing in his orange eyes, his tail swaying from side to side lazily.

“Ah, yes, yes of course,” Shadowheart panted, a shy smile filling her face. “They did quite the- the thank you but-”

“But now it’s all going to waste,” Montauk tutted playfully, groping her bottom belly roll. “Come on, let’s get you somewhere nice to sit that plentiful arse down whilst we set camp.”

#envi writes #fat fiction #extreme weight gain #ssbhm #feedee/feeder #bg3 weight gain kink

[cigarette-smoking-bird]

Feedist Kinktober '23, Day 15: Werewolf / Sweater Weather

On a secluded rural homestead, a man brings a meal home for his mate. (BHM, SSBBW, romantic, non-explicit. CW: Wolf-on-stag violence.)

Better late than never; it's been a rough October. Combining the two prompts for this one was a lot of fun.

"The Weight Clinic" continues to do numbers, but I'm a little bit bummed that nothing I've written this month has gotten any uptake. This one's wholesome and romantic (unless you're a deer), so please reblog if you like it! A full index of my Kinktober '23 stories is here.

--

She stands in the doorway, a mug of steaming hot cider in her hand. "I can't believe you're grilling outside at this time of year."

"Why not? Look at that beautiful blue sky."

"But it's chilly!"

"Come warm me up, then."

She smiles. "Okay."

She steps out onto the deck, moving slowly towards him. Her thick wool sweater, new this season, fits just slightly loosely, but her jeans are snug over the bottom half of her belly, which quivers most of the way down her thighs. He cocks his head towards her, a smile on his face, and watches as she moves behind him to wrap her arms around his waist. He's easily a foot taller than her, and so her belly is pressed against the backs of his thighs as she stretches her pillowy arms around his love handles, not quite able to reach all the way around his own ample belly.

"I can't believe you're wearing a t-shirt out here." She slips her hands underneath the shirt to grip and heft the sides of his belly hang. Squeezing him tightly, pressing her belly against him, she can feel a hint of the muscle beneath his soft, thick rolls of chub. She slides her hands under his belly. "My poor fingers are so cold. Can I leave them here?"

He laughs and flips a cut of meat on the grill. "Okay. But don't distract me. I've gotta treat this meal with respect. A living creature gave its life so we could eat tonight."

"Mmmm." She snuggles her head in against his back, feeling the warmth of him against her fat cheeks. She sinks her fingertips into his thighs, feeling the powerful muscle underneath the fat. He laughs again. "That new sweater looks cute on you. I don't know why you're so chilly. Not when you're even better insulated than I am."

"Am I, though?" Her hands slide out from under his hang to trace the enormous arc of his belly beneath the shirt. She runs her fingers through the thick dark hair on his belly, then looks up at his face, his long dark hair cheerfully dishevelled, a few days' stubble somehow giving definition both to his strong jaw and the thick double chins that ring it. Their eyes meet and he smiles back at her. She sighs, closes her eyes, and pulls in tighter.

--

A tidy little homestead. Rows of vegetables mostly empty and gathered in now, a few gourds and beans still fattening on the vines for the last few weeks of autumn.

A meadow, a thicket of underbrush, a pathway into the forest.

His senses shift, becoming sharper and keener. He drops lower to the ground. His body changes. His motion quickens.

The prey is already in his nostrils as he moves through the darkness, leaping swiftly across a stream and darting through fallen leaves to follow the trail of scent. In a clearing his eyes catch sight for the first time: a stag, moonlight glistening off his antlers. Powerful in his own way. A king, and prey for a king.

The chase is long and difficult. Twice he nearly breaks his neck on a steep scree of rocks, the stag leaping effortlessly ahead of him, almost mocking.

He can already taste the flesh on his tongue. The thought would drive him mad if he weren't a creature of cunning as well as instinct. The stag seems to leap from a cliff before scrambling down a crevasse as he pursues. Here in the deep darkness, even the moonlight blocked by tall evergreens, an early frost has begun to form in the underbrush. He pauses. The moment lasts an eternity.

There. A slight crackle, almost indistinguishable from the rustle of leaves. All instinct now, he leaps. Before the stag can react, his jaws are deep in its neck. Hot blood flows across his muzzle, dripping onto the frost. The stag sinks to the ground.

A clean kill. You fought well, he thinks. Thank you. He is suddenly aware of his fatigue, of how long the chase through the cold woods has lasted.

Fangs become teeth, claws become hands. Grunting, he hoists the carcass across his back and sets back up the crevasse, moving slowly and cautiously now as he passes through the darkness of the forest.

A thicket, a meadow, then rows of garden. A small stone house and a full moon in the starlit sky above it.

She's already asleep. His senses still adjusted to the darkness, he cleans and dresses the kill without turning on the lights. This will keep us fat and happy all winter.

He towels himself clean with cold water and slides into bed next to her, his belly against her back, his arms as far as he can reach them around her belly. He stretches and yawns, placing a hand just beside her navel. She stirs in her sleep and nestles her head against his chest. His muscles, tense from the hunt, relax.

--

Sometimes it's like she can read his mind. She opens her eyes. Up in the bright sky she can see the afternoon moon, as fat and round as she is, just a thumbnail smaller than it was last night.

He flips a cut of meat one last time. Crisp on the outside, tender within. "Perfect. I've done it justice."

"Good. I'm hungry. The pies have been cooling on the counter all morning and I was starting to worry I'd end up eating your dessert for you." She hefts his belly. "And that would be a shame. You were out late last night burning calories, weren't you?"

He nods. "I was. You made the pumpkin, right?"

"Pumpkin and the apple. And there's a squash casserole with plenty of butter. And mashed potatoes. Fried potatoes, too. Come on in and drink some of the cider while I set the table. I put some of the good whiskey in it."

"That's my girl." He smiles, flips another cut of meat onto a tray, and reaches around to squeeze her. She laughs as his powerful fingers sink into the soft fat where her belly meets her thigh.

"So what have you been cooking out here?" she asks.

He smiles. "Venison."

#feedist kinktober #feedistkinktober #fat fiction #feedist fiction #fat4fat #fat werewolf #wg fic #wg story #wg fiction #fat romance

[battybattybattybat]

The incredibly talented @littlekingterry created this for me. He even used descriptions from a specific scene in my WIP to illustrate the food! 😍

Fantastic eye for detail and a gift for drawing gorgeous fat guys! 😈

#ssbhm #fat fiction #feedist fiction #monster smut #ssbhm belly #monster fucker #ssbhm art

[darlingfeeder]

Sea Salt Beach Boardwalk, Ep. 1

Katie is a large woman, no one has ever denied that. She's a true local; she practically grew up on the boardwalk. Therefore, she spent all of her summers as a kid begging her parents for candy at the candy shop, all of her teenage summers flirting with the boy behind the ice cream counter (who was all too happy to give the chubby girl some free ice cream now and then), and as soon as she turned 18 she started working at the Candy Factory Sweet Shop to make some money and sample the merchandise as she pleased.

Katie's favorite candy in the shop is the handmade fudge. It's easy to make, very filling, and tastes sooooooo good. With her employee discount making it basically free, Katie eats at least an entire block of fudge every shift. Since they have dozens of fudge flavors to choose from, she never gets bored of it. Their caramels are also known for being fantastic, as is their taffy. Those aren't very filling, but they're a tasty little snack to pop in your mouth. The artisanal chocolates, Katie has found, are great gifts for welcoming new faces to the pier. They're like, addictingly good, and almost always ensure repeat customers.

Katie takes most of her lunch breaks at the Fry Hut with her best friend Sarah. They chat and gossip and giggle as best friends do over buckets and buckets of french fries, fried chicken, fried fish, corndogs, onion rings, and even more french fries. About three times a week before work, for breakfast the girls would get what they called 'beach babes brunch' from a diner just off the shore which consisted of a tall stack of pancakes, bacon and eggs, and iced coffees-- Katie took hers with mostly cream and only a little coffee.

Her steady diet of fried snacks and candy meant that after 10 years of working at the Candy Factory, the chubby teen had blossomed into an enormously fat woman. Her long luscious blonde hair frames her double chins, round cheeks, and wide smile. She has strikingly wide hips (good thing the shop has a wide double door, she needs it!). Her big belly rests on her lap while she sits behind the fudge counter. Her belly jiggles when she laughs with customers as she does every day. She is always full of candy and zest for life. Katie is the poster girl for fat and happy.

She worked her way up to manager of the Candy Factory, but she kept her first uniform as a keepsake. Adorable that she ever fit into an XL polo shirt. In the shop office, there are photos of the staff from every summer dating back decades. Katie loves these pictures not only because they remind her of her old friends, but because they show very clearly how much she grew over the years: from just over 200 pounds her first summer to a glowing 254 pounds the following year, on and on with a new uniform to fit her growing body every season until this year: She'd accidentally outgrown the largest size the uniform manufacturer makes! At a heavy and still growing 517 pounds, 28-year-old Katie finally got to create her own uniform, though sometimes she still wears her old one, just to show off how tight it is.

