Chapter Text

INDEX

Chapter 2: CHUBTOBER CHALLENGE - Day 1 - Something Tight - Fat!Scott

Chapter 3: CHUBTOBER CHALLENGE - Day 4 - Cool weather/Cuddle - Fat!Nogitsune

Chapter 4: CHUBTOBER CHALLENGE - Day 5 - Something ripped - Fat!Derek & Fat!Peter

Chapter 5: CHUBTOBER CHALLENGE - Day 6 - Spooky Story - Fat!Derek

Chapter 6: CHUBTOBER CHALLENGE - Day 8 - Pumpkin Spices - Baker!Stiles jealous of Theo, featuring a Pumpkin Spice Pie and a Fat!Derek

Chapter 7: CHUBTOBER CHALLENGE - Day 9 - Something small - Fat!Scott

Chapter 8: CHUBTOBER CHALLENGE - Day 10 - Football - Bulking!Scott & Fit!Stiles

Chapter 9: CHUBTOBER CHALLENGE - Day 11 - Indulgence - Fat!Peter

Chapter 10: CHUBTOBER CHALLENGE - Day 12 - Eating contest - Fat!Theo & Fat! Jackson

Chapter 11: Chub'O'Ween - Monsters of Beacon Hill ensuring their next meals

Chapter 12: Chubmas - McChub, Biglinski & Slobmore - Christmas Special - Continuation of THIS CHAPTER

Chapter 13: Get Beached 2021 - Snag A 'Mallow 1 - Too fat for... Fat!Jackson & Fat!Danny

Chapter 14: Get Beached 2021 - Snag A 'Mallow 2 - Fat Camp - Chubby!Stiles

Chapter 15: Get Beached 2021 - Snag a Mallow 3 - Too fat for fat camp - Fat!Derek & SuperFat!Isaac

Chapter 16: Get Beached 2021 - Snag a Mallow 4 - Fat Camp - Fat!Scott

Chapter 17: Get Beached 2021 - Original S'more - 1 - Fat Camp - Chubby!Stiles & Fat!Derek 

Chapter 18: Get Beached 2021 - Original S'more - 2 - Fat Camp - Chubby!Stiles & Fat!Derek &SuperFat!Scott & Fat!Jackson & Fat!Danny

Chapter 19: Get Beached 2021 - Original S'more - 3 - Too fat for the life jacket - Chubby!Stiles & Fat!Derek &SuperFat!Scott & Fat!Jackson & Fat!Danny

Chapter 20: Get Beached 2021 - A Little Extra - 1 - Fat Camp - Chubby!Stiles & Fat!Danny

Chapter 21: Get Beached 2021 - A Little Extra - 2 - Fat Camp - Fat!Derek

Chapter 22: Jiggling Joggers - Fat!Jackson & Fat!Danny

Chapter 23: Pool Boy - Stiles & Gainer!Jackson

Chapter 24: Sampling Deliveries - Fit2Fat Teen Wolf Characters

Chapter 25: Chub'O'Ween 2021 - ERISED SKERED

Chapter 26: Chub'O'Ween 2021 - Angels on your shoulders

Chapter 27: Chub'O'Ween 2021

Chapter 28: Chub'O'Ween 2021 & Thanksgorging 2021

Chapter 29: Chubmas 2021 - Eggnog Lover

Chapter 30: Chubmas 2021 - Christmas Prepping

Chapter 31: Chubmas 2021 - The 25th

Chapter 32: Happy Fat Year!

Chapter Text

CHUBTOBER CHALLENGE - Day 1 - Something Tight

Stiles perfectly knew his best friend/brother had put on on weight since the end of the summer. Scott had mentioned on several occasions the pounds he had packed on.

But Stiles had been flabbergasted when he had seen the young werewolf for the first time since he left for college.

Scott McCall had worn a light grey tank top that had barely covered his belly. It had been tightly stretched around his chest and had obscenely displayed his belly button. Now, he hadn't looked fat, but his stomach was definitely softer, and there was no doubt it had grown, especially when Stiles thought about how flat and defined Scott’s belly was.

"Hey, bro!"

Chapter Text

CHUBTOBER CHALLENGE - Day 4 - Cool weather/Cuddle

“I’m cold.”

Stiles was standing at the entrance of the bedroom at 3 a.m.

“Arg! You’re insufferable, human!” No groaned.

Since they managed to separate Stiles from the Nogitsune, several months ago, they had let him stay with them to keep an eye on him even if he had lost all his powers.

At first, they had to teach him how to live and act like a human, and if he had been a pain in the ass, he had adapted very well. Maybe a little too well. Still, he had a dark, snarky sense of humour and it had been weird for Stiles to have a “twin”. Twin was not the world he could use, certainly because No had been plateauing at 360 pounds—a fat version of Stiles resulting from filling his hunger with food instead of pain. And boy, No was perpetually hungry.

At least he was not a total killing-psychopath anymore.

“And you are the only one sleeping alone. And for the record, I’m always cold because you decided to possess me.” Stiles said, clutching his blanket closer to him trying to look miserable. “Plus you are the most insulated person of this house.”

No raised his eyebrow at him and before Stiles could blink, he had been thrown off his feet and onto No’s overinflated but still soft belly. He was now lying down on top of No and felt large, heavy arms on his back. With the slight grin on his face, Stiles knew No was going to be mischievous, and as he tried freeing himself, he just sank more into his “twin” soft flesh while his thick paws were holding him in place.

“So, you want insulation?” No grinned before rolling himself on top of Stiles.

With now a massive smirk on his lips, he started to wiggle and Stiles could feel his fat squashing him a bit more.

“Sooooo…. Still cold?” he chortled as he wiggled more.

"You’re…Freaking…HUGE” Stiles said trying to get free.

“Stay still and enjoy my act of kindness.” Stiles felt No’s nose in the crook of his neck, knowing that No knew Stiles did not dislike it, before yawning.

"Sleep now.”

And a few seconds later, the man fell asleep on top of Stiles. He tried to shake him awake, but the former Nogitsune was in a deep sleep, as proven by his loud snoring.

He thought about calling one of the werewolves to help him escape this blubbery prison, but it was actually kind of nice to a large, warm, teddy bear lying to hold while sleeping.

At least, he wasn’t cold anymore.

Chapter Text

CHUBTOBER CHALLENGE - Day 5 - Something ripped

It was exceptionally warm for this time of the year, so with his uncle Peter, Derek had decided to enjoy a well-deserved afternoon off.

Getting into his swimsuits, Derek felt uncomfortable in them, given they were now really close to snap open and accentuated his love handles.

“Jesus Peter, look at how fat I’m getting.” He said and slapping his belly, a bit embarrassed.

“Yes, nephew, you are getting pretty soft, but I think I’m the biggest one here. I tip the scales at 260 now.” Peter had indeed become a really hefty man with somehow still shaped fat pecs, a big gut that hung over the waistband of his speedos and two well-formed love handles.

As Derek was about to dive, he felt his bigger ass imprisoned in his swimsuits swaying behind him, his belly actively forcing against the waistband as he bent to jump, before it shredded, letting the belly push forward and have room.

Embarrassed, Derek hid himself in the water, growling at his uncle’s taunting and recommendation to buy an extra-sized swimsuit.

Chapter Text

CHUBTOBER CHALLENGE - Day 6 - Spooky Story

When it came to spooky stories, Allison Argent was indisputably the best. Thanks to the ‘mythical non-so-mythical’ fairytales, her parents had fed her during childhood; she had, since then, mastered in finding the scariest stories.

She even managed to scare Peter Hale once. And that was a tough one, nothing like those puppy-chaws Scott-Isaac-Erica.

So when she had started a new story, Stiles Stilinski had curled a bit more on himself, finding comfort in feeling the warmth coming on from Derek. Sure he was not the type of guy easily scared, but damn, Allison could always find the scariest, goriest ones. Plus she had made her personal mission to scare Derek. He was still the only one who had resisted her.

So, as the different members of the pack had psychologically prepared themselves, Allison started to walk behind them around the campfire.

Her sweet voice was beginning to tell the story, and for once Stiles thanked his ADHD because he was focussed on how warm the weather was for the season and had started to compare it to the prior years.

As he, unsurprisingly, concluded that weather was a tricky thing and how it would be so cool to work in weather forecasting, Allison bent over, her mouth close to Derek’s ear.

"….Even the puppies," she said darkly.

And the unthinkable happened: Derek’s face showed fear. 

His eyes were open wide and, to Stiles’ surprise, the Alpha suddenly jumped in the air. Just half a second later, Stiles felt a heavyweight and dense mass landing on him. Derek was clung on Stiles, hiding his face in his neck, shaking in fear. 

For a moment, Stiles was speechless, trying to understand what in Allison's story could have triggered such a reaction, realising he had really paid any attention before having his thighs crushed by Derek’s way bigger ones. He spent several minutes soothing the werewolf, his hands caressing Derek meaty body.

Allison grinned at her victory but was genuinely surprised with Derek's reaction. Obviously, she had hoped he would have been a bit scared, but now the werewolf - who was twice her size - was paralysed by fear. While some of the others were smiling at the scene, as big, huge, built like a lineman Derek, was held by tiny defenceless Stiles, who was glaring at the huntress.

"Come on Der, let’s go inside."

The wolf grudgingly let Stiles go, looking down and still shaking, and the younger man took his meaty hand and led him to the house. He went to the kitchen, prepared hot cocoa with marshmallows and a piece of apple pie before going back to Derek. As soon as Stiles sat next to him, Derek pulled his mighty weight on Stiles’ lap while he was drinking the cup. Stiles smiled fondly at the man and put a comforting arm around the massive wolf.

Aaaah… Their all-mighty-fearless-built-like-a-house-(are you calling me fat Stiles?!)-Alpha.

Chapter Text

CHUBTOBER CHALLENGE - Day 8 - Pumpkin Spices

It was a tradition for the Pack of Beacon Hill to gather every Saturday for lunch. It was what they called "bonding time". Each one in the Pack knew their role. Scott was in charge of drinks, Lydia the main course, Isaac the cheese, Erica and Boyd setting the table, Derek providing the loft and Stiles was in charge of desserts.

But that Saturday, a new addition planned to contribute for this lunch. Theo, said latest addition, to Stiles' great displeasure, suggested he would bring dessert, Stiles condescendingly suggested he should be in charge of the salad.

Dessert was Stiles' exclusive. Especially since it was socially acceptable to bake seasonal autumn pies. Stiles was a pumping spice lover. He put it in everything from coffee to cake and even in sauces.

Even with the presence of Theo, they had a good time that Saturday. Until the dessert.

"Hey", Lydia said to Derek, "so how's the training going?" Usually, every Saturday mornings were wolves' training with Derek.

But before Derek could answer, Stiles arrived with a creamy, decadent pumpkin spice cheesecake; Derek's favourite.

