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Marc’s shirt doesn’t fit. It is completely, hopelessly too small.
It’s a 5XL pink polo shirt he’d bought a couple months ago for a date night, and it looked like a tent before Marc put it on, but now that he’s wearing it a handful of smooth brown, pudding-soft fat dips out the bottom of it. With his pudgy hands he touches, taps at it just to make sure it’s actually there. The depth of his belly stretches out the fabric of the polo, straining in the areas around his wide tits and love handles, and the shirt sucks itself into the cavern of his navel like it’s vacuum sealed.
It just does not fit. At all.
The rest of him’s alright. Over the first twenty-something years of his life, Marc had grown used to being herculean.
He’s a creature of habit. It was easy to get into a groove that was beaten into him — exercise every day, gym five days a week, keep to a diet; avoid all of the good food unless you’re on a bulk, then you only avoid half of the good food. It was easy. Tiring, a bit soul-crushing in retrospect, but easy.
Though, as a creature of habit, when his habits changed…
Well.
Just look at him now.
Marc has always been tall and broad, that hasn’t changed. In fact, he’s wider than he’s ever been, wide hips, wide gut, wide chest, if size was his goal than he’d succeeded. It was more the rest of him that he was recent.
The outline of his jaw is still visible, on a technicality, due to the chinstrap he’s been growing, but the second chin under it still isn’t going anywhere. Chubby cheeks smoosh up against his pretty brown eyes that look a lot smaller than they did a few years ago and his mouth, full-lipped and regularly balmed. It used to be all lines, cheekbones, a steel-cutting jaw. Now he looks downright pinchable. Cute. The hair was new, too, he’d let it grow out for a while just so he could dye it blond and buzz it back down. It looks good. If he was someone else, he’d probably think that guy was handsome. Now, though, all he can see is what he isn’t anymore.
His face is unrecognizable as the person he used to be — Marc, who was callous, cold, cruel, sad, chiseled. Now he’s Marc, kind, warm, a bit meek, a bit anxious, but happy.
Hungry.
It’s such a feeling, knowing how hard the old Marc would have laid into him now. He can imagine the insults, he’d said them himself. Lardass. Fat fuck. Pig. He’d put his thumb into his navel with his hand cupping the underside of his belly and shake it, watching the tide of blubber wobble and wave like a tsunami of excess. Maybe watch his ass jiggle just to see how much of it there is.
Fuck.
Almost subconsciously now, Marc’s fat hands explore the flesh of his body. While he’s not exactly pear-shaped, the thousands upon thousands of calories he eats every day go to his hips and ass more than they would an average fat guy. He turns his body around, his apron of a belly wobbling out of his polo shirt as he does, and takes a look at his ass in the bathroom mirror. It’s such a daily struggle now that he hadn’t even noticed it, but his pants, the nice business-casual jeans he’d picked out for date night, look absolutely fit to burst. It shouldn’t be a surprise, considering how hard they were to button, but God.
“Shit,” Marc whispers, hand sliding to one of his ample tits, peripherally noticing how the stretch marked fat of his upper arms is squeezed by his ill-fitting polo, “holy shit, man.”
If you’d told him six years ago that he’d more than double his weight in fat before he was thirty, Marc would have been terrified, borderline inconsolable.
Now, he’s still a little scared, but mostly, it goes straight to his dick, his erection nudging against the bottom of his belly in a way that turns him on even more.
Taking in a breath that shakes for more than one reason, Marc turns his attention to the bariatric scale his husband bought a hundred fifty pounds ago, the kind that’s mainly used in medical settings. He steps onto it, waiting for it to calibrate, heart beating faster.
The scale speaks, awkward and stilted with pre-recorded voice lines for specific numbers. Marc needs it. He can’t see over his gut. He can’t see his toes.
“573.7 pounds.”
What?
He steps off the scale, waits for the numbers to disappear, and steps on again.
“573.7 pounds.”
Holy shit. Holy shit.
He does it again, dazed.
“573.7 pounds.”
Fuck.
That’s a lot.
That’s so much. Even at six foot six inches, that’s nearly six-hundred pounds. That’s enough for a fucking TLC show.
It’s not like he was expecting to be thin. That’s a distant memory for him now, forgoing the life of a gym rat for the life of a foodie, a taste-tester with a home gym just to keep him as healthy as he can be while avoiding cardio as much as he can, wobbling, jiggling with every step he takes, ripped pants and burst buttons aren’t strangers to him. They haven’t been for a long, long time.