Recently, Katie's Candy Factory got a new hire. Katie is working on training Jen, whose resume for retail work was strong, but seems to lack the enthusiasm for sweets. Jen has a particularly dark demeanor; you'd guess by looking at her she never really left her goth phase. Her baby blue Medium work polo looks comically cheery against her jet-black hair and facial piercings. Jen is a college student who's only working for the summer, but Katie is determined that in just three months she'll teach Jen what makes candy so wonderful, even if it means she has to feed her new samples every day. Besides, Katie thinks, Jen is so skinny anyway, she could use some candy in that belly.

#SSBoardwalk #Fat fiction #Katie

[afatlotofchance]

Commission-story 2: The Glutton's Way of the Cross

From a cute little teenage romance and slice of life story, we jump into a completely different territory. More mature. More brutal. Darker.

Let's go to the most fanatical and backward parts of the Middle-Ages. Let's have some non-consensual force-feeding, some brutal gaining, and some painful fattening.

Trigger warning for violence, brutality, torture, all the gruesome side-effects of force-feeding, and other nasty things.

XXX

The monk at the door of the monastery scrutinised the horizon, waiting for the cart to appear at any moment.

“Well, brother Francis?”

Another monk had just joined the first one. Taller, thinner, and definitively scarier.

“I don’t know, brother Gilles… He is late. The bells have rung, but I still can’t see him.”

“Lateness is a symptom of laziness, and laziness is the son of sloth. Sloth is the weapon of the devil.”

“Indeed, brother Gilles. Do you think our food will be poisoned?”

At this moment, a cloud of dust arose from the road as the cart filled with the weekly food delivery approached.

“He is driving faster than usual.” Brother Francis noted.

“Well, he knows he did wrong. At least he shows signs of repentance.”

“I would say he rather shows signs of fear.”

“One leads to the other, brother.”

The cart finally arrived in front of the two monks.

“Well, my son? What kept you so late?”

“I was attacked, fathers!”

The monks opened wide their eyes.

“Attacked, my son?”

“Yes! A robber pushed me out of the cart and tried to steal it, with all the food inside! I still have a nasty bump from the hit! Thankfully, he got caught: he couldn’t control the horse!”

Brother Gilles looked at the horse. He always disliked horses – he knew a devil could be in them at every moment, spying on his every move.

“Do you hear that, brother Francis? A thief tried to rob us of our food!”

“I heard that, brother Gilles… My son, tell me, what happened to said thief?”

XXX

The small delegation of monks travelled through the streets of the little town. Every one they met on their way saluted them with a deep respect. Much more than simple politeness and respect for the man of the cloth, they rather acted out of the fear of what they considered dangerous and disturbing.

The monastery at the edge of the town wasn’t really liked around here. Not that the people hated them, they had too much respect for the religion for that. And these monks weren’t the kind that would revel in money and power to drink, eat, and lay with women like so many others did. But they also weren’t the kind to preach kindness and generosity like they were supposed to. You certainly weren’t going to see these ones begging, preaching, teaching or helping those in distress. Oh no.

The monks came rarely in town. They liked loneliness and to be secluded, working on the constant repentance of their own souls, for they knew the rest of the world had fallen ill beyond cure. They were so strict, so devoted and so pious that it became sickening and grim; and it was all the more frightening because they didn’t seem to remember what virtues and goods their own religion revolved around.

They were pale of skin, for they fled the hard work in the sun and buried themselves under stone roofs. They were thin, almost skeletal, for it seemed they only gathered food in their home just to not eat it. Their eyes were small and squint for spending their time in darkness and reading too much. But the worst of it were the marks of their… very specific devotions. Bruises. Scars. Burns. Sometimes a finger missing. One of the monks couldn’t speak, for his tongue wasn’t in his mouth any more – but nobody knew if the muscle was removed before or after he entered the monastery.

As a result, it was understandable that the crowd amassed on the town’s square would part like the sea before the old prophet at the mere sight of them marching towards the gallows.

Today, there was only one man to be hanged. The thief, brother Gilles guessed. He stepped forward and looked at the criminal. A small man near him was shouting at the crowd, explaining the boy’s crimes. But the monk did not listen to him – for he knew the crimes of the mortals and the sins of God were completely different things. The thief was young, barely a man, and he looked terrified. His hands were behind him, probably with rope around them, and the noose was around his neck – nicely tight. His eyes were wide open, jumping everywhere like wild rabbits, searching for a bit of help or mercy. He was sweating a lot, and his face bore the marks of terror – marks the monks knew very well. And they knew that with fear came redemption, repentance and faith.

“Stop!”

Everybody looked at the monks.

“Are you going to simply hang this poor young man like that? Without any form of trial? Without any form of judgement? Without any form of advice from the men of God?”

The small man looked quite embarrassed.

“Father, this man was a thief. Not only is he a thief, he is a sacrilegious thief, for he tried to steal your cart of food as it was leaving our town. The law claims that we should hang him.”

“The law of men, my son, not the law of God. God never said anything about hanging people – hanging other people is pagan, and hanging ourselves is only worth of a Judas, not of a petty thief. Thieves are to be crucified.”

The young man gulped down despite the noose around his neck, and he became even more pale and sweaty. Brother Gilles smirked. That was the reaction he was waiting for.

“But, as you said, he stole our belongings, our property, our food. We should have a word about his punishment.”

The monk got up on the gallows’ platform, and close to the young man. He was without a doubt a peasant – shirt, pants, small vest, a strong lace instead of a belt. His clothes were still dirtied with the dust and the mud from his failed crime attempt. He was young, as the monk had already noticed – young but stocky and bulky. Broad shoulders, thick chest, strong legs. He definitely looked like a worker, a hard worker, a farmer probably, certainly not a blacksmith. However, some elements of his morphology clearly showed a propensity towards sloth and gluttony. A soft flesh. A big belly, not round but slightly more prominent than the chest (never a good sign, for it meant the man’s heart was in his belly). A baby-like face, with fat cheeks and a double chin.

“How many years have you seen pass, my son?”

The boy gulped down once more.

“I will soon be sixteen years old, father.”

“You stole our food.”

“I was hungry!” the man cried out. “My father is dead, the taxes are heavy, my crops all withered and died! I don’t have enough money to buy bread, I would have died, only God could help me, and I had to do it, I succumbed to the temptation, for I was weak, and my belly ached, but…”

The monk put a hand on his mouth.

“Your head is shaved.”

“Huh?”

The monk took his hand and touched the top of his head.

“Your head is shaved, like those of our orders. Why so?”

“Keeps… keeps the little biting bugs away.”

“I see… Clean. Do you regret what you did?”

“Yes! Yes, so much, father, I repent father, please, I don’t want to be hanged, I’m not a criminal, I’m a faithful good…”

The monk made a sign to make him stop his pleas. Then he got near the small man that was shouting the boy’s crimes earlier on. He took him by the shoulder, leaned towards him and whispered in his ear:

“What do you know about the young man? Is he gluttonous? Slothful?”

“He certainly is both, father, everyone knows it around here! His father kept complaining that he was a good-for-nothing, a big belly with legs and without a heart! And when his father died, he inherited his farm with his field, but he never managed to get anything to grow there! I think he never really put any real effort in it, he just wanted to eat his own crops and had no patience to take care of it as he grew! Just a big gullet with legs, as his father said! Good for nothing.”

The monk nodded and turned back towards the young man, speaking loudly for everyone to hear:

“Hanging a man is not a dignified or Christian way to make him die. You are young, terrified and repentant. You are a sinner, yes, but if God executed all of the sinners on this Earth, only the pope would be left! We, as men of god, offer you a way to be punished for your crime while staying alive. A way that would purify your soul, make you repent and become a better person! We offer to punish you, not with a vulgar execution, but with a penitence! We will punish you like God Himself would!”

The crowd started to whisper.

“You shall be punished by where you sinned. Your mouth, your throat, your gullet.”

He got closer to the boy, his cold icy eyes straight into his. The young thief shivered in fear of the dreadful punishment that was awaiting him.

“Do you know what they do in Hell to gluttons?”

The young man shook his head.

“They are fed for all eternity. And so you shall be.”

The boy looked at him strangely. Was it… a joke? He never heard of a monk making a joke, even in in-jokes.

Brother Gilles turned towards the crowd.

“We will punish him by feeding him! He wanted to eat, well he will eat, until he realises his mistakes and his sins! He devoted his soul to the false god Gluttony, but we will show him the truth behind the lies, we will make him realise that food isn’t sustaining the soul, that what evil can offer is nothing but sickness and death! We will show him that eating isn’t a proper way to honour God!”