"Come on, let's dig into the cake. It looks amazing." The Alpha greedily said as Stiles put a generous piece in his plate. Derek stopped at the first bite and looked at Stiles amazed. "Wow!"

The other members of the Pack soon followed him. "Oh my God. That is like the best cheesecake you've ever made." Scott said to his best friend, clapping him on the shoulder before going shoving another generous portion in his mouth.

Stiles beamed at the comment. "Well, thank you. I don't think I did anything differently." He said, faking modesty.

Then he took a bite and stopped when he felt the flavour.

"This is not my cheesecake."

One by one, the wolves and Lydia stopped eating, looking at Stiles incredulously, shocked about the affirmation of the human.

Then Stiles looked suspiciously at Theo, who was smirking at him. The others followed, slowly realising what was going on.

"Okay, you caught me." Theo laughed. "It's mine."

'How dare he?!' Stiles thought. "What happened to the cheesecake that I brought?"

"Oh I was a little sneaky, and I put in the fridge. I just wanted you to try mine. Everyone says you're such an amazing baker and I was hoping you could give me some tips to improve my recipe." Theo explained.

Stiles did his best to contain his rage. "Clearly, no tips are needed. As my friend said, best cheesecake ever made." He added his voice full of venom.

The silence in the room was so heavy that even Derek and Scott, the most gluttonous wolves ever created, didn't touch the remains of their cheesecake.

"So back to training. How's that been?" Asked Lydia to Derek, cautiously looking at Stiles, trying to change the subject.

"Yeah, so far, not that bad." Answered Derek as equally cautious.

———

The Sheriff was staring at the numerous cheesecakes on the counter of his kitchen, his son still fuming, mixing ingredients for his ninth cheesecake.

"He upstaged your Pumpkin Spice Cheesecake? You've gotta be kidding, son."

"I'm not. That despicable chimaera was just supposed to bring a simple green salad." Stiles added a bit more of spice in his mixing. "He not only brought a cheesecake, but he also hid mine and served his!" He added fuming.

"That's beyond despicable, that's culinary terrorism!" The Sheriff offered, but Stiles was so focussed right now, he did not raise the apparent mocking from his father.

"Oh, it gets worse. His cheesecake was better than mine!" He added, pouring the mixing angrily into the cheesecake plate.

"Impossible!"

"It's true. Everyone thought so. Even me." He said dejectedly and continued his rambling about Theo. "Oh and that simple green salad. Mosh and baby arugula with duck confit and candied walnuts!"

"He plays to win, son."

"I have been here for hours trying to replicate his recipe, and nothing has even come close!" He groaned, putting another cheesecake on the counter.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, son." He said eating one of the cheesecake. "This one's fantastic!"

He looked murderously at his father "That's his!!" He yelled.

The Sheriff looked sheepish and pushed away the piece of cake from him. "Sorry."

"What am I gonna do? "

"Just ask him for his recipe?"

"What? Surrender? Debase myself? "He said offended his father could suggest such a thing." I make it for Thanksgiving, pack dinners and bake sales for the Police station. If he's always right there behind me with HIS superior version, he will have stolen my entire identity." He said, hitting his head on the counter, defeated.

"Well, I wouldn't go that far." His father said, putting a comforting hand on his son's shoulder. "Hey, Derek." He greeted the werewolf as he entered the Stilinski's kitchen before letting the two of them alone, glad to escape his son's madness.

"Stiles"

"Leave me alone, Derek." He groaned. "Go all with your new dessert guy."

"Stiles, Theo fooled you…"

"Yes, he did!"

"…Stiles…"

"He's stealing my place!"

"He bought it in a bakery Stiles!" Derek said, annoyed the human was not listening to him.

"He's gonna take over every… Wait! What?!" He screamed, shocked.

"He told us he bought it in a bakery. We scowled at him."

"You mean YOU scowled at him." Stiles pointed.

"Scott mostly did the scowling."

Stiles looked at the werewolf, surprised and relieved. "You mean I'm still the best baker of the pack?" He said expectantly.

"Of course."

Stiles lunged at the wider werewolf and hugged him. "Can you help me with the cheesecakes, please?" He mumbled, his face buried in Derek's soft body.

"There are nine cheesecakes Stiles…"

"Actually, there are two more in the fridge." He pointed.

"Even I can't eat that much."

"Come on," Stiles said, pushing the werewolf in a seat, which groaned under the wolf's weight, "It's your favourite! And I do perfectly know you can't resist pumpkin spice stuff." He said slapping the wolf's belly.

Derek raised an eyebrow at him, crossing his arms. "Come one Pumpkinwolf, don't huff and puff. Just enjoy the cakes, or maybe Scott could take care of it?"

Mentioning the younger Alpha, and the second biggest wolf of the Pack, always worked on Derek. They still had this sort of alpha-I-can-do-better-than-you friendly competition.

"Don't you dare," Derek said, flashing his red eyes at Stiles while cutting a large piece for himself.

Chapter Text

CHUBTOBER CHALLENGE - Day 9 - Something small

Scott slowly lifted himself from the bed he had spent the major part of his day. His bulky gut spread several feet in front of him and had seriously started to slump own his hairy tree trunk legs. He wandered his inflated bulk to where Stiles was standing and as every time his feet hit the wooden floor, Stiles could testify it caused the whole room to shake, just a bit.

"Watch this bro," Scott said, bumping the lighter boy with his girth.

He bent down and gave Stiles a good show of his overstretched red briefs covering his extensively generous bottom. Scott slowly dragged his oversized jeans up over his thighs and fought to get them buttoned; the buttons not even coming near each other. His belly jiggled as he tried, but it had been clear the jeans had no longer fitted him for some time now.

Stiles was silent with bewilderment, mouth agape, and Scott noticed.

"It's all from late-night snacking, eating contests I have with Derek and your influence," he said, patting his mammoth belly and flashing his eyes red.

Stiles watched, mesmerised at this glorious gut, astounded at the sheer size of it. He still couldn't believe he got his best friend this big.

Scott just stood there, giving his gut a good rub when it started to rumble.

"Well bro, I need refilling," he said, slapping it gently with a smile and winked at Stiles.

He headed out the door, still in his boxers, and went downstairs, as Stiles could hear the loud cracking of the stair under the massive wolf's weight.

Chapter Text

CHUBTOBER CHALLENGE - Day 10 - Football

June.

At the beginning of the summer, Stiles Stilinski had received his workout plan for the track and field school team; as, Coach's words, he had the typical runner body: tall, lithe muscles and flexibility.

Therefore for the entire summer, he had to run at least three times a week and had resistance and endurance workouts the other days. It had been a nice way to fill his summer between hanging out with Scott and volunteering -his father obliging him- at the station.

For Scott McCall, summer plans had been different. He was on the BH High School football team and the only thing Coach Finstock had told him at the end of the season was to bulk up; even if bulking up had not been something Scott had a problem with given he had never been a small guy. He was 5'10 for a good 270 pounds with two broad padded pecs above his round and solid gut, thick arms, wide buttcheeks and thunder thighs. His mission for the summer was to pack on pounds as the coach wanted to create a wider and heavier team. Unfortunately for him, he could no work at Deaton this summer; the vet choosing to close his shop to travel around. Scott was so condemned to spend his summer relaxing at home, meeting with Stiles and friends from school.

Begining of August.

Stiles entered the McCall's house after finishing his now usual 15 miles morning run. The summer had been good on him; he was now fitter and tanner than ever. His muscles were now defined, not because he was underweight, but, thanks to the 15 pounds he had put on this summer. He weighted himself that morning at 165.

Scott was another story.

He took some healthy food from Melissa in the cupboard went to the leaving room where Scott was sitting. He had obviously finished his breakfast as Stiles could spot empty folders of pop tarts, an empty gallon of milk and a plate that had undoubtedly been full of eggs and bacon.

Right now, he was chugging down his usual protein shake and was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, the only thing he wore during the past months; it was pretty clear to Stiles that Scott had put on a large amount of weight since June.

Granted, he always had been big and thick all over, especially compared to his best friend, but he never had such a protruding gut and had never looked that soft through the chest, arms and thighs.

"Morning," Stiles said as he sat on the couch with his tray of food, his friend lazily answering back, still busy trying to get every last drop of his shake.

"How's the training's doing man?" He asked. "Because you look so fit, how much do you weigh now?"

"I've gained 15 pounds this summer. All muscle bro." Stiles flexed his arm proudly, trying to impress his friend. 

"Good job! » He replied genuinely. "That's some serious gains man." He said, smiling brightly at his friend. "I've done some serious ones too: 50 pounds since school ended. Up to 320 pounds now, all muscle too."

Stiles chocked on his Gatorade and let out an involuntary laugh; how in heaven could you gain 50 pounds in three months? Was that even possible? And how can you think it was all muscle?

Obviously, Scott was proud of his gains and stood to show all his bulk, his underwears highlighting all the curves of his thighs and bottom.

Stiles could, then, believe how Scott had been able to pack on so much weight as he was exhibiting the results of his lazy lifestyle under Stiles' nose, still unaware he was starting to look like a blimp. 

The weekend before the football tryouts.

Stiles made his way downstairs to the kitchen, as he had spent the night at the McCalls' playing video games with his best friend, where he saw Scott, looking as obese as ever, still wearing his usual inside-attire: a single pair of skin-tight (but larger than in August) underwears.

It was official, Scott McCall looked as big as a whale with huge and globular buttcheeks supported by tree trunks thighs always rubbing one another and under a massive tray of fat in the back, forming two generous love handles.

As Scott turned around and faced Stiles, the runner got a full-on look of the enormous footballer. As they were younger, Stiles always considered Scott as massive; now it was in new proportions because the boy was huge with his massive-soft-round-calling-for-attention ball of lard for a gut. Stiles guessed that thing must have stuck out enough for Scott to forget he had feet (not that he had used them that often this summer). Resting on it were two fat pecs, with more fat than muscle now, that could safely be named as moobs. His already soft face had now a more prominent double chin, and the beginning of a third one, that was attached on his jaw, melting with now permanents chipmunk cheeks.

If in August Scott already was a blimp, he created a new definition of it now as not a single place on his body that wasn't covered in lard.

He was making his morning protein shake, as he always did.

"Hey bro," He mumbled through a mouthful of pop tarts.

"Hey," Stiles answered, opening the fridge to take some milk. "Guess who just weighed in at 360 pounds of pure muscle?" The dark-haired teen asked his friend. "This guy! » Scott lifted his arms proudly as though he was flexing his muscles.

The number left Stiles astonished; 360 pounds. In the time of five months, his best friend had almost put on one hundred pounds.

Scott was undoubtedly kidding him. He could not but fooled by the fact he was on the obese range now and that he certainly had no muscle left showing. All he did all day was laying on the couch, shoving food in his mouth, and drinking those shakes. Stiles perfectly knew the man hadn't put a single foot in a gym since the beginning of the summer.

