fathappylarge

[fathappylarge]

belly and moobs jiggling in slomo... no sound for this one, thought about making a 'Big Fat Moobs' track, might do it later.

[fathappylarge]

Dining piggies

[fathappylarge]

Shot this, then made this track to go with it... thinking about making a patreon or onlyfans... where's the best place for a blubber boy like me? Also let me know if you want the song as a separate audio post! Kinda new to the whole tumblr thing, so not sure exactly how it works yet

[fathappylarge]

gay happy fatty

[fathappylarge]

belly heavy, always growing. day and night, my fat is showing. 🕯🕯🕯

[fathappylarge]

a brief yet huge moment 😉

[fathappylarge]

POV: A Gainer Slob's Undies

When I first came into the world, I was ready. Brand-new, stretchy, soft. A perfect pair of undies. Navy blue, classic, dependable. I wasn’t just any pair of undies—I was the pair of undies. The pair you reach for first.

And then, he chose me.

At first, life was good. He slid me on, and I hugged him just right. His thighs were thick, sure, but hey, that’s what I’m made for. Snug but comfy. Perfect fit. I was living my best undie life, doing my job, proudly holding the line.

But then… things started to change.

I noticed it after a few weeks. He sat down, and there was this tiny tug. Just a little extra stretch around the thighs. Nothing major, nothing worth panicking over. “He’s probably just bloated,” I told myself. “No big deal. You’ve got this.”

But it wasn’t just bloating.

It was the snacks. So many snacks. Chips, cookies, burgers, fries—he was eating like it was his last day on earth. And I felt every single bite. His belly pushed harder against my waistband, his thighs rubbed together more, and when he bent over, I thought I heard a seam whimper.

Still, I held on. I’m a fighter.

But then came The Morning. The one I’ll never forget.

He pulled me on, and I knew. I knew. The stretch. The strain. The sound of my elastic groaning like an old door in a haunted house. His belly poured over my waistband like syrup on pancakes, and his thighs? Oh, his thighs. They crushed me like twin wrecking balls.

And then he said it:

“Guess I’ve been eating good, huh?”

Eating good?! Sir, you are eating me alive!

I thought that would be the end of it. I thought he’d retire me, let me live out the rest of my days in peace at the back of the drawer. But no. Oh no. I’m his favorite. He won’t let me go.

The horror didn’t stop there.

At first, he washed me after every wear. Warm water, gentle soap, tumbled dry—luxury treatment. But then? Then he got lazy. And the days between washes stretched longer and longer, just like me. One day became two, two became three. Before I knew it, I was lucky to see the inside of a washing machine once a week.

And the smells. Oh, the smells. Grease. Sweat. Crumbs. I’ve absorbed it all, soaked it into my fibers like some cursed sponge. And he doesn’t care. He just keeps pulling me on, day after day, heavier and smellier than the last.

It’s like he’s given up on himself. He lounges around in a mess of takeout wrappers and half-empty soda bottles, crumbs falling onto his belly while he binge-watches TV. And me? I’m stuck down here, suffocating, clinging to his overstuffed body while his thighs rub together like two slabs of raw meat.

I’m not just stretched anymore. I’m stained. Warped. I don’t even recognize myself.

But here’s the thing. Lately, I’ve started to notice something… strange.

He’s not just getting bigger. He’s getting hungrier. No matter how much he eats, it’s never enough. And me? I’m not breaking. My seams should’ve popped weeks ago, but somehow, I keep holding on. I think… I think he’s feeding off me.

Is that crazy? Maybe. But every time he eats, I feel weaker, thinner, more stretched. It’s like I’m part of him now, like we’re connected. And I can’t escape. I’m trapped, stuck to him like glue, doomed to grow tighter and tighter until—

Wait.

Oh no.

He’s reaching for the food delivery app...

[fathappylarge]

420lbs pt. 2 // Rethinking the "Gainer" label.

Date: 03-31-24?? “Gainer.”

That word used to mean something to me. A label, a community, a purpose. But now? I don’t think it’s really fit me for a while. Not for the past couple of years, at least. Gainers grow, right? They strive for more. Always counting pounds, planning meals, measuring themselves against what they used to be. I remember that used to be me.

But now? I’m not a gainer anymore. I’m… well, I guess I’m just gained.

Yeah, that’s it. Gained. Like, the job’s done. I’m not moving forward, not getting bigger, not chasing numbers anymore. I’m just here. Exactly where they wanted me to be.. 420 pounds.