The small man, uneasy, looked at the executioner, who simply shrugged.

“Father… You want to feed him? That’s not…”

The look the monk gave him silenced him in the minute. Brother Gilles’ eyes were gleaming with a spark of pure madness, of insane cruelty, of the twisted fanaticism the townspeople had learned to fear since decades now.

“We offer him a chance to redeem himself! Isn’t that good? If he wants to follow our path, we will prepare his punishment. We will give the orders and the food, for we have plenty to spare – all we would borrow from the town are guards to carry on our orders, and your stocks, to keep him locked. But it is not your choice or mine.”

Brother Gilles turned towards the boy.

“It is yours. You can choose to redeem yourself and follow us. But if you would rather die as a sinner take the rope then, be my guest.”

“No, no! I don’t want the rope! I want to live! I want… I want to repent!”

“Good.”

Of course, the boy was afraid. He knew the reputation of these monks. He knew they liked the whips and the blades as much as the crosses and the rosaries. But what was the worst they could do by feeding him? They said it themselves, they would give him their own food. So nothing rotten or disgusting. They will offer him on a plate what he wanted to steal since the very beginning. They were so nuts in the head they didn’t even realise that their punishment was a reward more than anything.

Anyway, nothing could be worse than the gallows.

XXX

Of course, the stocks were pretty uncomfortable – forcing Yvan to stay on his knees, preventing his hands from moving – but it was better than the rope. At least, here, he had enough space around his neck to move his head.

The monks insisted on using the stocks of the marketplace. They refused to use those on the outskirts of the town. As they said themselves: “Like this, not only will his humiliation be greater, but he will also become an example, a lesson, a living book for the people of this town. Every day they will come and see him being punished, and mock him for having fallen so low – but at the same time, they will shiver for the sake of their own soul.”

On the stocks, was nailed a parchment upon which had been written only one word: “Glutton”. And indeed, his punishment seemed like a demonstration of what gluttony was.

Just like the monks had said, Yvan was being fed and that was the only thing they seemed to do to him. No whipping, no bone-breaking, no flesh-burning. Just… meals.

They served him three meals, three enormous meals – at sunrise, midday and sunset. Yvan never felt so happy and satisfied in his entire life! He was treated like a king, had his belly full, and could taste better food than he could have ever grown out of his own field! There were fruits of all sorts, apples, peaches, berries, nuts, olives, pears, oranges, along with a rich meal, good bread, and tasty wine. And there was meat! Real, juicy meat, cooked, roasted! He gulped down everything with glee and smiles, for he wasn’t even bothering with feeding himself: the guards were feeding him! Like a king, like a pope, like a god!

People soon gathered around him to see how the monks had planned to torture him – some even had rotten fruits ready to be thrown – but they all stood wide-eyed and still upon seeing the young, brutish, gluttonous, lazy man they all knew being pampered like the child of some nobleman. Were the monks completely mad?

Outside of the stocks, the only thing that seemed close to a humiliation was after his last meal – as the evening left place to the night and everybody was going home. Yvan had to relieve himself and the guards lowered his pants and made him defecate and urinate without taking him off the stocks. But, while it was humiliating for Yvan to know that all the women, men and children of the neighbourhood could take look his parts and dejections, and while it hurt him to hear the people’s laughs and mockeries, he quickly forgot everything about it, for the taste of the exquisite foods was still lingering on his tongue, and that was enough to make him happy.

As new guards arrived at night to watch over the stocks, Yvan liked his lips (still covered in juice and milk) and let out a small burp. His belly was full and heavy – the first time since… Oh, since his birth, probably.

Someone up there must be looking after him, he thought as he felt sleepy. Someone who whispered to the ear of the crazy monks.

This night, Yvan dreamed of huge feasts and banquets.

XXX

“Hey! I already had my meal at sunrise!” Yvan shouted to the guards as they approached with more food.

It was the middle of the morning. The market was taking place all around the young man, and the people nearby, merchants or clients, turned their heads towards the stocks.

“The monks said you’ll have five meals a day!” answered the guards.

“But I only had three yesterday!”

The other did not answer. Not that Yvan was complaining. Eating so much yesterday had woken up his appetite – he had felt hungry ever since sunrise and his breakfast, while big, certainly wasn’t enough to make him full.

Yvan salivated upon seeing the guards drop in front of him beautiful, greasy pieces of meat, firm and plump pomegranates, brilliant and sugary grapes, delicious buttery bread!

“That’s a lot of food!” he snickered merrily, still chipped up from the morning wine.

The guards looked at each other with a smirk.

“It is, indeed. Now open your mouth.”

XXX

They came back at midday, then in the middle of the afternoon, and at sunset. They helped him to do what he had to do, and the guards shifted for the night.

While still smiling as the idiot that he was, Yvan burped, not without a slight feeling of unease. The guards weren’t bothering with cleaning his mouth, so all the grease and fat of the meat was still dribbling down his chin, mixing itself with the milk and the wine in a pool on the ground. He felt light-headed, due to having much more wine than usual – which made him quite red in the face – but all the alcohol in his blood couldn’t erase the heaviness in his belly. His stomach felt so tight, in fact, it was nearly uncomfortable.

It’s nonsense, he thought to himself. No one can grow uncomfortable from eating too much. It’s hungriness that makes you suffer. Famine is the true pain. Not eating like a king.

Yet, his bowels still hanged dully from his guts, still feeling puffed up despite being emptied of their content not so long ago, and his stomach kept gurgling and bloating itself with gases and bubbles.

You couldn’t get sick from eating too much food… could you? 

XXX

“Hey, could you… could you… just…”

One of the guards shoved a juicy and greasy chicken leg in Yvan’s mouth.

“What did’ya say?”

The young man munched and gulped down. “Could you slow down a bit? I’m starting to get…” An apple was put between his teeth. He had to bite. “… feeling really full now.” he said while munching.

“Don’t care.” the guard answered as he took a watermelon and cut it in big slices.

“I’m really…” Yvan let out a small burp. “If you go too fast, I might… choke you know?”

“The monks said nothing about you choking, or about us feeding you fast ofrslow. We just feed ya, and that’s all. The monks said: Feed him. And if he doesn’t want to eat…” The guard gave a violent kick to Yvan’s leg. The young man screamed, a bit of apple falling on the ground. “… then make him eat.”

Yvan ate the rest of the watermelon, but not without a slight nausea.

His stomach was so full he felt it could burst at any moment. Not that the food was bad – it was so delicious – and now he was getting kind of used to eating so much, even though it was really uncomfortable by the end of the day. It was the guards, they forced him to eat too much too quickly. He feared getting a stomach ache. He had one when he was little, after eating all of the apples of the neighbour's tree. But it quickly went away. He hoped this one will too.

Anyway, alcohol helped him soothe the pain. The wine they kept making him drink gurgled in his belly.

Another watermelon down, and Yvan burped again, but this time quite faintly, with a bit of saliva dripping from his lips.

He looked at what was left. Breads, several big pieces of bread. Anointed with oil and butter. To see them shine in the sun made his stomach turn and churn.

He could certainly do this. He wasn’t going to refuse eating some pieces of bread. Yvan, refusing food? That would be ridiculous.

XXX

“And that’s the last of it.”

Yvan gulped down what was left of the cheese. He burped and spat.

“I’m not feeling… good. Not at all…”

“You’re supposed to be punished, scum. You’re not supposed to feel good.”

Yvan looked at the guard. It was hard to look precisely at someone’s face while being drunk.

“I’m being fed. I’m eating. How is that a punishment? You can make me… hic! You can make me ache and sick and drunk, but… hic! It can’t be worse than the gallows, or starving in the street! Hic!”

The guard simply shook his head and went away, leaving the young man with his bloated belly and food-smeared mouth at the good hands of his colleagues.

If only this thief knew of the monk’s plan…

XXX

“Rise and shine! Time to eat!”

Yvan woke up. His stomach felt hard and heavy.

“What?”

He looked at the sky. It was dark blue, with barely a thin line of pink at the horizon.

“The sun’s not raising yet…”

“It’s the matins, my boy. Your first meal.”

“What?”

“Monks order. Make him eat at the matins. Bread, wine and fruit. Won’t hurt ya, right? Plus some nice cow milk! Fresh from the udder!”

Yvan didn’t feel like eating but… well, he had no other choice.

XXX

“Here’s the food!”

Yvan looked at the young guard that was bringing with him huge pieces of muttons, big apples and large pears.

“I just ate!” he said. “The matins are done!”

“Yeah, but the sky is all pink and the sun is rising, no? It’s the lauds.”

“The lauds?”

“Monks order. Give him food at the lauds. Come on, open up.”

XXX

“Food for ya, glutton!”

Another guard was coming, his arms filled with bread, quinces, plums and milk.