"I'm happy with the gains, and I'm pretty sure the coach will be too. That's the best bulking season I've ever had." He said through a mouthful of food before slapping his belly and 'flexing' to show off all his 'muscle'.

Stiles was now considering betting on Finstock's heart attack when he would see the size of Scott.

"Doesn't 'bulking' require some lifting as well?" Stiles asked, trying to sound as innocent as possible, even if it was not hard to manipulate Scott.

"Well, the guys also bulked well, but I'm in the top ten at least!" He exclaimed, chugging the remainder of his shake. "You know coach wants a big team this year." Stiles had the intuition the coach didn't think of that sort of big tho.

Suddenly, Stiles felt a strong urge to attend the football tryouts on the following Monday; just to see if Coach Finstock's plan had worked, even if there was no doubt for Stiles it did.

Chapter Text

CHUBTOBER CHALLENGE - Day 11 - Indulgence

Peter Hale was in a foul mood as he slammed the door to his flat, a little out of breath from the walk from the downstairs parking.

'Another useless pack meeting' he told himself. Since he had bitten Scott, almost three years ago, and since they had decided to act like a real pack, Peter was frustrated; excluding Stiles and Miss Martin, the members of the Beacon Hill pack were a bunch of useless, dysfunctional idiots. The vain Jackson Whittemore, Scot McCall which Peter had countlessly regretted to bite as the boy turned into a puppy, Isaac Lahey who offered nothing and of course his nephew, Derek, who didn't even know to act as a real Alpha.

He needed his daily indulgence; finding out sugar had the fantastic effect of calming him down after pack meetings. The first times it was just one doughnut, after all, he told himself at that time, only one can do no wrongs.

But one doughnut, after few weeks, became two, then three and now, three years later, he was leaving the bakery with three boxes of the greasy-sugary treat. What could he say? He needed his sugar to boost his mood and to forget he was surrounded by idiots momentarily.

After getting rid of his too-tight clothes, especially his shirt, the former Alpha planted himself down on his couch stuffing a whole doughnut in his mouth, instantly feeling better. Yes, those kinds of indulgences allowed his nerves to get some well-deserved rest; even if, as always, his grumpy mood made him eating the content of the boxes ravenously.

He groaned a bit when he threw down the last empty box on the floor, his gut painfully satisfied from being full. His mood was way better now, and he patted it smugly; that thing, like the rest of him, had grown as the numbers on the scale climbed to reach a freshly 302 pounds. He had been aware that he was piling weight on, and faster than he had been before because those daily indulgences combined with constant lazying at home through the day; that could have been prevented if those useless teenagers had started to listen to him.

To be honest, he liked that; he had realised after a year of indulgences that his appetite had grown too because those treats were simply comfort-food. Each day he consumed an obscene amount of food, making his colossal belly swelling larger and his fat breasts sagging further.

If someone had pointed lack of self-control, Peter Hale would have accused his Pack's incompetence; they were the reason he had to over-indulge to feel better. If they were as he wished they were, he would still have his trimmed waist, but now he was not far from doubling his old weight, he had found them a tiny bit less unbearable.

Now, he had to take a quick nap and digest before going out to dinner.

Chapter Text

CHUBTOBER CHALLENGE - Day 12 - Eating contest

Stiles came back home after a long day of classes only to find his two housemates, as usual, fighting. He hadn't even opened the door, as he could hear their voice shouting at each other.

Theo and Jackson were great. They helped with cleaning the house, with paying the bills, with furnishing the home they shared and grocery shopping. They were respectful and helpful. But, even if the two men were good friends, there was an unsolved rivalry between the two involving everything since their early teens; who was the fastest, the strongest, the smartest, the most well dressed, the most popular at flirting etc.…

Most of the time, the teasing was funny to witness, but then they had to parade their superiority. It, every single time, resulted in Stiles being obliged to pick up the pieces (sometimes literally picking up the pieces).

Right now, his two obese housemates, still in work clothes, were arguing while taping on their smartphones.

"You still can quit Raeken. I'd hate to humiliate you…again!"

"Please, I let you win the last time."

"Loser's words."

"Shut up, Whittemore!"

"Face it! I'm going to beat you. I'm way bigger than you. I can pack more food in that gut!"

"Please, last weekend I had more pizzas than you and I finished the Ben and Jerry's while you were groaning about how stuffed you were!"

"I had a big brunch that day…"

"Loser's words! And for your information I'm almost as big as you, so shut up!"

"I'm still the biggest!"

"Shut up! What kind of ice cream do you want? Cookie dough?"

"Yes"

"Posh ass! And don't forget to use the coupon for the Chinese. One meal bought one offered."

"As if you could finish two supersized Chinese meals, a pizza, three burritos and ice cream, Raeken?"

"How could you?"

"I'll do it even if I burst just to prove you I'm better at overeating!"

"That's what I'LL do, Jackass!"

'Great another fun night at the house'. Stiles wished he could have had a quiet and monotonous evening with his roommates. Promptly he would have to hear all their bickering for the next hours before dealing with their indigestions because the two of them would refuse to quit. Of course, he would have to be cautious not to favour one of them; otherwise, the other would sulk for days until Stiles deals with their confidence issues.

"And Stiles will be the judge!"

"Wait, wait. Don't drag me into your 'I'm the better' stuff."

"Just make sure Whittemore doesn't cheat."

"What do you imply Raeken?"

"I don't imply anything, just stating the truth."

"Guys…guys… you don't have to prove anything, you know?"

"Don't try Stilinski!"

"Yeah, Stilinski, just because you can't compete doesn't mean you have to forbid us to."

"Well, try anyway, guys. I DO consider Scott as the biggest eater. After all, he has at least 50 pounds on you." Stiles said smugly, loving how annoyed the two fat guys were looking.

"I can out-eat McCall!"

"I can do it too!"

"Call him Raeken. I'm going to upgrade our orders."

"Deal!"

'How god… what have I done?' Though Stiles. As long as the three of them cleaned the house after, it was not a big deal. Maybe he could call Alison and Lydia for a drink elsewhere, leaving the three hippos to overeat. Or perhaps he could indeed be the judge, and making sure to take some pictures…

Chapter Text

It was almost 11.30 pm when Stiles passed the Hale house gate. He should have made it earlier if his father had allowed him to go to Derek's Halloween party. Scott had invited him as his plus one because Stiles was always the plus one. Not that he expressly wanted to go to that party; he was going because Derek Hale was throwing a party. 

The mysterious, elusive, scowly Derek Hale had announced to his lacrosse teammates they were invited to celebrate Halloween; that intrigued Stiles because despite being one of the most popular kids in the school, Derek did not do the things popular kids do. He had never dated one of the cheerleaders, he never went to Homecoming or Prom, and never attended a party; so throwing one sounded abnormal. Still, he had not been sure he had been really invited and that Scott was just nice as he was the only one considering Stiles as a member of the lacrosse team and not just the benchwarmer. But Stiles' father had decided to spoil the mood by forbidding him to go to that party with - Stiles would defend it - fallacious reasons. The party was certainly going on by now; he had to wait for his dad's departure at the favour of some kids' shenanigans on the other side of the town to sneak out. 

The Hales were living outside the city, at the beginning of Beacon Hill Preserve, and being honest, Stiles was not really at ease on his bike in the middle of the night and the forest. Afterall, people had disappeared in the past. 

He finally arrived at the Hales and spotted Jackson's Porsches and Scott old motorbike. He leaned his bike against the expensive car and made his way to the front porch, but before even climbing the stairs, he jumped at the sound of a loud howl. If someone asked, he would say it was predictable to put on some tricks like that. Afterall, there were no wolves in California. 

The door was ajar, he pushed it, but to his surprised, he was welcomed with utter silence and darkness. He tried to call Scott, but it went straight to voicemail; which was weird because Scott was more of the 'I put my phone on silence and never answer'. His last text dated back from 8 pm, when Scott had arrived, late, at the party. Then nothing. Weirder...

He wandered in the hall to find himself in front of a big patio door in the Hales' living room opening onto the garden. The only source of light in the dark of the scariest night of the year was coming from a barn, at the other side of the lawn. 

Stiles opened the door and started to walk there faster than necessary, the creepiness of the place bothering him. It was weird to have a barn in this part of California Stiles told himself. The Hales are rich; they certainly built it to welcome guests or for parties like tonight. It was not a cold night, but he found himself having goosebumps. Only the moon was lightening the lawn, allowing Stiles to see where he was going, still growing ill at ease with the silence.
He was only feet away from the wooden building when he finally heard a strange noise. To his surprise it was not music, laughter or people partying; it sounded familiar but so tricky to describe to the teenager, but the closest thing that popped into his head was swallowing or maybe slurping.

He pulled the door, and when his eyes adapted to the bright, industrial-like light that had blinded him, his eyes were opened wide with shock.

The place was filled with large masses Stiles assumed were persons. Hugely inflated persons. 

"What the hell..." Stiles wondered, tripping on something soft and squishy. On his butt, he moved away when he realised the obstacle was a human being. Said human being was distorted with fat wearing remnants of clothes. The human's thighs were spilling over his calves, dimpled and soft. His upper arms were the size of pillows, holding a tube to his mouth. The obese cheeked face was greedily sucking into the tube, his impressive chins and swollen, sagging breast jiggling with each gulp. But the most remarkable sight of this immobile pile of tanned flesh was his big and overflowing belly. Dread filled Stiles as he realised the man looked like his teammate, Danny. 

All of the people sucking and expanding in the barn were members of the Lacrosse team. 

Stiles was petrified. He had to do something, but all the guys were ignoring him, too engrossed in drinking a mysterious liquid from the tubes. 

They were all here, most of them completely naked with a blissful look on their face. 

They look like cattle. 

Scott! Scott might be one of them! And he might not be in such a state if his dark-haired friend had arrived later than the others. Still, as some were already approaching immobility, Stiles just hoped Scott would be easier to take back home. 

Unbothered by his presence, the hypnotised teenagers were too focussed on gulping the addictive liquid to remarks Stiles checking them to find his best friend. He recognised so many familiar faces among them, his heart ached. Greenburg who was laying on his side, the mass of his gut resting on the floor; Jackson Whittemore, the captain, the vainest jock of them all, on his fattened knees, his underwears almost completely tore on his expanded rear.

Stiles was relieved when he saw that the member on the team still standing was a familiar tanned boy with a dark mop on his head. 

"Scott," he yelled, running to his friends, dodging between the bodies, "It's you!" 

The mysterious substance Scott was still drinking at taken a toll on the boy. Far from Jackson's or Danny's size, his best friend had started to spill out of his clothes; his jeans ripped at the waist, from which his bottom stuck out; his shirts barely coming down to his deeper bellybutton and losing battle to cover his growing love handles at all.

Scott finally spotted Stiles in front of him and decided to stop his drinking momentarily. 