It’s funny, you’d think staying at one weight for years would feel impossible. Bodies don’t work that way, right? You’re either losing or gaining, always shifting one way or the other. But somehow, they’ve kept me right here, steady as a rock. I don’t know how they do it, but honestly? I don’t think I’m supposed to know.

And that’s fine. The thought slips away as soon as it comes, like all the others. Down, down, down the drain of whatever they’ve given me this time.

That’s the thing about being gained. There’s no planning, no worrying, no thinking at all. They’ve got all that handled. They feed me, they haze me, they keep me exactly how they want me. Big, soft, heavy, dumb. That’s all I need to be.

It used to bother me a little, how they’d look at me like I was something they’d built, a finished project they were proud of. But now, when I feel their hands on my belly, hear that little laugh when I try to squeeze into furniture I clearly outgrew years ago… I don’t know. I just like it.

There’s this comfort in being exactly what someone else wants. I don’t have to figure out anything for myself. I don’t even have to think anymore. They’ve smoothed all that out, replaced it with bites of food and sips of whatever drink they’ve slid into my hand this time. Pastries, gummies, THC sodas......it’s all the same in the end. Sweet and heavy, just like me.

I used to ask questions, you know. How they managed to keep me at 420 for so long. Why they didn’t let me keep growing. What they’d do if I ever decided I wanted to lose weight. But none of that matters now.

It’s not for me to ask. Not for me to think about. Not for me to know.

All that wondering just drifts away like smoke. My head feels full and empty at the same time....soft, just like the rest of me. They keep me this way on purpose, I think. High enough that I never want to leave. Heavy enough that I never could.

And I’m okay with that.

I’m not a gainer. I’m not chasing anything. I’m just here. Just gained.

And isn’t that enough?

[fathappylarge]

420lbs pt. 1

Date: 01-12-20

I don’t know why I’m even typing this. FUCK My fat fucking fingers are smudging the screen, and autocorrect keeps fighting me like it knows better. Maybe I shouldn’t be writing this at all. Maybe this is a bad idea. But it’s stuck in my head, this number—420.

Yeah, I know what it means. Everyone does. But for me? It’s not just a dumb weed joke anymore. It’s where I am. It’s who I am.

And the messed-up part is, I didn’t even realize this was my feeder's plan. I thought 420 was just another milestone, another checkpoint on the way to something bigger. You know, 200lbs, 300lbs, 400lbs... 401... 405...410... 420lbs... But now that I’m here, I can see it: this was never about going further. This was the destination. Their destination. And now that I’ve hit it, they’re doing everything in their power to keep me here.

And now that I’m here, I can’t move forward. I can’t shrink back. I’m just here. And it feels so fucking strange. Like, at first, I thought I’d keep going, I’d keep growing. But there’s no growing to be done anymore. It’s like I’ve hit some kind of weight goal that they’ve carefully placed me at, and I don’t know how to get out of it.

They’re content. I’m content. But in those rare moments when the haze lifts, like now, when I start to see it clearly again, I feel it. This isn’t just about being bigger. It’s about staying this way. About keeping me like this, heavy, swollen, and lost in the fog they’ve created. I don't think I'm okay with it. I think I need a change. And maybe I’m okay with it. Maybe I don’t even want to change.

It’s all about the haze. The zonk. Every day, every meal, every little “treat” they hand me—there’s always something in it. A gummy here, a brownie there, maybe a THC drink to wash it all down. It’s not subtle anymore. It’s constant. And I know what they’re doing, but it doesn’t matter, because once it hits, I stop caring. I stop thinking.

And that’s the point, isn’t it? They don’t just want me fat. They want me compliant. Malleable. Too far gone to even consider what I might have been before all this. They’ll run their hands over my belly, tell me I’m perfect, and then hand me another pastry laced with just enough to make me giggle and sink a little deeper into the haze.

And I let them. Every time. Because the haze makes everything feel good. Too good. I sit there, heavy and bloated and stupidly happy, and all I can think is how right it feels. Like this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. Exactly what I’m supposed to be. 420.

But then there are moments—tiny, fleeting moments—when I start to come back to myself, and it hits me: I’m stuck. I’m trapped in this number, this body, this haze they’ve wrapped around me.

And I can’t imagine breaking free.

Because even in those moments of clarity, when I think about fighting it, pushing back, trying to be something more, I feel that pull. That craving. I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to say no. And I know they’re right there, waiting to pull me back under with the next bite, the next gummy, the next syrupy drink that makes my mind go soft and blank.

This is what they wanted all along.

One more day of this might not be so bad.