“I just ate… bwarp! Twice!” Yvan belched. “I’m full, really! I’m stuffed and not hungry any more!”

“But the sky is bright blue and the bells are ringing! It’s the prime, boy! The monks said you had to eat at the prime!”

“I’m full, I can’t eat any more!”

The guards gave him a kick in the butt.

“Come on, don’t squeal too much, you pig! You’re supposed to be a prisoner here. Don’t make me shove this food down your big throat. Come on, make some room, I’m sure you can.”

XXX

“I feel like… it’s so tight… I’m gonna burst.”

Yvan huffed and puffed. The young guard was back. He kneeled and looked at Yvan’s belly, opening a bit his vest and shirt.

“Indeed, I’ve never seen a gullet so round! Like a melon! The skin’s so tight I could play drum on it!”

“Please… don’t…” Yvan whispered.

“Well, I hope you’re hungry.” the young guard answered. “There’s lamb, and figs, and…”

“More… food?” Yvan cried.

“Yes. It’s the terce. The market is opening. Don’t you see?”

Indeed, the merchants had gathered on the market-place, preparing their stalls and stands.

“I… can’t eat. I… won’t eat. I don’t want… to eat. Stop.”

The young guard laughed.

“You know you can’t just ask that, right? If you don’t want to eat, you’ll be forced to. Please, show some courage. It’s not so bad, it’s just a big meal. Come on, open up.”

XXX

It was noon, now. The market was coming to an end, but a small crowd had gathered around the stocks to look at poor Yvan. He was as pale as his shirt, with a belly big and swollen. It kept gurgling, moaning and making strange noises. Sauces, juice, grease and saliva kept flowing from his half-opened mouth, staining his clothes and chins.

A guard appeared.

“It’s sext, my boy! Time to eat!”

“No… urg… no more…”

The gurgles were now coming from the back of his throat.

“Oh, you’ll eat, glutton. Open up, come on. Open… open. Open!”

The guard opened himself the boy’s mouth, forcing a piece of bread past his teeth. The entire bread finally went down, followed by some fruits. That’s when Yvan suddenly rejected the food he just ate, the fruits smashing on the guard’s chest. The guard recoiled with disgust.

“Can’t… I’m… urg…” Yvan whispered.

He vomited again, this time all the content of his previous meal. The guard looked at the slimy puddle of half-digested food.

“Oh, lad, you don’t know what you’re in for, do you? No matter how full you are, you’ll have to eat. Eat ‘til you burst. Monks orders.”

XXX

“Well, how is our little glutton?”

The head of the guards had walked all the way to the monastery. It was the smallest of the monks that had welcomed him – a weird one, with a sly smile, a dead eye and a missing finger.

“We did as you asked. Fed him at every service. Matins and lauds, prime and terce, sext and nones, vespers and compline.”

“Good. Is he regretting his actions now?”

“Don’t know. But he certainly regretted to eat. He puked it all out.”

The man nodded.

“Brother Gilles thought that it would happen. It means the boy is rejecting his sins. It’s not merely the food he vomits, it’s his crime. He’s expunging the Devil out of his own body. It’s good, very good. I hope you haven’t made him eat up what he vomited?”

“What? No!”

“That was the proposition of brother Francis. I’m glad to see you haven’t listened to him. Well, I’ll tell brother Gilles about our progress. I’m sure he is eager to share with you the next step of the plan.”

“The next step of the plan?”

“Yes, my son. Our little glutton is following his own Way of the Cross. And it means walking step by step. Each one more painful than the previous one.”

The little monk said that with such a childish glee that the head of the guards couldn’t help but shiver.

“My son… did you know we raised geese in the monastery, not so long ago?”

XXX

“Open your mouth.”

Yvan had no time to answer. The guards opened his jaws and put something in it. Something cold, metallic, long, that went down his throat. He wanted to gag, to spit out, to vomit, but he couldn’t. He squinted his eyes, trying to realise what had been put in his mouth.

The realisation hit his alcohol-imbibed brain.

It was a funnel.

Immediately, the food arrived. He couldn’t test it, but he felt it. Something soft, but heavy, that blocked his throat. He gulped down in order to not suffocate. And immediately something else came in, and he gulped it. The thing – food, must have been food – still came down his throat. It felt as something already munched and spit out. Must have been something mashed, grind, crushed. Probably purée or paste. Sometimes it was more jelly-like, other times it was a liquid. And of course, all of it had no taste, for not a single drop touched his tongue – all Yvan could taste was the cold, hard, nearly salty metal of the funnel in his mouth.

And said funnel was so big it blocked most of his view. The guards themselves wondered what kind of goose the monks could possibly feed with a funnel that big. But it was handy: everything slipped in it. The crushed nuts, the mashed fruits, the berries purée. They even pressed the meat, until it became a bloody and greasy pulp. It was still early in the morning, but they had a lot to do. The monks had warned them: more and more food will be added into the young thief’s belly, until food would take up so much space in his body the Devil would be forced to flee. Then, and only then, will the demonic sin drop the mask of pleasure and reveal its true face: that of a hellish torture, based on a ridiculous, base, pointless, unneeded material object. Food.

All day long the food kept coming. Now that the guards had to mash and prepare the food, each meal took twice the usual amount of time, and it had already been a lengthy process beforehand. Yvan felt like he was fed every minute of every hour of every part of the day, without any kind of pause or relief. Soon his belly felt full and round, but the food kept coming, making his stomach tighter and harder. Of course, all the food was pushed down to his lower parts – filling his intestines and gore, bloating the rest of his abdomen, until all of his internal plumber was clogged up. He felt like a sausage: a tight skin filled with stuffing. Half-sick, half-drunk, he daydreamed that if a butcher was to come and poke at him with his knife, his belly would probably slice itself in half, spilling everywhere the fruits and the meat and the bread he had been fed on, perfectly intact, still nice and shiny. But the mere thought of it made him sick again.

The nausea got so violent he tried to puke – but the funnel prevented such rejection. Worse, the small he had been able to get rid of was being forced down his throat once more.

By the end of the day, when they finally took away the metallic torture device, Yvan was crying.

He now understood how, exactly, being fed constantly could be, indeed, a true torture.

XXX

Brother Gilles followed the guard throughout the streets of the little town.

“And was there any other case of regurgitation?”

“It’s hard to tell with the funnel, father. But I don’t think so. I think he got used to it. After all, his stomach is twice as big – he can pack in much more than before.”

“What?”

The monk had stopped right in the middle of the street, staring at the guard with his icy stare.

“Well… yeah. He’s grown big. You’ve fattened him up real well.”

“He… fattened up?”

One of the monk’s eyes was wide open, expressing the most confused bewilderment. The other shone of some sort of dreadful angriness.

“Well… yeah.” the guard repeated, frightened. “Just like, you know… the goose. Like you said, how you’re feeding the goose. It’s fattening them up and… huh… he too.”

The monk ran towards the market place.

People had gathered around Yvan, smiling and quietly laughing at his ridiculous appearance. They talked to each other while pointing their dirty fingers toward him, clearly making fun of his situation – but Yvan had no ears for them. When he was being fed by the funnel, he could only think of gulping and swallowing so that he wouldn’t choke.

“We’ve stopped separating the foods.” the guards explained while catching up with the monk. “Now we mix all of it together. Fruits, bread, wine, meat, milk. It’all makes just one big goo. He takes him pretty easily. It’s just like a goose. And he doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Apparently, he can’t taste anything. He just eats and burps in our faces. The old guards don’t like it – they sometimes smack him in the face – but the others don’t mind.”

Indeed, when the guards took off the funnel, Yvan let out a deep belch that made all the people around laugh out loud.

All the people around except the monk – who merely screamed.

“Open the stocks! Put him on his feet! Open the stocks, I need to see it!”

The guards, quite surprised to see brother Gilles, obeyed. Yvan could barely stand up: sitting for weeks on his knees had weakened his legs. The sudden shift in position made him nauseous, and green in the face.

The monk rushed towards him and grabbed his belly. His now wide, fat, round belly.

His torso had doubled in size since their last meeting. Fat had bloated up his abdomen, enlarging his waist, padding his behind, rounding his belly – in fact, his midsection was nearly the shape of a perfect globe. His chest had also gotten thicker and larger, his shoulders broader and meatier. This transformation had, of course, an effect on his clothes: the laces that tied his sleeveless vest had all snapped, while the tighter one that he used as a belt was certainly about to do so. His shirt, ill-fitting when he was on the gallows, had now its fabric stretched on his gut.

“The mockery! It’s an outrage! He is mocking our punishment, he is mocking our order, he is mocking our God!”

Brother Gilles turned towards the guards and shouted, eyes injected with blood:

“He grew fat on the food we cursed him with! He turned our punishment of both body and mind into a display of excess and laziness! Look at him! Where’s the suffering in his face? Where’s the vomit of his repentance? Oh, I should have listened to brother Horace! We should have put living rats in his gullet so that they would devour him from the inside!”