It’s just that he hasn’t used this thing in a while. The last time he checked, he was in the 450s, and that was a year or so ago. There was no other explanation; Marc had put on over a hundred pounds of fat since then.
How much did he weigh before? Even at his heaviest, in his early twenties, he’d never gone higher than 205. Really, his average was about 190. In six years, maybe less than six years, he’d nearly tripled his weight since his athletic days — he, quite literally, was nearly thrice the man he used to be, and he’d achieved it with rest, indolence, and cheesecake after cheesecake after cheesecake. Marc hefts a supple moob in his hands, tweaking a nipple — god, they’re so much more sensitive now — thinking of the week where he ate three a day, when he put on fifty pounds in a month, he’s so fat, he’s such a greedy pig, stuffing his face with all the food he can handle and then gobbling down even more, bursting out the seams of his clothes, he’s—
“Marc? Darling? Are you… doing something in there?”
Marc flushes to the tips of his ears. Some horny whine must have come out of his mouth while he was, well, doing what he was doing.
“I—I’m,” he swallows dryly, I’m really fucking fat, babe.”
His husband opens the door casually with a warm, kind, but very aware look in his eyes. “Oh. Thank you for telling me. I wasn’t aware.”
“Your sarcasm’s getting better.” Marc smiles.
Issei Kishida-Chevalier, Marc’s husband of two years. A kind soul with a love of bodybuilding and baking. Not so much social interactions. Responsible for nearly four hundred pounds of fat on Marc’s waistline, a number that doesn’t seem to be stopping much soon.
Marc is six foot six. Issei is only shorter than him by a few inches. He’s one of the only people Marc knows that can lift him up, even if only for a few seconds. His big brown almond eyes are glistening in the warm lighting of the bathroom, even if they’re narrowed in a way that, if Marc knows him like he thinks he does, is borderline sinful.
“I— I uh, I bought this a few months ago, ‘cuz I thought it’d — it’d be nice. For date night. But I, uh, I think I — I think I got too fat for it. It fit. Back then. But I got too fat. I—I don’t fit in it anymore, babe.”
Marc grabs the underside of the overhang of his gut and heaves it, looking at Issei’s expression as it wobbles like a sexy mountain of jello.
“Hm.” Issei hums. “I don’t know. I think it fits just fine.” He slips his thumb under the strained fabric and into Marc’s deep, deep belly button, pinching the underside of his belly, just like Marc had imagined. The muscles of his arms bulge with athleticism, the contrast of Issei’s lean muscle against his own ever-expanding mass of quivering blubber never fails to make Marc shiver. Issei gives him a quizzical look, and he nods once he can get himself out of his stiff trance enough to move.
“It’s date night. You wear something your date likes on date night, right?” Issei tilts his head. A cute quirk. God. He loves him so much.
“Yeah? You like this?”
“I like it a lot. That you’ve gotten too big for — what’s this, a 5XL? Wow. Maybe the sizing’s off, the sizes on bigger clothes are always unreliable—” Issei stops. His sense of justice and morality gets in the way of getting Marc off sometimes; a wonderful problem. “I love watching you waddle around, stuffing your cute chubby face, seeing you jiggle… does it really matter if everyone’s watching? I mean… everyone already knows you’re a hog.”
He leans into Marc’s ear, and says, “my hog.”
A whining moan punches out of Marc’s chest. Issei kisses the soft underside of his neck, more of a second chin, smiling lavisciously.
“My big, fat, handsome hog,” Issei says, reaching below the overhang of Marc’s fat stomach to unbutton his jeans, ushering him to the bed through the open door and sitting him down.
“Issei, babe, baby, I—I weigh—”
“Five hundred seventy three point seven pounds. I know. I heard. Three times. That’s a lot of weight there, sweetheart, were you surprised?”
“Y—yeah. Yeah, I was.”
He gives him a confused look. “But why? I mean, you spend all day eating what I cook for you, sitting down, shoving all that delicious, decadent food in that cute, fat face. You eat enough for five people, baby, is it really a surprise that you weigh as much as them?”
“No. No, no, it isn’t,” the words come out breathless, flashes of meals fly through his head, four double cheeseburgers with a large sweet tea, two boxes of donuts washed down with a sickly sweet caramel coffee, stifling a belch after downing half a two-liter of soda so that he can dig into the meat lover’s pizza, it makes sense that he’s this fucking huge, doesn’t it, “I’m so fucking fat, babe, I’m such a fat, greedy hog,” his voice hitches, clotheslined by his lust on the way out of his throat.