"Oh, hey..." Scott greeted Stiles, as if the situation was not bothering him, wiping his mouth, spreading a bunch of the syrupy liquid on his cheeks. "It's...you...Stiles." The fattened boy articulated with difficulty, as if he was saying a complicated word they had to learn for the SAT. 

Like the rest of his body, Scott's face had softened to the point that fat had almost made disappear his crooked jaw with chins and swollen cheeks. 

"What the hell is going on here?" Stiles shouted frantically, contrasting with the passive and docile attitude of his best friend. "We need to leave now!"

"Mo...More...important..." Scott started, catching his breath, making his chin and man breast wobbling. "This stuff..." He showed the tube he had in his throat a moment before. "It's... real good." His smile he gave Stiles making his fat cheeks and chins even more pronounced. Still, Scott's eyes, despite looking happy, seemed so dulled to Stiles, as if the man, not a genius, to begin with, had regressed.  

Scott kept pushing the tube in the direction of Stiles, the syrup flowing at a steady pace. 

It seemed good, indeed, and the smell was so sweet it started to make Stiles drools. He quickly changed his mind. They had to leave now. Scott looked confused like a puppy when he saw his best friend taking typing on his phone before shoving the tube into his mouth. Instantly, he forgot the presence of his best friend to enjoy the syrup. 

"Come on," Stiles muttered, "Answer," he pleaded his phone as he was ringing his father. He could not hear the sound of his thoughts as the situation was unthinkable. Scott and his teammates...The Hales kidnapping them...Fattening them... Why? How? And what next? He could not think straight; he could not do something to stop all that... They were going to...

"Stiles," his father's voice cutting off his thoughts. The voice grew worried when the Sherriff could hear the laboured breath of his son. "Stiles, kiddo, calm down. Tell me what's going on." He said gently but urgently at the same time.  

"They are fattened up like...like...They did that!" 

"Stiles, Stiles," The Sherriff cut him. "You don't make any sense. I'm coming home. I'll be here soon, kiddo." He could hear his father closing his car's door and the siren turning on. 

"I'm at the Hales!" Stiles shouted. "They are doing something! To Scott...To the others!"

He heard his father sighting loudly. "Stiles, I told you to stay at home tonight."

"But, you have to do..."

"Run," his father ordered. "Run and drive home as fast as you can, do not turn back." He said quickly. 

"But Scott!" Stiles protested. He could not leave his best friend here when the Hale manifestly did something! And his father knew it.

"You have to! And don't drink any of their stuff, it destroys your will after one sip," The Sherriff shouted back. "I'm so, so sorry, son." The man added, crying. 

"Please, run." He begged his son.

Stiles felt his phone slip out of his hand. He glanced at Scott, engrossed in gulping more liquid. The boy had been his best friend, but now he had realised the fattened version of him was just a mindless zombie. Scott was gone now. "Sorry, man," he murmured softly, before running to escape from this trap. 

He was almost out of the barn when he felt a strong hand digging into his chest. On the floor, he looked up to see a monster.

The humanoid beast was growling at him. His face, somewhat human, was distorted and hairy with sharp fangs, glowing yellow eyes and razor-sharp claws. 

The beast was approaching his prey, scowly. He was just inches from his face when he started sniffing him. Stiles could feel tear swelling up in his eyes, as he did his best to hold his breath. 

He was going to die. He will not see his father ever again. 

Slowly, he looked, horrified, the beastly face melting away to reveal such a familiar face; Derek Hale. Derek Hale was a shape-shifting monster. 

That could not be. That as to be prothesis and good makeup. Maybe it was a huge, elaborated but not-so-funny prank. 

The man before him eyed him up. He could see his lips move, but could not understand the words, as they were murmured. Maybe Derek was just trying to calm him he though. Then he heard multiple howls behind him. Wolves. Shape-shifting wolves Stiles realised.

"Did you see what's in here?" He growled, not waiting for an answer, he grabbed Stiles and pushed him back into the building, making Stiles crash with Danny's body, who simply looked at him dumbly. 

"Uncle Peter says you have some catching to do," Hale said." You'll be delicious." He added, eyeing him hungrily. 

"What? What do you mean by..." Stiles protested, before feeling a tube being shoved far into his throat. 'No! Not me!" He started crying when he realised they were going to be Hales' Halloween dinner tonight. They were in a breeding facility...for humans. It was pretty much what it looked like. Once they are all round and fattened, like pigs. Because if the Hales were wolves, Stiles and his friends were pigs. 

He understood a lot of things now. Why the Hales were so secretive. Why Beacon Hills County had a steady flow of missing persons. Why his father did not want him to go to that party. Why Scott and the others could not keep their mouth out of these tubes. Scott was right; the syrup was so good. But even if it was harmful, and that he still should try to leave. He was going to be eaten. But it was so good. Yet he had to tell someone to stop them.  

'I just...don't care anymore.' Stiles though had he felt his pants button popping. 

Chapter Text

Christmas Special Chapter of this Story

Stiles reached his hand into the supersized pint of ice cream under his arm, shovelling out a large spoonful and delivering it to his impatient mouth; taking no of notice the creamy, cookie-dough flavour on his taste buds as he had already shovelled another gallon of the chilled dessert down his throat over the last half hour. He slowly moved his jaws and as the ice cream melted in his mouth, each subtle motion causing his chin to dig into the fat of his neck and upper chest. His plump fingers were sticky, but he did not care; all he cared about was filling the little space available in his stomach despite the Christmas feast he had devoured. 

Their small assembly of four extra-large men had feasted, on a decadent Christmas' Eve dinner, Stiles had summoned. If the meal would have cost the Stilinskis a couple hundred, it had taken the magical teenager mere seconds to make it appear on the table; stuffed turkey, roast beef, mashed potatoes, foie gras, gravy and different kind of Yule logs and pies. 
 Only the Sheriff had gone to bed, with a remaining bourbon pecan pie with him, to digest; the poor man had tried to keep up with his voracious official son and honorary ones. Notwithstanding outstanding efforts, he had decided to skip the traditional movie night when he had started passing out on his chair and clothes being unbearably uncomfortable. 

Though Stiles had upgraded their used and abused couch to a larger and comfier one, his broad posterior and his billowing abdomen filled nearly half of it, with the edges of his wide bigness pressing up against Scott bigger one, who was sitting across from him. Together, their gelatinous buttocks and cascading girths covered every square inch of cushions on the couch, with the tips of their paunches spilling over the top of their barrel-sized legs and down toward the floor.

Laying on a myriad of blankets, pillows and fat-filled belly, Jackson was facing the television. While the Michelin-shaped man's weight was forcing the pale stuffed flesh to spread out at his sides, the round sphere was lifting his butt cheeks into the air like a pair of oversized water balloons, swaying with every slight movement he made to reach the foot-long Friends inspired sandwich he had begged Stiles to make appear. Afterall, a layered sandwich filled with pulled ham hock, pulled turkey, smoky butternut crush, sharp red cabbage, cheddar cheese and a slice of sourdough steeped in turkey and cranberry gravy was better than the endless supply of deep-fried twinkies Scott was shovelling inside his flabby mouth to round his enormous gut even more.

This Christmas scene had not been unusual, just an excuse to have, maybe, more food than usual; days of being glutted into the couch, binging on series, video games and gorging had been maintained by their extreme laziness, the fact they had long passed the morbid-obesity threshold and Stiles abilities. The magic, the boy had gladly provided, had surrounded them in a constant state of comfort that they had all given into, more or less willingly as Jackson had not yet fulfilled his first year as a supersized man. 

They did not need to worry about getting up, going to the kitchen or the store to get more food; food, in every shape, taste and quantity was brought to them. 

They did not have to worry about training or staying in shape; they did not need to anymore as they had passed a size where people would consider getting up and walking to their bedroom as physical activity. 

They did not even need to worry about their waning mobility; all they needed was Stiles to give a push to stand up, their barrel-sized legs virtually useless as they had been long since buried under layer after layer of fat, or levitation to shove food into their mouth to rest their flab-caked arms. 

No stress, no worries; just pleasure, pure and simple, by just mindlessly watching television and stuffing their faces. Occasionally, they would quarrel with one another about the shows or movies they were watching, but they were easily solved with a bribery snack at the end of the day. 

Thus, the three rotund young men could remain in this state for the foreseeable future, with only to worry about stuffing their faces and plumping up. With another Christmas feast and two more weeks away from college, they would undoubtedly move an inch from their spot, especially if Stiles could resist his lethargy to find a spell to create clones to attend classes. 

He would have to worry about that later. He glared at the now empty pint of ice-cream, and in mere seconds it filled with Chubby Hubby this time.

Chapter Text

"I told you you wouldn't fit in that," his friend called, not bothering looking up from his Nintendo Switch," and I don't see why you'd need an Armani for fat camp."

Of course, having such a smartass friend was something getting on his nerves, but he was too stubborn to agree with him. 

"I'll fit in it", he grumbled, "just wait the end of the summer." But, then, he would definitely fit in when he would get rid of the round belly, the jutting love handles and moobs.

"Didn't you say that last summer?" his friend cheekily asked. He did. His even fatter best friend did not have this problem, favouring now wearing his shirts wide open on a strained tank-top ill-hiding his fattened torso and waist.  But his weight loss had been minimal, far not enough to fit in his $250 shirt.

"Shut up." He said, anticipating the cackles of his friend when he finally gave up. 

Chapter Text

He was not even that fat to go to fat camp. 
Honestly!

Sure, at 220 pounds, he was not thin like a rail or bulked like a football player, but he was not fat. 

Sure he had curves, and maybe they had steadily increased during the past years, but they were not that big. 

Sure, most of his baggy clothes were form-fitting, and he had not bothered on putting on jeans for half a year, not because they were too small, but because his joggers were comfier.

In the end, his father had cut short any arguments he could have presented; he was going to spend most of his summer at the camp to shed his extra weight. 

His father had played well using the "I don't want you to have to watch your cholesterol like me, son" card. Although, to be honest, he could have argued by pointing out how his father had never been able to lose weight, maybe because of their genetics. Despite an essentially physical job, his father was fat, and his son was a little bit overweight because said son had tried to monitor his dad's diet by making sure the policeman had no access to the junk food in their home - by eating it himself.

He would just have to recruit one of the deputies to monitor his dad's diet while being gone.

Chapter Text

Being fat and working in a fat camp. It was almost amusing. When he had started working there three summers ago, he thought he would be the example of fat camp failure poster boy. 

Actually, he had enjoyed working there. His coworkers were friendly, and the facilities were excellent; he had enjoyed coaching the kids and doing sports activities with them. Most of all, he was not subjected to the campers' diet.

Although he should have, he had always been on the larger side—overweight kid, leading to fat teenager then obese young adult. Unlike people his weight, his face was relatively thin, but the adipose had favoured his hips and legs, obliging him to buy 4xl swim trunks last summer. And by the look of the many shopping trips he had to make during winter and spring, he should hurry to buy larger sizes.