The monk ordered the guards to put Yvan back in the stocks, before addressing the crowd around him:

“Look at this glutton! A thief, a glutton, a slothful, a prodigal son that dilapidated his father’s property! He killed his mother at birth, he tried to commit a monstrous sacrilege by depriving men of God of their sustenance! He is in league with the devilish horses! And now, what is he doing? He is being fed all day long, doing nothing but sit there, enjoying it!”

Finally, the nausea had passed and Yvan found the strength to speak.

“I’m not enjoying it!” Yvan cried out. “It’s hell! My belly aches, it makes me sick, I puke and I shit! My limbs are sore, I can barely walk any more! I’m feverish and sweaty and I don’t want to be here any more!”

“I don’t see your tears, liar! Your flesh is fat, glutton, sign of your own sin! You revel in your own evil! You’re bloated up like a vampire! Shut your vile mouth and speak no more!”

Brother Gilles took a lemon from a nearby stand and shoved it into Yvan’s mouth.

“You, people, are faithful! You were baptised, you are part of God’s livestock! You should act on his name, be his voice, be his warrior! You maybe can’t lead a crusade, you maybe can’t kill the heretics, but you can at least punish the sinners on Earth – this sinner on Earth, so that he won’t go to Hell after his death! Be kind to thy neighbour! Help this lost sheep! Push him back into the path of God! Do it!”

“But how?” the crowd asked.

“He’s a pig, treat him as such!”

The monk was now red and sweaty, a big vein pulsing on his bald head.

“This is a punishment! Make him regret! Make him feel what it would be like to be in hell! Don’t let him be complacent, don’t let him! By the authority of the High One, do it!”

The monk ran towards a merchant nearby, stole his knife and cut the tip of his own finger. Then he ran toward Yvan, took the lemon and put his finger instead.

“Drink! Drink my blood, for I am a man of God, and my blood is pure! You are a sinner, not worthy of the blood of the Great Saviour, so for your communion, you shall have the blood of a lesser servant. Drink! Drink! Drink, my son, drink!”

Yvan, terrified, sucked the monk’s finger, the strange taste of blood spreading on his tongue. It was quite similar to the taste of the funnel. The monk finally groaned and took off his finger.

“Perfect. You are absolved of your sins and crimes in the past weeks. Your mockery of our order will be forgotten. But, make sure you repent and suffer. Else… I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to do anything more for you.”

XXX

Yvan punishment went on. Every day, from dawn till dusk, a gruesome mix of liquids and mashed food, once glorious and sumptuous meals reduced to a colourless ugly goo, was forced into the funnel, down Yvan’s throat, and the boy gulped and gulped until his stomach was bloated and ready to burst – which became less and less the frequent, weeks passing by. For indeed, his stomach slowly distended itself, and grew with this new amount of food. Thus, the guards needed more and more to satisfy him, and even more to actually make him sick. It became so bad that Yvan actually ended up feeling a bit peckish after each day of force-feeding. Hopefully, the townsfolk joined their effort to those of the guards.

The monks had ordered them to lash all of their cruelty and mockeries upon the glutton, and so they shall. Not directly of course, only the guards could hit him (even though many common people came to pat his firm and blubbery behind, saying how the pig was fattening up nicely). Plus, mockery wasn’t enough for them any more – they had done all they could, and they grew bored of it, especially since Yvan seemed to ignore them completely.

So, they rather decided to help the guards in their feeding duty. Each day, the scraps and rotten things they usually kept for their pigs or their dogs were given to the guards so they could add it to the repulsive mush they prepared. Sometimes, they even fed Yvan directly, steeping their own mashed leftovers down the funnel. Since Yvan’s stocks were on the market place, the merchants liked to get rid of their withered or ugly products by throwing it down his gullet. At first, it made Yvan quite nauseous to eat all of this bad food, his stomach churning and groaning as it had to digest elements too hard or too rotten, but he soon got used to it – he had eaten worse in his years. Anyway, the townsfolk understood that giving Yvan bad food only resulted in more violent and putrid public defecations, and deciding that their market place already stank enough without this gruesome addition, they decided to only give him scraps and discarded bits.

In a very strange way, Yvan’s punishment became the town’s entire distraction, a sort of communal activity that people watched and participated in like if it was some sort of play or game. When the market was held, people bought food specifically so they could feed it to Yvan, under the guard’s watch. They had invented, without knowing it yet, the concept of feeding animals in zoos, several centuries before any zoo actually existed.

The thief’s force-feeding became such an amusement, satisfying the perverse tastes and desperate craving for distraction of the peasants and common folk, that at night, some people bribed the guards, with either beer or money, so that they could “play” all by themselves with Yvan by feeding him.

The crazy monk had ordered Yvan to stop getting fat in order to show his repentance.

It obviously wasn’t going to happen any time soon.

XXX

“He’s choking!”

“What?”

“Look! He’s choking! He’s getting all red in the face! And his tongue’s all out!”

“Nah, he must be drunk.”

“No! Look, he’s coughing! He’s getting blue!”

“Blue? Get him out of here. We’ll see.”

The guards opened the stocks, freeing Yvan who fell on the floor, hissing and wheezing as he was able to breathe again.

“What, he choked on food?”

“No, I don’t think so… Oh, I think I found it! Look!”

The guard forced Yvan to get back on his knees and to put his head back in the stocks. The guard slowly lowered the top part of the wooden device, until it nearly closed itself on the man’s neck.

“His neck’s too big!”

“How can a man’s neck be too big for the stocks?”

The guards forced Yvan to stand up so that they could have a good look at him – something Yvan could barely do, his wobbly legs having a hard time supporting his enormous weight.

Indeed, Yvan’s neck was now too big for the stocks! If it was even a neck what he had now. A ball of fat had replaced what he had for a neck: between his cheeks that grew and fell over on each sides, and his goitre of a double chin that had blown up, along with the rolls of fat that piled up on his nape, his head seemed to now rest on a pile of lard, an enormous roll of flesh twice as big as his own rotund head, as plump as the full moon.

The guards, so used to seeing this big, round, bloated body kneeling on the ground, like a pig eating in his through or some fat cow munching the grass, understood with a great surprise and an even greater disgust just how big Yvan had gotten.

His torso, that used to be already quite spherical in shape, had now grown so fat, so wide and so vast that the sphere had fallen into a shapeless mount, overflowing from the sides of his over-stretched pants. The lace that he used as a belt had snapped one evening as the guards were feeding him and now was hanging pitifully. His shirt, too tight and too small for his new girth, rose up on the enormous hanging globe that was his belly, grotesquely distended after so many weeks of overeating. Above his belly, his chest had grown fat and soft, his pectorals now hanging like two huge slabs of meat. But it wasn’t just his head and his abdomen – the rest of his body had also changed. His arms, for example, were each so big they looked like two hams put together – they were even bigger and thicker than the arms of the strongest of the guards! And his legs had also gotten larger – his pale, fleshy, jelly-like thighs rubbing against each other like full, sloshing wineskins – and underneath, his calves, also rounder and thicker, tightened the laces around the legs of his pants so much the guards feared they would snap like those of his vest.

The man was now a beast, as heavy as a bear and as grotesque as a pig. Yvan looked at the guards, with his stuffed and round cheeks, his mouth dripping with food and saliva, with the enormous bulges that were now his chins, and with his eyes, his bagged eyes, so tiny inside the puffed-up flesh of his face, eyes haggard and nearly dead due to the town amount of pain, nausea, satisfaction, happiness, pleasure and sickness he had experienced these previous months. And the guards felt disgusted and uneasy by what they had just done.

People gathered around to see the monster Yvan had become, to look at his body that was now roughly the shape of a little mountain, and the guards rushed towards the monastery to warn the monks.

XXX

Brother Gilles, brother Francis and brother Horace arrived soon at the marketplace.

“You’ve freed him? What’s the meaning of this? You…”

The monk stopped speaking upon seeing the enormous young man.

“We can’t take it any more.” one of the guards explained nervously. “This all thing becomes perverted. He was punished enough, don’t ya think? His neck can’t even fit in the stocks! Just look at him! He’s like the old Eglon, I poke my blade in him, he wouldn’t feel a thing! He wouldn’t even bleed!”

Brother Gilles approached the boy. The dead eyes of Yvan were looking at something far away from here, something over the rainbow, that the monks couldn’t possibly see.

“My son? Are you here with us?”

The boy gurgled up something. He opened his mouth, drooling. He let out a half-drowned belch and gurgled some more.

“My son… have you repented?”

Yvan turned his eyes towards brother Gilles, eyes still dead and blank, without any light or spark in them. He smiled, exposing his crooked yellow teeth, worn out after gritting for so long on the funnel’s metal, his breath smelling of all sorts of foods and rotten things.