“Mhm. Yeah. Yeah you are, darling. You’re just going to keep eating, aren’t you? You can’t help yourself. Tell me what you’re gonna do tonight.”
Issei’s hand on his cock is enough to make him lose all sense of shame, except the kind that turns him on. “I wanna — we’re — we’re gonna go to the all you can eat place a—and I’m gonna squeeze my — my fat fucking ass into a booth, and you’re gonna,” Marc whines as Issei strokes him. In a previous life he was hung, now with the fat-pad he’s grown he’s decidedly average, “you’re gonna order for me. I’m gonna eat all of it, I’m gonna eat it all, baby, I’m gonna get so much fucking fatter for you. I’ll, I’ll grow out of all my clothes, and— and when I split my underwear in half you’ll fuck me through it like, like you did before, and—”
Marc sputters out an incomprehensible mess of a sentence about fitting into the car, which Issei takes as a sign to finish things up. Marc leans back further on the bed, resting on his elbows moaning and panting, reaching under his shirt to tweak his nipples, feeling how his tits bounce with the motion of Issei’s hand on his cock.
Bliss.
He makes out a very rushed, “‘mclosebabeI’msofuckin’close,” at which point Issei leans over the thousand miles of Marc’s massive gut and pries a deep kiss as Marc comes ropes of white onto his polo, definitely staining it, moaning into Issei’s mouth.
When they separate, Marc is a panting, sweaty mess, and he might be blind forever given how he definitely just looked God in the eyes.
“… All of that tonight?”
Marc snorts. “Shut up, man, I was — I was horny. I was horny!”
“My little drama queen,” Issei says, planting a wet kiss on his fat face.
“Oh, oh I’m little now, okay. Check this out,” Marc says, and flexes. Despite his arms still having a surprising amount of muscle on them, the fat covering them makes sure that there’s absolutely no definition.
“Ah! Hercules! I stand corrected!” The look on his face is a little bird-like, with a strange, downward smile and wide eyes. Adorable, Marc thinks.
“Hey. Get your pants off. I know if you liked that half as much as I did you’re rock hard in those things, man.”
“Very observant,” Issei notes, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants with a pleased groan, leaving his erection only covered by the strained fabric of his underwear. He knows Marc likes to take that part out himself.
It doesn’t take long for Issei to spill into Marc’s eager mouth, the entire scene earlier had him leaking pre, and years of eating and eating and eating have left Marc very good with his tongue. They don’t drag it out, both of them have had their fair share of fun, and after an orgasm like that, Marc is wiped.
They both clean up, get their sweat-soaked clothes off and lean into each other.
“Do you still want to go out tonight? Just normally, with clothes that fit,” Issei grins, “though, if you did actually want to go with your belly hanging out, eating ‘till you can barely move… I wouldn’t be opposed.”
Marc considers it for a second. It’s a hot idea — a very hot idea, but really?
“Nah,” Marc says, “not tonight. Maybe date night tomorrow instead? Tonight, all I really wanna do is order pizza and lay in bed.”
“And snuggle?”
“And snuggle, yeah, obviously. I’m your big fuckin’ teddy bear.” Marc’s always been the more physically affectionate one, but it took a while for him to start showing it. Issei had had to initiate most contact between them at first, at which point Marc stuck to him like molasses.
Issei nods, humming his agreement, the smug bastard, and grabs his phone from the counter. “Two pizzas?”
“The hell do I look like to you, man?” Marc laughs, “Three, two for me, one for you.”
“And you wonder why you’re almost six-hundred pounds,” Issei rolls his eyes.
“Dunno if it’s gonna be almost for long,” he grabs the underside of his belly and watches as every part of him wobbles, his tits, his rolls, his arms, everything, “I’m kinda blimping these last few months, babe. I’ll probably hit the big six-oh-oh by Christmas.”
“It’s September now, right? And you have a bit under thirty pounds until six-hundred?”
“M-hm,” Marc nods.
Issei claps a hand to Marc’s prodigious, epicurean belly, rubbing it gently, fingers prodding just enough in a way that makes it growl with hunger— God, how does he do it?
“You’ll be 610 by Thanksgiving,” Issei says sinfully, “then 625 by Christmas.”
Marc had cum less than ten minutes ago, and he’s definitely not a teenager anymore, but when Issei talks like that, God, he could fuck him forever. Until the world ends.
“Yeah. Yeah.”
Issei turns to his phone, Marc catches a glimpse of him adding a fourth pizza to the order.
Marc is fucked.
He wouldn’t have it any other way.