The only difference this year was the absence of his half-brother at the camp. The young man had been declared too fat to join, the staff not being sure they would have enough robust furniture to accommodate him. Inside of him, he knew it was going to happen. He loved his brother, but the teenager was rapidly topping the 500's, and his family, not encouraging but not discouraging his eating behaviour, by the way, had not been able to motivate him to lose weight. At least, with Derek at the camp, the blonde boy was able to drop around thirty pounds, even if he quickly gained them back at home. 

Maybe, if he could lose some weight this summer, he would motivate his brother to do so in September.

Chapter Text

He had never minded his weight. He knew he was big, but it had never influenced his social life or part-time job at the local vet clinic. Plus, his mother was a nurse, so if he had been too big, she would have told him so, right? Sure, since her divorce, she had been really lenient with her son, and he was glad to be able to do whatever he wanted. 

Sure, he would have loved to be part of the school sports team, but he had never found the will to do so. Plus, he would rather stay playing video games on his couch and rest with his job and studies taking so much time.

So the fact, most of his clothes or furniture were too snug for him, were a secondary problem he had not minded until the arrival of a new student. She was gorgeous, and Scott was sure it was love at first sight. Unfortunately, it had not been reciprocated, and one of the reasons the brunette put forward was his physical condition. 

It was the first time someone had publicly mentioned his weight, and from the look of pity students were giving him, he understood she had been right. Nevertheless, most people were revolted by the new student words, if it was any consolation. 

That is why he had decided to sign up for fat camp this summer - to settle a problem he didn't know he had.

Chapter Text

S'More
Fat Camp

The camp was not that bad. It was pretty small and only had enough spaces for a little over twenty guys. There are five cabins for residents and three more for counsellors and camp workers. 

Stiles realised he was the skinniest camper. 'Take that, dad'. He was undoubtedly the only guy under 250 and even the staff looked way bigger than him. The director, who insisted on being called Coach, sported a sizeable round beer belly. Despite wearing a lacrosse jersey, he did not look like he was having a lot of physical activity.

Watching the list of names on the board, he read his cabin's name, the Wolves, and bunkmates; Scott, Danny and Jackson.  He just had to find their counsellor, Derek. 

He was a bit nervous because he wanted to fit in with the people he was sharing this adventure to thinness with despite quickly talking to people. He knew he was a lot to handle. Maybe they will have a lot of patience. 

He passed the first cabins when he spotted the Wolves' house at the end of the trail. On the porch stood what Stiles supposed to be another bunkmate. The man was not far from being as large as tall. Maybe older than them, given he was wearing a light beard. His face, beautiful face, was a bit chubby, with rounded cheeks and a soft jaw. What amazed Stiles, despite the beauty of the man - oh god, those hazel eyes - was the size of his hips and legs. Each of them was at least larger than Stiles' torso and cramped into indecently tights jeans. Stiles already guessed this man must sport the roundest watermelonesque buttcheeks. 

He knew he had been too far into his fantasies when the beautiful face glared at him, two caterpillar brows frowning. 

"Stiles?" Mister Perfect asked. "Welcome to The Wolves! I'm Derek, your counsellor." He shifted his mighty bulk to free the cabin's door and showed him in.

Stiles was so right. Mister Perfect had the most beautiful backside of the Earth. 

Chapter Text

Barely recovered from the sight of his counsellor, Stiles was once again overwhelmed by the look of his bunkmates.

Three pairs of eyes were examining him.

The first one was just an all-around thick kind of guy; thick neck, thick thighs - but not as much as Derek, thick arms and thick torso. He was wearing a too-tight baby-blue designer shirt that fabric was battling against generous love handles and belly. He looked like the typical rich kid, who spent more time than a girl in a bathroom just to style his blond hair, and the air of disdain he was throwing at Stiles, and his baggy joggers were enough to tell him he did not like him. 

'Another looser', Jackson thought, 'and a thinner one. At least with Danny and the baby elephant, I was the hottest'.

Next to him stood a friendly-looking guy. He was almost as tall as the blond one but way bigger, with fashionable but still comfy clothes. He seemed nice, with a polite smile creating two magnificent dimples on his round cheeks.  Despite his size, the man had a good amount of muscles—muscular fat pecs resting on a round gut, solid legs and defined arms. Stiles could guess he played football and wondered what this guy was doing here. 

'He looks cute,' Danny thought, 'Too thin for this place, but still cute.'

The third guy, sat on his bed, was the fattest kid in the room and certainly the fattest kid Stiles had ever seen. He was leaning back on the bed; his thighs widely spread to give space to a spherical and heavy looking belly whom Stiles could spot, given the grey tank-top did not cover it entirely. He looked even genuinely friendlier, with a bright smile on a smooth fat face. 

'At least, there is a friendly face here,' Scott observed, 'Maybe we could become friends here.'

"So, this is Stiles," Derek introduced, "you can take the bed between Scott and Danny." He realised he was between the two fattest and nicest looking guys. So the scowly third one was certainly Jackson, Stiles mentally noted. 

The two men nodded at him before Derek indicated the scale put in the middle of the room. 

"We need to weigh you for your file," he said, preparing a pen and a white sheet with his information. Stiles did not know his weight. The last time he stepped on a scale was for P.E., like a year ago. 

"223,6," Derek announced when the scale stabilised his weight. 

"Great!" Jackson mumbled, "Another chub who can't lose weight by himself."

"Jackson!" Derek reprimanded. "People have their own reasons to come here, just like you."

Jackson growled back at Stiles when he saw the lithe man sticking his tongue at him, then started to pout, not appreciating the insinuation. Sure it was his third summer here, and he had not managed to go back under 250, most likely coming back with a surplus of 20 pounds each time. If he had been Stiles' size, he would be in a private club in SoCal, sunbathing and enjoying parties, not here, meddling with plebeians. 

Danny was exasperated with his best friend. He really loved him, but god, this jock-I-am-better-than-anyone facade was getting on his nerves. More so because Jackson had begged him to come with him. Danny was fat, yeah. It was not a problem. Everybody was overweight in his family, and he wanted to work in computer engineering. If only Jackson could embrace his fatness, things would be way easier. He hoped for a lot of patience from Scott and Stiles; at least the two men were easy on the eyes.  

Scott found the new boy kind of cute, with his pale skin and little belly, well, negligible compared to his.  He was half his size, but at least, he was not like Jackson. Given his Star Wars tee-shirt, his was certainly a bit nerdy, which was cool for Scott. At least, they could bond over video games and, maybe Stiles would end up helping him with some tasks his size prevented him from doing. 

Stiles had an internal crisis. How would he survive a whole summer between those three Big Handsome Men? A shame he had to meet them in a fat camp because, to him, he would not change a single thing about them. Especially their weight. Well, he would not mind them with a few more pounds. 

Derek sighed when he exited the room, feeling his hips brushing on the doorframe. This was going to be a long summer. At least, except for Stiles, his campers were the biggest - he would certainly have good results. 

'Too bad they want to lose weight.' He thought before going for a snack at the cafeteria.

Chapter Text

Stiles decided that the fat camp was not too bad, waiting for their camp counsellor to give him his life jacket. The activities were entertaining and mostly revolved around physical activities; still, he was not entirely sure it would help him and the others convert flab to hard muscles. 

He had made a friend with his bunkmate on the bus, one that did not mind his rants and his ADHD. Honestly,  Scott was the nicest human being he had ever met, and he was mad at this Allison chick for being mean to him. Sure Scott was the fattest kid at the camp, making Stiles look underfed, but it did not alter his beautiful uneven features. It was like finding his soul-brother; both were geeks - despite Scott having none of Stiles' Star Wars references - and bonded on growing up with a single parent. He was glad he has this easy-going person in his cabin because the two others, well, one actually, were not as great. 

Danny, the Hawaiian kid, was okay. He was always respectful and eager to participate; he often teased Stiles for 'showing off' his thinness around them. He counterbalanced Jackson, the fat posh kid, who always complained about the size of the cabin, the state of the furniture, the activities... and always bragged on his money, his Porsche, Stiles was sure was the only reason he was trying to lose weight because there was no way Jackson could still fit in it.

Today, it was a 'fun afternoon of canoeing', and Stiles was lucky he had been paired with Scott. He could not have handled Jackson and live with the risk of being thrown out of the canoe. Especially when the life jacket Derek, their counsellor, had given him had been too large for Stiles. Obviously, a life jacket smaller than 2XL was hard to find, and it only fueled Jackson's resentment toward Stiles. 

For Scott, it was another story as Derek had to upgrade three times the size and struggled with Scott's belly coming in the way of the straps. He could see poor Scott trying to pull his stomach in, but it was futile, given its size, while Derek attempted to pull both ends closer, the muscles and fat on his arms trembling with the effort.

"He doesn't need a jacket. At that size, he can float", sneered Jackson, who was himself almost bursting out of his 3XL life jacket and designer speedos. Danny elbowed him, glaring at him and mouthed a 'sorry' to Stiles. Stiles anger had been ill-placed because the scene could have been in one of the gainer fantasy fiction he was fond of. And, Stiles had to admit, Jackson suggestion was a solution to the problem they were facing. 

In the end, Scott was jacket-less and had to be paired with Derek for safety measures, and Stiles had to admit it again; the sight of both of the large men hampered into a tiny canoe gave him shivers. Thanks, gods, his swim trunks were baggy. 

Chapter Text

Stiles' face was just as gloomy as the rest of the campers after finishing his tray of whole wheat bagel, low-fat cream cheese, a bowl of watermelon cubes, green beans, and a small individual carton of low-fat milk. And just like every evening, he could hear Jackson voicing their common displeasure. It was always a variation of how he should be eating like a man and not on tasteless rabbit food. Usually, he was adding the   "It's enough for a wimp like Stilinski!" because the large blond was still bitter of Stiles' figure.

The four of them were hardly handling the caloric deficit, and despite some questionable results on their waistline in less than a week, they only dreamed of pizzas, burgers, chips and ice-creams. But they only woke up to a tray of bland, low caloric food, while, they knew it perfectly, their counsellors, who could use this diet, had their daily pigging out session with unholy amounts of sugar and fatty treats. Well, those were the rumours of starved teenagers. 

Still, Stiles had decided to find their secret stash because the only thing he agreed on with Jackson was they would not take a whole summer of this. 

He decided to approach Danny, crossing Jackson for apparent reasons and Scott because he was far from discreet as much as he liked the boy. Plus, Danny was fit enough to carry as many treats as possible. So, when their friends started to snore loudly, they ventured out into the asleep camp. At that time of the night, it was impossible to meet someone, and with the full moon to enlighten their path, both boys had quickly reached their target. 

They had determined the Counselours' Lounge was where they kept their junk food because most of them hung out there after the campers' curfew. 