Brother Gilles suddenly straightened up his back, as immobile as a statue, and shouted: “He repented!”

The other monks cried in joy and applauded, soon followed by the cheers of the crowd.

Brother Gilles took some of Yvan’s saliva, made a quick cross over his forehead, blessed him, and after hearing more cheering, Yvan lost consciousness.

XXX

Yvan was woken up by a deep feeling of hungriness, and the loud wails of his own stomach.

Yvan was in a cell. His body felt heavy and sore all over, except in the area of his stomach, that felt painful and empty. It was like having a big hole in his belly.

Trying to get up, Yvan suddenly remembered everything. The monk, the stocks, the funnel… He looked down at his body and held back a horrified scream. He was enormous! He couldn’t even see his own feet past his gut! Was he really as big as a boar? That’s what the people said when he was in the stocks. His belly was even sticking out of his clothes!

He touched it, felt his fingers seek deeply into the flesh, and suddenly his stomach roared once more. He was famished.

“Oh, you’re up. Good. I wondered if you were dead.”

A guard was opening the door of the cell.

“What happened?”

“You’ve been there for days. Sleeping, unconscious. We thought all this eating had killed you. You know, something burst inside you. But you’re still kickin’, that’s good. The monks said your punishment was enough. You’re free to leave.”

Yvan, surprised to even be alive but joyful to finally leave all of this torture behind him, followed the guard in the street.

When he got out, the people in the street looked at him, pausing and snickering before returning to their activities.

Another loud groan got out of his belly.

“Still hungry, boy? We can get you the funnel, if you like.” the guard joked.

Yvan looked at him with spite and walked away. Or rather tried to. His feet were not used to lift such a mass, he stomped rather than walked, and with each movement his thighs rubbed against each other, his behind jiggling and trying to fit inside pants now too tight, his belly bouncing in front of him.

A woman looked at him and laughed. Yvan felt embarrassed. He must be a ridiculous sight to look at. He wasn’t even pleasantly plump, or round as a rich merchant. He was so big he looked like a beast, a hideous beast, a wild hog, a freakish animal!

Three kids ran towards him.

“Oh, look! It’s the pig! It’s the goose! It’s the glutton!” they screamed with glee.

They started running around him.

“He’s like a barrel! No, he’s bigger than that! Do you have grains? Feed him grains! Feed him scraps! Don’t forget the funnel!”

“Leave me alone!” Yvan screamed.

He tried to hit them, to smack them on the head or slap them on the cheek, but all this moving around and leaning forward ended up loudly ripping something behind him.

“He split his pants!” the kids laughed. “He split his pants! Look at his bum!”

And the kids smacked his behind. “It jiggles, it ripples!” the kids shouted.

Yvan became red and shouted back at the kids some of the worst insults he knew, but another one had grabbed his chest – or rather what his chest had become, wide rolls of fat hanging on each side of his body.

“Look, he has udders! He’s not a goose, he’s a cow! He’s not a pig, he’s a sow! Drink, boys, drink, I’m sure there’s milk in it, suck it!”

The boy who had grabbed Yvan’s man boob received a violent hit on the head. Yvan always had large and tough hands, and now, with the added weight of the meat that hanged around his arm, his fist was doing much more damage than before.

The kids ran away, but their screams echoed in the streets, and as to answer them, Yvan’s stomach gurgled once more.

XXX

Yvan finally arrived at his farm. His old dad’s farm, now his own.

He was huffing and puffing, red in the face and sweating between his rolls. Moving around was much harder than before. He felt like he was dragging a dead horse with him: he was hot, his heart was beating like a drum, and he had the hardest time breathing.

Passing by his field, he took a gloomy look at it. The few plants that had managed to grow in this weed-infested earth had all withered and died. Sighting, but happy to be back home, Yvan entered the small farm and sat on one of the old wooden chairs.

It cracked and Yvan fell to the ground. It would have been more painful without the extra-padding on his behind.

His stomach protested once more against its emptiness. Now hunger was becoming painful, like if his insides were sucked up and crushed.

Yvan wondered what he could possibly eat to ease the pain, before reminding himself that there was no food left. He had eaten everything already.

Yvan then wondered what he could buy – not at the market, for he couldn’t show up there after all the mockeries and humiliations – in one of the nearby shops, at the butcher or at another farmer’s house. He then remembered he had no money left. He had used all of what he had to buy himself food.

No money. No food. And now no clothes, for he doubted to find anything that would accommodate his gargantuan size.

His stomach roared once more, so loudly it seemed a lion had entered the room. Yvan patted his belly, only to feel how wide, round and fat it was.

The young man understood that his punishment was far from being over.

#weight gain #my stories #my writing #kink story #weight gain story #male #man #force-feeding #dark kink #brutal kink #fat #fat fiction

[pangtasias-atelier]

Hello!

If you’re still open, how about a weight gain starting Seteth? Maybe him slowly starting to stress eat but tries to ignore the signs he’s getting fat (buttons or his belt popping off, clothes tearing, belly rumbling loudly from hunger constantly) until he finally admits it when he gets stuck or he breaks his chair or something? Thanks!

I see Seteth I bark and go crazy. Cause like I know I say I kinda struggle/dislike weight gain ignorance at larger sizes but I went a little crazy with this ajsbsnjsbnsj.

Not used to this but I hope you like it cause gave me many thoughts!

Warning: This is a fetish story!

Garreg Mach Monastery is always a bustling area in Fodlan. With so many moving parts needed to keep such a place continuously running without much issue, Seteth is one of the most important people taking care of all the logistics and other minute details. Even more is required of him with Fodlan finally reaching a peace that is hopefully kept for quite some time. From so much required of him, the archbishop’s advisor has recently turned to a mixture of poor eating habits so as to sufficiently complete all the work he imposes on himself, Seteth skipping meals only to binge on even more than were he to eat properly along with stress eating for even the most minor of things now.

Seteth’s quill immediately stops its motion as he hears the sudden, small clack of something hitting his desk while he diligently works in his office. “How odd,” His brows are furrowed. His eyes glance down at himself. Despite the small beginner belly that he sees, Seteth pays it zero attention. His little belly that has now passed being just a small insignificant amount of flab stretches his outfit since he has gained around 30 pounds from so much snacking and eating. All of Seteth has filled out slightly from the extra weight that he now carries on his once fit frame. He still holds all of the musculature he’s gained from countless years of fighting and training; his broad pecs have the slightest bit of curve to them from the bit of flab they now have, his chest meatier and even a bit larger now. His biceps have most of their definition hidden by his loose sleeves, the bit of adipose on his arms unable to completely hide all his muscles. And Seteth’s wide, powerful thighs that come from being so adept at wyvern riding have some extra width to them as well. Though like his arms, the limbs are covered up by Seteth’s clothing, his overly long coat hiding the two thick thighs and his shapely bubble butt that also has a bit more bounce and heft to it now. But Seteth’s top is far from as loose as the rest of his attire. And where the line of buttons should be, one of the pristine white buttons is completely missing. Right where his stomach bulges out the very most. 

“Perhaps I should update my wardrobe,” Seteth remarks to no one but himself. The ever diligent worker sees no fault of his own, so preoccupied in getting things accomplished that the small inkling of an issue regarding his weight immediately becomes buried under a mountain of work. Though Seteth’s brain does a good job on shifting blame onto other things, furrowed brows still glaring at his minor wardrobe malfunction. “Honestly, I should have expected this to happen. I’ve had these for years. I suppose I’ll submit an order to the tailor,”

His clothes are indeed more than half a decade old at this point; Seteth mollifies himself by thinking of his wardrobe malfunction as nothing more than too worn out clothes and not his belly straining his tight clothes. Seteth thinks no more about the issue. Even as he reaches into his snack drawer—a new habit of his he also thinks nothing about—and takes a bite into the now unwrapped sugary chocolate chip cookies despite having just finished his prior meal, the two plates stacked to the side, as he continues to whittle away at all the work that awaits him. 

Seteth learns nothing of his minor accident. Mind too focused on work, the hard-working individual thinks of only accomplishing the too high bars he sets on himself. And if that includes less time leaving his office, Seteth doesn’t mind or think too much of his increased sedentary lifestyle. He sits for most of the day. His only exercise includes stretching—albeit a rather rigorous 15 minute session—after waking up and before going to sleep. But the minor, far from challenging stretches do nothing to help combat his rising weight from how much he eats. And Seteth gladly eats his fill. Food meant to serve as energy to fuel one’s body, he pays zero attention to the increasing amount of plates that he allows himself to indulge on, or the way he always has more and more piles of plates in his office as the weeks go by, or the way his clothes begin to struggle more often as his weight simmply begins to creep higher and higher. 