Just as they expected, the place was empty, and Stiles did not have any trouble forcing open the padlock, shrugging innocently under the suspicious glare of Danny. 

They hit the jackpot as their flashlights showed them all of the cupboards were bursting out with packets of processed, unhealthy, but still so good food. 

Stiles and Danny threw themselves on it in less than a second, starting to destroy the past week's efforts. 

After two family-sized packs of Cheez-It, he easily managed a fourth bag of edible cookie dough. Not that he was hungry, but the profusion of food in front of him and a whole week with steamed vegetables gave him the enthusiasm to pack more food into his stomach. At that point, it was safe to say there was little room left inside him afterwards. Not even bothering to excuses his belches, he looked down at himself and was shocked at how bloated he was. He was not a stranger to being bloated, of course, given his size and weight, but he could not remember reaching this shape, making him look pregnant with twins. His moan of pleasure when his hand started rubbing the sensitive dome and wished he could eat like that every night did not bother his friend, who was, at this moment, still occupied in the annihilation of Oreos. He should not look at Danny; he really should not.  His big hands kneading at the tan skin of a stomach twice the size of its usual self, resting on his thighs, in slow circles, was almost too much for poor Stiles.

Unlike Stiles, Danny resisted sleep after finishing his feast, who was on the verge of a food coma. The bigger teen chuckled as it was apparent from the unbutton shorts that Stiles had appreciated the situation and Danny's sight. Danny slumped back in his chair, only to realise it was almost 4.30 am and that the staff was going to be up in less than 30 minutes.

"We have to go," he quickly muttered, heaving himself up, his hand protectively on his belly, "come on, get up!" 

He then started to stuff packets of food into his bag to the point the zip almost gave out. He saw Stiles doing the same, his light in his mouth while his hands were adding tons of sugary treats to their stock. 

It was a miracle they managed to get to their cabin without stopping or throwing up, but the two panting boys made it without being seen, until, at the moment Danny had his hand on the handle, the door opened. 

"Can you tell me what's all of this?"

It was a furious Jackson, who almost yelled when Danny tackled him to free the entrance. Sat on his friend, Danny silenced him by shoving a mini-cinnamon bun directly in his mouth under the shocked stare of a sleepy Scott. 

"Yeah, we sneaked out," he said, Jackson warily looking at his best friend, calmed down by the sugar hitting him, "and yeah, we found the secret stash. You're welcome!" He added, using Stiles to get up, only to let himself fall into his bed. 

Stiles turned to Scott and presented him a two dozen Twix pack the floppy-haired boy took eagerly, while Jackson was shoving buns at the speed of light in his mouth. 

In the span of a night, Stiles and Danny probably put back on all the weight they lost this week, and their friends would follow them soon. 

Chapter Text

Derek woke up when the thirst became too hard to ignore despite his mini-food coma, his phone indicating him it was not even four in the morning. 

At least, he did not wake up because he was hungry, he thought, moving a hand under the blankets on his bed, finding the soft, rounded shape of his belly still comfortably inflated and gurgling with food from dinner. And the pizza night Finstock had offered up after the kids went to bed. And the snack he had right before bed at one.

He burped a little when he inadvertently put too much pressure on the appendage.

'I really, really, should stop eating so much.'

He had thought for this season, to stick to the campers diet in an effort of solidarity, but at the end of the first day, he was shoving hot dogs after hot dogs in his mouth. 

He swung his legs out of bed, whose frame creaked, and why a common difficulty heaved himself to his feet. 

He did his best to settle his heavy stomach inside his tank tops and sweats and made it to the door of his bathroom. But before he could enter, a flash of light drew his attention. It could not be another counsellor, not at this time. He rushed to his window, and for a moment, he thought he had imagined it. Then he saw the light again, coming from the Counselors' Lounge. Weird, because thieves would have prefered the administrative cabin with their computers, not a place with food and car games. 

He stepped into his slipper and silently rushed to the cabin, feeling his buttcheeks and love handles bouncing in rhythm with his steps, hoping to catch the intruders. Making sure the floor around the place would not creak under him, he moved his head forward to the window. 

They were not thieves, well, not the ones Derek had initially imagined. They were campers! Campers cheating on their diet! Not a first, but still rare enough to be mentioned. 

Derek was about to burst into it when he realised one of them. It was Stiles Stilinski, lightened up by the moonlight, his pale skin standing out in the night. 

The boy was leaning on his chair, his belly swollen, various empty packages of food around him. Derek had never seen the boy looking so content. Indeed, because his hunger had been satisfied, a feeling Derek had known too well. Gosh, Stilinski was not the biggest of the camp, but he was damn beautiful. Especially like that, stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey. Small moans and burps were escaping his lips, and Derek would have wished he could have been there, with him, rubbing that distended stomach to relieve the chubby boy while preparing another packet of whatever Stilinski had overeaten on. He would have done it with any of the boys in his charge. They could make great eating companions, especially McCall, due to his size. Danny would have been a good choice because he was perfectly unconcerned about losing weight. Then, Jackson, Derek would have loved to push the boy's denial about his weight to the max. But he would damn himself to see Stilinski double in size thanks to him. 

He regained consciousness when Stilinski and the other thief, Danny, he realised, started to jump and quickly filled their bags with the counsellors' food. Those boys had no shame! Round and full, but still wanting more. 

Maybe Derek could help with that, he thought as he was watching the two boys waddling hurriedly to their cabin.

He would totally help them, he thought, imagining the boys of his cabin blimping up. And he had a couple of ideas he could execute.

Chapter Text

BHU freshmen students Jackson Whittemore and Danny Mahealani had decided to start 2020 on the right track. The passage from high school to college had taken a toll on both of the lacrosse star-athletes, as the social life college offered had sucked them.

They had done their fair share of partying, late fast-food meals, barbecue parties and beer kegs, and, of course, snacking during the holidays. Some winter weight had appeared on their once perfectly sculpted bodies. They looked bigger than usual; arms and legs seemed to have more size than they used to, no longer looking necessarily lithe and lean, and their bottoms seemed a little more filled out - not that they complained about that part. And sure, maybe their heads were looking a little rounder than in August, a small pinch of flesh beneath their chins. Just a bit of harmless pudge and plump padding their freshman 15, or more, had brought. Nothing too concerning for those two seasoned lacrosse players. 

A couple of weeks of intense cardio and the extra pounds would melt away, prepping them for the first line on the college team. Gone would be their bulbous appearance, the quivering torsos and the small paunches deforming their tighter shorts and jerseys.

Little did the bulkier students know what was going to happen in only a few days.

At the end of their particular sophomore year at college, Jackson and Danny were back on track with suitable resolutions. After eighteen months of only attending online classes, with no possibility of going to the gym or jogging in parks, they found themselves back in the local preserve to prep for lacrosse next season. 

Their 2020 efforts had stayed strong during the first quarantine. Only fifteen days, where it had been easy to avoid stress-snacking at every corner. They had told themselves it was just a few days on their couch or following workout videos before heavy lifting and severe cardio at the local gym. 

But it soon became apparent that it was not going to be just a few weeks. It became a full eighteen months of intense carb-loading for them, and despite months of pure denial, the former lacrosse stars could no longer hide away the extra pounds they were sporting. 

But, before their Junior year, they were going to be in shape again. For real. 

Sure, they had grown wider than they would have thought they could, with his rumps both nearly taking up the entire bench park they were on. Easily the size of a beach ball, the stomachs were jutting of their middles and dropping between fat-laden legs due to their weight. Their oversized bodies were buried beneath new form-fitting sports clothes whose material highlighted their love handles and their once softened-pecs softened into melon-sized moobs. As usual, now, the collar cut their enlarged neck, meeting with thick jiggling jowls and soft chins swaying beneath buried jaws. 

Of course, they knew their first step into getting in shape would be vain with the ice cream truck in their local park. Carb-loading before the effort, right? 

Chapter Text

2018

College student Stiles Stilinski had been glad to secure a regular job every summer at a private posh pool club a few miles outside of Beacon Hill. It was an adult-only kind of club with an Olympic pool, a leisure one and jacuzzis, that Stiles was allowed to use during his off-hours.

The job was not that hard; he welcomed the customers at the pool, asked for their ID card, made sure towels were ready, and all that jazz. Plus, the pay was good, really good, added to the generous tips he received. 

Of course, he had met his fair share of rude customers who thought money could allow them to treat the staff like lower humans. 

It was the case of a guy he had, unfortunately, at first, met during his first summer at the pool. 

The guy was the perfect example of the posh-mean-jock who had everything he had ever wanted in life. The sculptural blonde had scoffed at him when Stiles had asked for his card. 

"Don't you know who I am?" He had asked haughtily. 

The next day, Stiles had learnt the jerk was Jackson Whittemore, the owner's son, who had planned to spend most of his time at the pool. 

An agreed ignorance between the two of them had been declared. Stiles would not talk to him unless for the polite greetings he had been obliged to say, and Jackson had stopped, publicly, scolding Stiles. 

Despite being a royal jerk, Stiles had to admit Jackson Whittemore was easy to the eye. A pure jock, with taut abs, solid pecs, bulging arms, defined legs and a bubble butt moulded in short, really short speedos.

Stiles knew Jackson knew he had a desirable shape and did not go without showing it all, especially when Stiles, despite jogs and workouts, still looked like a frail undernourished and pale boy.  

Jackson was even harder to ignore when he had decided, after two weeks, to invite many jock friends from his high school to swim, tan, and enjoy the food and drinks for free, thanks to mom and dad. 

Still, it had given Whittemore a distraction from tormenting him and provided Stiles with the distraction of ogling at a bunch of hot jock. 

It was only at the end of the summer, just before leaving for his freshman year, that Stiles had noticed something. Jackson had decided to return to the club before heading to whatever posh university to his great displeasure. But when Jackson passed to his desk, Stiles could not have missed the round stomach he had. It was not fat, but the concave abs the blonde had shown off at the beginning of the summer had moved on to a stuffed looking abdomen. 

A big lunch, Stiles had thought, as his friends' stomachs also looked well packed. 

2019

The following summer, Stiles had discovered a thick Jackson Whittemore. And Stiles had felt blood in his mouth when he had admitted to himself the blonde looked amazing.  

Obviously, Jackson had hit the gym pretty hard during his freshman year, but he had also partied well given the new occupant of his torso. Under steak looking pecs, and where there had been an eight pack of abs, was now a beer gut. Not a big one, but one that could be spotted under his shirts. 

At least, he had not changed his swimwear. Stiles had heatwaves each time he had seen how tight they had been on a more pronounced bottom. And those legs...

He was sure Jackson loved his new thickness, and it had been confirmed when he had heard a conversation while he was folding towels. No, he had not been spying on him!

"You are looking amazing there, big guy!" The other jock, who had been the most tolerable one the previous summer, had told him, "Some thickness does suit you." 