“Blast this forsaken belt,” Seteth’s tongue clicks the roof of his mouth as he mutters to himself. Near ready to tear the accessory himself, he manages to keep himself somewhat calm. 

And he does so by still refusing to admit to himself about his current weight. A weight that is just shy of four hundred pounds now. Not that Seteth knows, the man never using a scale for so long. Especially when he could never possibly need it, not when he’s too busy with other tasks and when he thinks of himself being just as spry and thin before his weight gain. But all his denying can’t change the amount of weight that hugs his figure. Especially not his stomach. The large ball of fat that makes up Seteth’s gut—his abdomen far too flabby to be considered just a stomach now—sags down. Even as he stands up, Seteth’s gut comes close to reaching his crotch. The lowest bits of belly fat reach far enough to just barely begin and sag at the very top of his new fat pad. Seteth’s fat pad also has to worry about his round thighs, the two meaty legs much more filled out now with the heaping addition of more fat from all his eating. And his thighs fill out his pants incredibly well, the once again newly made clothing already beginning to grow taut once more. They manage to stay hidden by his coat still, only the fattest parts of his thighs ever so slightly pressing up against the fabric to show off the large goods Seteth has hidden. His large posterior is shown off more; the two flabby buttocks are outlined by his coat, the fabric draping over his shapely rear. Seteth’s arms also struggle against sleeves that are nowhere near as loose or poofy as before with new outfits needed to withstand his growing girth. His biceps are covered up by a generous layer of layer now, the sagging rivulets of flab that make up his arm pressed tightly against the fabric of his clothes. And Seteth’s face is rounded out as well to top off his current weight. His portly face has a double chin now. His cheeks are also puffed out from his weight, that and the deep breaths he takes the few moments he does anything past moderately strenuous. But the largest aspect of Seteth remains his doughy gut and bountiful chest. His large upper half is constrained by the usually tight clothing that is meant to show off his musculature. Unfortunately, it only accentuates the largeness of his breasts, the two meaty moobs sitting comfortably atop his large gut as they strain his clothes. And the buttons. The buttons hold on for dear life even with the use of extra stretchy fabric for his outfit. The white fabric of his undershirt is exposed and visible with how much the rich, navy  blue of his top is pulled to accommodate its wearer’s size. Seteth’s gut does much worse. His clothes are already tight as they are but his belt does nothing but exacerbate the issue. The flabby mass of fat is tightly squished by the straining belt. His gut begins to lurch over the strip of fabric by how tight it is, the accessory already ill suited for Seteth quite some time ago—not that he can realize that with the obese man still willfully ignoring his size.

Seteth fights with his belt. Flabby hands reach for it and try their best to tug at it. “I knew I should have discarded this when I accidentally washed it,” Complaining to himself, Seteth fidgets with the clasp. But try as he might, he lacks the dexterity to reach the creaking piece of metal from the way his bulging stomach gets in the way. Seteth’s words do ring true, having completely forgotten to remove his belt before washing his clothes, but the accident has nothing to do with his issue. 

And after some more fidgeting, Seteth gives up. Fanning himself with his flabby arms that wobble as he does so, and only leaves him feeling a bit more winded, he goes to take a seat on his chair. 

The buckle on his belt comes completely undone. The clasp chipping and releasing from his gut pooling as he sits. Seteth stares at the sight with puffed out cheeks, his face tinged with red from exhaustion and irritation. “Hmmph, I should have known the metal was of subpar quality,” With nothing more than a dismissive comment to his resolved situation, Seteth continues with his small break, the free time accompanied by more snacks before diving right back into his sedentary work at his desk. 

Even with an entire belt destroyed by his enormity, Seteth thinks nothing of the event. Or the increasing amount of hushed conversations and whispers whenever he’s around—the few times he leaves his office or his room. The only takeaway he gets from the experience is to stop wearing a belt, recently dug up mineraly apparently too cheap nowadays after his second experience of breaking one. And for all his complaints about his clothes, the increasingly large Seteth can’t forego those so he makes do by changing his attire as the days pass. Coincidentally, his clothes get changed as his weight continues to climb higher and higher. The few trips Seteth makes to the mess hall grow more infrequent. He doesn’t need to make the short little walk—now a trek to him—when he has all his meals delivered now. But no one complains to him with Garreg Mach continuing to run even more smoothly than before despite the extra amount of work around. Or bring up his weight directly to his face, everyone fearful of a dedicated, stern lecture from the morbidly obese advisor. 

Like always, Seteth is in his office. Despite the clutter, the busy, occupied room is in a completely mess free state with everything organized. His stacks of papers are separated into neat tall piles regarding what needs to be done to them, some finished and ready to be approved by others, some just having arrived to him,some needing his approval and so on. And Seteth’s second desk has all his plates stacked neatly to be taken care of later—the extra furniture a recent addition to make it easier for him to eat. 

Seteth is currently taking a break however. 

Instead of sitting at his desk, the now five hundred pound man is currently standing. He does his usually stretching routine, Seteth adding a third one after feeling like he needed it from being so tired throughout the day, from working too much obviously and not from the extra weight and cushioning he has on his rotund, fat body. Deciding to make things much easier on himself—and because the tailors were struggling to supply enough material for his growing body, not that they gave such a reason to Seteth’s face—he now only wears a simple white pair of pants and a plain navy blue shirt. The large set of clothes are strained against his prodigious girth. 

Seteth's shirt is tucked in, the habit hard to get rid of even when he weighs more than an entire quarter ton now. His sagging stomach is given support by his shirt, the large, jutting gut sagging only halfway down to his crotch instead of past it like usual. The round, sagging stomach jiggles with every sort of stretch Seteth does, the meaty belly slapping against the upper portions of his thighs. His gut curves at the very bottom from his shirt, the soft meaty roll of belly fat caressed by his shirt. Seteth's chest is as large as his head now. The two flabby breasts are stacked with fat now from all his indulgent eating habits. They splay down his gut now from their own girth. His widened areolas press against his shirt, his breasts outlined against the fabric from how much they jut, the soft curve of flab underneath his breasts also apparent with more flab piled onto the outer sides of his breasts. Seteth's tits get in the way of his stretching. Breast fat squishes against his arm flab and all other parts of his body as he maneuvers his body around. Seteth's arms lack a large chunk of mobility that they once had; the two bulky arms wobble and tremble with each pose and stretch he holds for a portion of a minute. His arms also often squish against his face, the onset of a third chin giving Seteth a much, much rounder appearance. His neatly trimmed beard makes his already fat face look even wider. Seteth's pants fare worse than his shirt. The waistband of his pants dig into all of Seteth's flab. His jutting hips struggle to stay contained within the tight pants; getting a sausage for a finger into his waistbands is a difficult task for him with how tight they are. Seteth's ass just barely manages to stay contained inside the clothes, the rounded rear that is fat and round enough to make a nice seat for someone else just barely escapes past his pants, a large grabbable sliver of lard visible as it oozes past the waistband. The rest of his pants, while not quite as taut against his thighs as they are against his huge rear, also struggle from his weight. The two portly thighs are outlined by his pants, the jutting upper rivulets of flab on his thighs pressing against the fabric. The material is also faded, so much rubbing and friction from his inner thighs chafing against each other whenever he takes the minimal exercise that is walking around throughout the day. Seteth's knees and calves lack the mobility that they once held, the joints saddled with a cylindrical layer of flab that oozes down from his flabby legs. 

But despite his quarter ton weight—Seteth still mentally refusing to think anything regarding his size—he works harder than ever to keep up with his stretching regimen. And with so much effort and energy needed to sustain himself, and so little time in his busy schedule, he takes the opportunity to stuff himself in between stretches. 

He chews on the last bits of his sandwich as he stretches his arms above his head. The small bit of burn he feels is assuaged by the delicious meat cuts and the fresh, cold vegetables as he devours the last half. Seteth soon reaches for another treat after he finishes his stretch. He grabs a bit of chocolate, the deliciously wrapped truffle his break dessert as he unwinds down from his stretching.

Unfortunately, he drops the spherical piece of chocolate, the wrapper crunching as it rolls along the floor. "Of all the…" Seteth grumbles to himself but nonetheless, he waddles on over to pick it up. Ass sloshing behind him as his thighs chafe against one another and slap against his meaty gut, Seteth only smiles as he reaches the chocolate, ignoring the way he feels winded despite only just stretching. But, with his mind—and his massive gut—set on satisfying his craving for chocolate, the obese advisor bends down to reach it.

His pants immediately tear right down the center. Seteth's tongue sticking out in concentration, he turns a furious shade of red. He shoots right back up, as fast as he can and with chocolate in hand, and glares the best that he can as he tries his best to look down and back at his torn pants. But even with his largest effort, he mostly gets an eyeful of his own lard.

"I swear, those tailors need a stern talking to," With a small huff, Seteth waddles back to his desk. He gives his work area much more birth this time, bumping into the wood by accident with his still adamant refusal about his weight. Seteth sits down and practically crams the chocolate in his mouth, flabby palm pressed against his maw as he chews and savors it. "I suppose I must submit another order at this rate," Seteth takes a few moments out of his already crammed schedule to request another exact same pair of clothes. He also continues to tear through his large bowl of truffles as he does that before continuing on with his work and snacking.

As the seasons change, so too does the fortune of Garreg Mach Monastery. The bustling place soon begins to die down and return to its normal, albeit still hectic, activity. And along with less liveliness comes less work. Especially from Seteth's diligence, not a single project or plan possibly going late with him overseeing and overworking himself—and overworking his always churning gut. Seteth still remains his hardworking self even with the extra amount of free time. He uses his free time to relax now, food often by his side regardless of whether he's working or not. Seteth does finally begin to leave his office more often now though. He doesn't take much advantage of it however, long walks tiring for his now even larger body. He continues to spend a large majority of his time in his office for the most part, spending his extra time reading and writing alongside generously sized dishes. 

Seteth sits at his desk. The upsize furniture and even widened doorway are all things that Seteth pays absolutely no attention to, all of it quickly replaced as Garreg Mach underwent rapid renovations the past couple months and by the decisions of everyone but Seteth who remains oblivious to the changes. His larger, far more sturdy chair that's akin to a personal bench manages to withstand all of his six hundred pound enormity. All of Seteth's girth spreads out around him, his shape resembling more a rotund sphere than anything else. Though Seteth's even larger size is far from surprising to anyone else, an extra hundred pounds a lot to take in regardless, but with Seteth already weighing so much, the large chunk of weight feels far less on his already obese body. The extra heft he carries is less important to all of Garreg Mach's staff compared to the loud mess of noise that is his gut. With so much gorging, Seteth's belly either grumbles from hunger or churns from being stuffed, the pile of lard often doing both simultaneously.

His brand new clothes fit him snug but comfortably. Currently not working, he allows himself to be a bit more comfortable with his shirt being untucked. His large gut oozes out in front of him. The small table for a belly spreads out in front of him, bits of his flab even encroaching and spreading onto his desk. His thighs spread out against the bench, and his ass comes close to sagging off the backside of his chair. But despite weighing more than thrice another man's weight, Seteth simply enjoys his reading.

Well, he tries his best to. His book resting on his large breasts that fully surpass his head in terms of size, and his arms holding said book by resting it on top of his enormous gut and gis love handles, the movement in his grip from how much his enormous gut grumbles does nothing to bother him. No, instead  Seteth's eyes continue to drift to the unsigned, ridiculously unnecessary paperwork on his desk. Seteth reads on, eyes darting from edge to edge as he reads quickly. The text escapes him. The meaning is secondary. He shuts the book closed the instant he reaches the end of his current chapter.

"What nonsense. Who could believe such ghost stories?" He slams his book down. Be Seteth grabs the piece of parchment and brings it to his face, his stomach still churning as it digests his miniature feast for one. "I mean, really?" Seteth scoffs. He reads the paper for the fourth time and is met once again with the article's absurd claims about a cacophony of noise coming from Seteth's room all day, the audible grumbling from his gut able to be heard in the hallway even with Seteth's door closed. The sounds are nothing more than whitenoise to Seteth, even the long gurgles and bubbling rumbles from his stomach are insignificant to Seteth's still ignorant self.

"Absurd," Seteth tosses the paper into the trash. Absolved from dealing with the work, he instead deals with his post lunch, lunch. His stomachs rumbling dies down as he tears into his feast with no thought or consideration to his size.

Seteth chooses to be painfully oblivious to his weight. Any signs that he might get an inkling of an idea about his weight are quickly squashed by the absurdity of letting his well cared for body go. He squashes the same ideas perpetuated by faculty's questions or concerns from hushed remarks about his weight, Seteth simply believing them to be jealous. All of Garreg Mach Monastery is as tranquil as it has been long ago. Seteth spends the vast majority of his large quantities of free time eating.

Seteth does exactly that. On his break—the morbidly obese man needing breaks often to keep himself satisfied—he ignores the loud, ominous creaking that harshly sounds out from his personal bench. His ridiculously oversized figure fills out the entirety of his chair. His flab encompasses and spills off of it. The more than eight hundred pounds dragon weighs even more than anyone in Garreg Mach could ever expect. Seteth's clothes are a complete mockery of his former attire, the tailors refusing to take anymore orders from the excessive amount of fabric needed and Seteth’s still insistent and persistent refusal of any of it being his fault. Though the far past morbidly obese advisor has slightly begun to suspect something. The pair of shorts that were already too small more than half a hundred pounds ago offer the bare minimum of coverage. Most of Seteth's fat ass spills out the thinned out, taut strip of fabric that digs into Seteth's rear. His ponderously sized ass that is large enough to require even a third normally sized seat to withstand all his girth is pinched by the blanket of fabric that are his shorts. His rear spills off the back of his now bent bench. It also touches both sides of the seating as well. Seteth’s door crushing hips spill off the sides of the bench. The bit of fabric that manages to cover up his legs are practically hidden by all his enormity, the parts of fabric that cover his inner thighs completely smothered by the two thighs that resemble a bulging barrel more than a proper thigh at his weight. Seteth’s thighs are an amalgamation of rolls of lard, each piece of his flabby, swollen leg sagging down onto the lower portions of itself. Even Seteth’s feet are partially swallowed from his wanton gluttony, draconic strength from a Nabatean only able to go so far with the physical limitation of being almost too fat to properly move. Seteth’s arms paint the exact same picture. His once svelte yet built limbs are swaddled in lard, the hedonistic glutton allowing himself to gain so much weight to where his arms are nothing more than a sluggish stack of thick pancakes. Moving his arms is as much of a chore as the rest of his corpulence. Seteth’s forearms are partially sunken from his immense bicep fat that comes ever so close to rivaling an entire person’s waistline and even surpassing a large majority of them. His insignificant navy shirt clings to every fold and crevice on his big body. The thin material of the sleeves are torn, tears running halfway up the massive opening needed to allow room for his flabby shoulders and massive arms. Seteth’s shirt doesn’t even make it past his plush pillow sized breasts. His large chest sags and splays down the tremendous size that is his gut, each over swollen tit large enough to rest on his abundantly sized love handles. Seteth’s stomach resembles a mattress at his more than a third of a ton weight. Seteth’s vast gut, the elephantine sized gut that it now is, rests on the floor. The mound of lard completely blankets the front of his bench, the furniture impossible to make out from the front with how fat Seteth is. The pile of blubber that is his gut is comprised of an absurd amount of rolls, the blanketing mass of flab slightly broken up by his cavernous navel and the dusting of body hair that makes up his happy trail. Seteth’s blubbery face compliments the rest of his ponderous enormity; the sagging porcine jowls that are his cheeks bulge outward from his plump size. Seteth’s usually pristine face is marred by the streaks of food that rest on his lips as he eats.

Seteth reaches towards the very last plate of food. He has to lean forward to reach it, his gut crammed against his desk creating a tiny river of fat that blocks him. The bench groans underneath him, bits of wood slowly but surely beginning to splinter from even the slightest movement Seteth makes. And the last bite of food seems to be the very last straw for the bench, Seteth finding his fat ass right on the floor as he shoves the entire last half of the buttery baked potato straight into his hungry mouth.

“Whaaa?” Still chewing, Seteth glances at his surroundings with half glazed eyes. His dinner sitting nicely in his churning gut, the comfortable, full sensation takes up most of his energy; the other portion of his brain slowly trickles in the thought of perhaps having gotten too fat. And to his benefit, Seteth does gaze down upon himself, his vision immediately stopped by the tire of fat from his chins and neck smushing against each other. Getting up also proves to be a daunting task. Seteth has to build momentum just to stand up. Lard sloshes and slaps against itself, his massive sagging arm fat squishing against his breasts as those wobble and slosh against his stomach in turn. Seteth uses his desk, the invaluable furniture used as an anchor to help lift up his anchor sized girth. A complete mess of wheezes, Seteth rests as much as he can on his desk to catch his breath.

“Perhaps,” Seteth grumbles to himself. Like a switch, the nearly immobile man seems to come to terms with his gluttony. But only a bit. “Perhaps I ought to work off this bit of pudge starting tomorrow,” His face is still beat red from standing up alone. But seteth wastes no time into reaching into his second desk, all the drawers reserved for snacks now, and begins tearing into the delectable treats available to him after working up an appetite. The obese advisor is nothing more than a mess of moans as he wantonly gluts out, continuing his hedonistic gluttony like every other day. 

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[fatfandomevents]

It’s time for our first event of 2024!

🍄🪻 FFE Spring Fling! 🌸🪺

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🗓️ April 22nd - 26th 🗓️

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