"Thanks, man!" Jackson had answered with his signature cocky grin, "Yeah, the regimen you suggested has been working out, been getting pretty thick!" He said, flexing an impressive biceps under his friend's nose like a dumb frat boy before burping. "Oh, sorry, I went to town on the buffet earlier..."

Then the other had laughed and approved on that. Not that Stiles could not; Jackson had gone from an Abercrombie model boy to a beefy athlete. 

Stiles had been almost sad when he had learnt Jackson was only staying for three days. 

2020

The following summer, Stiles had decided life was unfair. No one could look that good with a body like that! 

Except for Jackson Whittemore. 

If Jackson had looked like a well-fed football player, he had gone downright fat. Any trace of muscle had a noticeable padding around them. 

Tanned as if he had done nothing else during his summer, what Stiles could have bet, the slight belly he had developed during freshman year had now been a full-blown ball of lard. It connected to his former v-shaped back with generous love handles and back rolls, pressuring brand new but too tight orange speedos. Stiles should have intervened when he had spotted the orange fabric losing battle against his overhang on the front while it was in the process of being swallowed by his fattened legs and giggling ass cheeks, but it would have been a shame to asking to hide that. With also the fact, Whittemore would not have minded throwing his pina colada to his head. 

He was still with the hot jock from the last summers, who looked at the fattened blonde on his buoy with so much admiration it had almost made Stiles puking. 

He hard the smaller man saying they should take a break, on which Jackson had happily added on how he had been feeling peckish. 

Stiles did not miss a moment of the jiggling body waddling to the foodservice table, gulping down on his pina colada before refilling it and grabbing a plate while imagining how Whittemore would look next June. 

The following summer, Stiles had to wait until the very last weekend of August to catch a sight of Jackson Whittemore, not that it had been hard given how larger he had become.

While smaller than in Stiles wildest fantasies, the green shorties had not hidden anything from his weight gain, moulding and ever-growing ass and a promising fat pad. 

Obviously religiously avoiding the gym, the posh boy had grown even larger to the point he had avoided lounging on a chair, not sure if he could have fit or being able to get up again. 

Stiles had not seen the man being anything but stuffed for the two days of his presence. The more widespread belly he had been hauling, while shagging, almost had a perfect round shape and had upped his fat-inflated moobs, which had started to force his arm into an unnatural angle. 

Not an overall surprise due to the man's appetite. Stiles had to refill the ice cream bar thrice while he had been there and could not only be stunned and amazed when Jackson had come, with his lamb jock friend, whom Stiles had suspected being a fat admirer, by the way, ten times in the same afternoon to gulp down cones of ice cream. 

He could recall the moment when Jackson was devouring the ice cream he had on his left hand while the one in his right one was melting onto his barrel belly, the colour contrasting against his tan flesh.  

"Mind pacing up the pace on eating those ice creams, big guy?" Asked the dark-haired boy while taking pictures of the glutton. "They are melting too quickly."
 
"I was taking it easy. I've already had ten cones," He had groaned, licking faster, "and I didn't want to run out this place." He had said, glancing at Stiles, who felt himself blushing at the sight of the smeared globular face watching him.

"Oh, don't you worry about that big guy. Now eat your ice creams before they melt any further and hold that pose. The pool boy will get more of it," the jock answered, taking more pictures.

Jackson Whittemore was unquestionably a gainer and had found a guy enabling him. That had come as a shock to Stiles when he thought back on how Jackson had looked only four years prior. 

He had so wished he could have been the one helping Jackson to reach higher weights. 

2021

This summer, Stiles had been sure Jackson had spent most, if not all, of his time at buffets since August. He could imagine the blonde hopping between buffet tables, probably being kicked out of most of them for overeating.

If he had to guess a weight, Stiles would have say 500. He was mountainous. He had almost choked in his water when he had seen the posh heir heavily waddling and panting to his desk. A first in five years! 

The smiling jock, still following him, and Stiles was definitely jealous now, gave him their ID. Stiles almost fainted when he saw the photo of a very slim faced Jackson, failing to see any resemblance with the fat pile obstructing his features. 

It was at that moment Stiles had seen the large-scale of Jackson's growth. Unlike his friend, who was almost bending his desk, Jackson was a good six feet behind, but his gelatinous stomach was pressing on the wood. He was truly majestic. 

Stiles failed to find the words to greet them and simply nodded, blushing, earning him a coky grin from the jock in front of him. 

It was only when the couple had started to take off that Stiles spoke, realising something quite bothering and exciting. 

Can I just ask you to turn a little, please?" He murmured, ashamed of what he was going to ask because even sons of the owners had to abide by the dress code. The two guys looked at him, intrigued. "Do you wear swimwear?" He asked Jackson, praying on not being smothered to death because the large blonde would have sat on him to retaliate. Not that he would complain that much. 

The skinny one snickered, and Jackson rolled his eyes, almost fondly, muttering and exasperated 'Stilinski'. First words in five years said in a still haughtily but muffled by fat voice. But, he complied. Peeking out from his overhand, he let Stiles spotting his red speedos. That was the moment Stiles knew he had died and was in heaven. Stiles guessed that the speedos were regular cut speedos in ungodly sizes, given Jackson circumference, was thinly stretched over him. Throwing a cocky and proud smile, Jackson turned around to go to the pool. Stiles understood by how many pounds Jackson had overgrown them. The thing was practically a thong swallowed by Jackson's derriere and on the verge of snapping. It must have cut blood irrigation at that point. 

It was only when the man, Danny, from what the ID said, turned around to him while he was accompanying his bouncing and jiggling boyfriend and winked at Stiles. 

Despite having a grown-up job at the end of the summer, Stiles wondered if he could volunteer to the pool next summer. 

Chapter Text

It was not uncommon for college students to find a summer job. What was more difficult was finding a summer job in Beacon Hill, in a post-Covid economy with hundreds of young people having the same idea. That was how Stiles Stilinski found himself working for his former high school teacher, Coach Finstock. A couple of years after his graduation, the Coach had quit teaching to open the pizzeria of his dreams. Working for him was better than nothing after all, despite the man's mood and the low wage, a far cry from his housemates and their fancy summer jobs. At least Stiles could have free lunches. 

Coach Finstock passion for cooking pizzas made Stiles admirative. His skills to make sure he cooked the proper pizzas to the right customers, a bit less. Stiles had stopped counting how many wasted pizzas they had, and after the first week of delivery, Stiles had decided to take one for himself. After all, it would have been criminal to let good, innocent and delicious pizzas go to waste because of his boss or because some customers did not have the cash to pay for them.

So Stiles found himself in his Jeep munching on a meat lover pizza while delivering all over Beacon Hill Finstock's pizzas. He should have used the official bicycle, but he had put himself on strike after a week of pedalling for extra trips because of wrong orders. It was easier for him to store on the back seats all the pizzas he had to take back because Finstock kept inventing orders. 

Sure all those pizzas had taken a toll on Stiles former slender body. Sure he had not been as sculpted as the others, despite playing Lacrosse with them in high school and participating in occasional workouts at the local gym. However, the constant flow of pizzas had left him stuffed to his limit every time after his shift, never stopping him from doing it again the next day and the ones after. 

By the end of his first month, he was eating three pizzas a day, and the effects of an all-pizza diet had become noticeable. 

He was getting chubbier... and it was not very subtle. His uniform was skin-tight. The button on his pants was painfully tight when he even managed to fasten it. The larger clothes he had borrowed from his housemates were not any better. He outgrew his belts. 

This transformation from skinny to tubby was not enough to get him to stop his habits, in any case. Even the comments he had received had not made Stiles having more self-control.

"You're supposed to be delivering pizza to customers, not to your stomach," had once said Scott, or was it, Jackson or Derek? Stiles did not remember correctly, but, as a good friend, he had brought them, for dinner, one or two pizzas to share with them. Then he had started to deliver at their respective workplace free pizzas he was supposed to throw away. 

Not that they could comment about the few pounds Stiles had put on. The three men had also seen their waistline increasing thanks to the steady flow of free pizzas brought by their friend, to the point where they would start complaining if the pizzas deliverer made the mistake of being late after his shift. 

He would receive angry, demanding texts from Jackson, threats from Derek, who would rather rip his throat out with his teeth if he did not have his pizza and ridiculous puppy-eyed selfies from Scott. 

"Don't worry, guys, got some leftovers," Stiles announced, panting and cursing the lack of elevator in their building. After all, no one had thought about the complexity of climbing two floors with so many pizzas in his hands. Added to the summer heat, the warm pies and a heavier version of himself to haul, it left Stiles Stilinski all sweaty. Not that he would take the chance of showering, knowing his housemates, they would have only left him crumbs by the times he would have dried himself from the shower. 

"Finally," Jackson had exclaimed, picking the boxes from Stiles' arms, not to help him, but to already scarfing of the first of the pile, "I'm starving!" He moaned, his mouth full while taking back his place on the couch, his undersized work shirt wrinkling on his plumped body. 

"I hope there's pepperonis," said Scott, battling with Derek, as the chubbed up men were greedily choosing theirs. 

At least, the comments on Stiers' diet and weight gain had stopped, given they had caught upon him. Round plumped gut, widened limbs and sprouting love handles had found their ways on the former healthy gym guru Derek and the I-have-a-fast-metabolism Scott. 

Stiles sighed with his box of Hawaiian pizza he had leaned to enjoy and poured himself a tall glass of Coke before attacking his sixth pizzas of the day with his friends. 

"What happened to the five boxes of pepperonis I gave you this morning?" Stiles asked, panting, drenched in sweat as he headed to the living room only to find Jackson beached on their worn-out sofa, wincing. Since the blonde was in teleworking, he had become the fattest one of the flat, accelerating, with the pizzas and other fast food he had been ordering, his growth. It had been a common occurrence to find him comatose, in his pyjamas, now beat pair of Calvin Kleins, trying to soothe his taunt flabby stomach, while his two others flatmates were anxiously waiting for their pizzas. Since Stiles had started working for Finstock, Jackson had given up on shopping for expensive clothes, tanning and being active, as he had enjoyed being taken care of. Even working had started to annoy him; he had even thought of quitting because of his personal wealth.

Of course, the number of pizzas had intensified with their increased capacities and size, seeing Stiles stopping by his flat multiple times during his shift. He also had to make his flatmates order their own pizzas as even Finstock's mistake could no longer cover the guys' appetites. 

They make one with one greedy out of shape Jackson", Derek taunted from the two chairs that hold his mighty posterior, his mouth already chewing his four cheeses pizza. Derek had been in a similar state. Ninety per cent of his wardrobe had stopped fitting him a while ago, leaving the beared man in ill-fitted sweat pants, leaving nothing to the imagination about the watermelonesque size of his ass cheeks. The trips to the gym were a long lost memory as it was already a considerable workout to try to squeeze in his car, shower, the doors etc... Derek had been conscious of his growth, but at least, he had not been alone, and he was far, despite indeed being bigger than him, from Jackson's. The man was on the verge of slobbification after all. Despite his quick start, Stiles was the smallest, certainly because he was still the most active one, but Derek had been an avid spectator of the pockets of porcelain flab peaking out from his clothes. 

"I'm starving! Quit holding out!" Jackson petulantly moaned, unable to resist the smell of fresh pizzas but also unable to rise from his position.

"Oh man," Scott lamented from his bedroom, as several buttons from his vet lab coat had given up on the force off his protubering round belly for the third time since the beginning of the summer. Maybe the non-stop flow of pizzas had not been such a good idea, but it had been so nice for Stiles to bring some, and the smell and taste were incredible each time. Plus, the boulder he had grown did not entirely prevent him from working at the clinic; sure, riding his bike had started to be difficult given his circumference, but as far as he was concerned, the weight he had put on was not a real problem. Afterall, he could save up for a bigger bike.

"I think we may have gone overboard..." Derek moaned, stifling a belch and wincing at each cramp of his filled stomach. Everything hurt, from his too full gut, that despite his hardness was spilling like an apron on legs that once had been half their sizes, to his seat on a poor couch forever imprinted with the shape of Derek inhumanly bottom. 

It had been one thing to have a steady flow of pizzas, freely given or ordered, but right now, the four guys had outdone themselves with Stiles providing them with so many coupons that instead of five pizzas each, they ended up with ten. And because wasting food had not been an option for a long time now in their flat, they packed themselves to the brim. 

Think?" Jackson sarcastically asked, shamelessly burping, his rolls of flab shaking against Derek as they stubbornly squeezed their body into the couch, "I don't think I wanna see another pizza for a month..." At least, he thought, given his size by now, despite knowing at this point he would never have the willpower to stop. At least, it was Stilinski last days at the pizzeria. Then in a week, Jackson would have to haul himself up to classes, unless he could enrol online for this semester, to shed some pounds and find clothes that fit, other than underwear.

Scott only groaned in agreement. The lethargic man was on the floor, as the couch, which used to fit the four guys, was already overflown, and unable to move. He would have to ask his friends to help him up because, unlike them, all those pizzas had settled in his belly. Sure he was way wider than before, but his stomach had taken it all. It stuck out so far in front of him that it prevented him from functioning normally. Vet school was starting, and he still had not found a vest he could fit in, let alone a scrub that could cover his beastly middle. Deaton had commented that he had kept flashing up on the patients with crescents of tanned flesh, resting on the medical table. 

"You guys are dramatic!" Stiles protested, fondly, at their antics. Still the smallest, Stiles had his fair share of growth. He, too, had heard comment from his boss, but, at least, Finstock had mentioned how Pillsbury Doughboy shape had helped the business. Still, he was happy his summer job was coming to an end. He wanted to go back to classes, and it was tiring of being in his shrunken Jeep every day and walking to the doors to deliver pizzas he could not even eat. The only downside of going back to police school was that he had to attend P.E. classes. Stiles was not in denial about his fitness level. If it had been decent last semester, he could hardly run a yard without collapsing, and he did not want to start to imagine doing pull-ups and push-ups. Maybe he could enrol in marketing and working full-time for Finstock. At least, he could have as many pizzas as he would want to, knowing he could not have a day without it. "Now come on," he said, getting up, "the new pizza guy gets here in five minutes."  Stiles considered the groaned he received were off agreements. 

Chapter Text

With the new Hale House just finished, with the help of his Pack, Derek had found himself in dire of decoration and furniture. If Lydia and Erica had been the ones choosing most of the furniture to ensure it would not be mattresses on the floor, Derek had decided to take care of the decoration. Of course, he would let the girls buy things to hang on walls, but Derek really wanted to hand pictures of his family on the freshly painted walls. That was why he went to the Vault, knowing he would find treasure dear to his heart.

He did not expect to come back home with a mirror. It was an ancient, ornated mirror that had in a second charmed Derek. He could not remember seeing that mirror in his old house; he would have given the shiny gold frame, the large clawed feet and the weird sentence engraved.  Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi . Maybe Gaelic. 

He forgot about the mirror, despite seeing it almost every day. It just blent in with the rest of the room, until the day he realised, eyes widened, he did not see his reflection. He saw himself, not really himself? The werewolf in the reflection was fat. He was a fat version of himself with a bulky gut only half-covered by the shirt Derek was currently wearing, digging deep into his pudge. 

"Stiles?" He called when he spotted, in the mirror, the teenager entering the room with a big bowl of pasta bolognese for the Pack dinner. He saw Stiles spot and look at him. Fat Derek's belly, laying half on the table when he let himself fall onto his chair, knocked down dinnerware which crashed on the floor. He saw Stiles laughing, patting Fat Derek's belly, whose lips were moving. 

Derek turned away and saw Stiles standing on the other side of the room, clearly confused with a bowl of pasta bolognese in his hands.

Derek bolted out of the room, refusing to look into the mirror again, just in case. 

The only rational explanation for his own reflection being a blimp was a hallucination. He had been tired recently with all the work with the house. And Police patrol. And night patrol with the Pack. Maybe he had ingested mountain ash earlier or something.

He only managed to last 24 hours before looking back at the mirror. He could get the vision out of his mind, keeping him awake most of the night. The more he told himself it had just been a hallucination, the less convinced it really was. 

And when his eyes landed on the mirror, he could not use the excuses he kept repeating could not explain why he now had a shirtless version of himself in front of him - looking huge. Fat Derek, a four hundred pounds behemoth, nearly filled the glass. The sight of his round face startled him. The other smiled had a wide alien smile, making him, at that size, look jolly. Far from the stern expression, Derek knew he usually had. Despite his size, the man stood proudly, with confidence, and Derek had to admit the inflated man looked good. 

He came back to inspect his reflection that same afternoon; he found his alter-ego still shirtless but somehow fatter than in the morning, squeezing his wobbly belly with his hands, fingers sinking into pudge, while Derek could only feel hard abs.

The following morning, he was broader, his rump and legs so big they were off the frame. He bit his lip hard, his heart pumping, his head warm from blushing so much at the sight.

The temptation of seeing how far it could get even larger hit the werewolf hard. He came back again. And again. And again. Each image showing him swelling and swelling, always smiling and playing with his increasing bulk. Each time he could feel his heart beating faster and his head warm from blushing so much.

The one that had pushed Derek to scarf down a family-size bag of candy the Pack had brought for Halloween was when he found his alter-ego on the floor, too fat to stand, as wide as he was tall, groped by a smiling Stiles. The sight of the thin man engulfed in the blubber wall, the way he clutched at Derek's love handles, the delicate kisses on his distorted face, and the way they both looked the happiest they had ever been made Derek realise he desired that.

Chapter Text

Scott McCall knew he had let himself go. His first months of college had been a complete opposite from his high school's year. 
Despite the presence of other supernaturals in the area, Scott and his roommates had been in a mostly stress-free environment and had not had to run for their life every other day. Scott had felt unburdened there, the only source of stress being classes, living a life as humanely as possible for a True Alpha and a teenager that had seen too much horror in his short life.

He, at first, had not realised the weight he had packed on. He had realised it when his jockstraps got a bit tight, tighter than what they had been. Then, he had realised he had developed a tiny layer of flab on his hips, rounding them outwards. 

That was not the only change. First, the old scale he and his friends had in their shared bathroom indicated that he had put on ten pounds. A fair bit since college had started. He wondered if Isaac and Stiles had noticed something. Both guys were as busy as him with classes and social life, and the three boys were not embarrassed walking around shirtless or only wearing underwear. But they could not have missed how Scott's rump had plumped and his now wide and thick-set thighs, which made most of his pants uncomfortably tight and snug. Nor his muscular chest getting fuller and meatier. Nor the new soft and hairy expanse of tan skin that had replaced his once taut abs, that lifted most of his tank tops when he moved. 

They should have noticed, really. Scott could understand why Isaac would not say anything. The blonde had developed a strange Alpha-Beta link making him eager to please Scott. So Isaac would not have wanted to hurt his feelings. Stiles was loud-mouthed and without any filters most of the time. He was a sharp individual, and his honey-coloured eyes would not have missed even the tiniest changes. 

Anyway, Scott knew he could probably work those ten pounds off in a couple of weeks at the gym and be back to his previous shape.

'Come on, chubby,' a voice suspiciously as Stiles' resonated in his head, 'don't you want to go a bit farther?' 

'Ten pounds? Twenty pounds? Aren't you curious what you'll look like at 200? 220? 250?' Scott could not picture himself like that. After all, he had just. And out he had put on weight. 

'Growing this ass out of these boxers?' The voice said cheekily, making his best friend sound like a small demon. 

'It's not that much effort, at the rate you're going, you might even do it by accident.' Scott could only agree with the Stilesesque voice in his head. He had supposed for a long time that the bite would have prevented his body to build anything but muscle. Obviously, he had been wrong, and his current lifestyle proved it. 'Come on, live a little. You know you want to.' Sure, meeting with friends, sharing lunches, movie marathons on their couch were funnier than going to the gym.  

He's not wrong,' a second voice interjected, sounding like Isaac. 'You probably won't hurt yourself. Werewolves don't get sick. So there is nothing wrong with being chubby.'

Scott sighed. He had to live a little. Afterall, he deserved it after all that he had done for Beacon Hills. And he was not fat. He was a bit broader, that's all. He'd think about losing weight when someone would say something that was a good deal. 

"Do you think it worked?" Isaac asked as they were watching Scott from the other side of the mirror Stiles had hidden them. He was a bit unsure about his methods, but he could not deny he had enjoyed watching Scott inspecting himself in front of them unknowingly. 

Both men had, of course, noticed how Scott had plumped up and had spent considerable hours ogling him and imagining the werewolf with additional pounds thickening his frame. They had thought of mentioning the weight gain but had decided it would be a risk to make Scott feel self-conscious. Afterall, they had not seen the black-haired man this happy in a long time.

"Well, we'll see Lahey," Stiles answered, already texting Scott about dinner, "we are just pushing our friend in the right direction."

Chapter Text

"There's a tunnel," one of the werewolves said, intrigued. Stiles could only believe them; after all, he was a human, so not enhanced eyesight. He did not know where they were, they had just followed a supernatural lead, and Stiles' legs felt like jello. He just wanted to go back to the Halloween party they had been supposed to attend. 

What's this building?" Isaac asked, inspecting said building Stiles still could not see. 

"It looks like a gate," Derek answered his beta. 

Stiles was able to confirm it was a gate when Scott grabbed his arm delicately and made him reach the group. It looked creepy as hell. Stiles got shivers. 

"Guys, I think we should go back," he said, earning a snort probably from Jackson and/or Isaac. 

"Stilinski! Honestly..." Jackson complained. 

In front of the entrance, Stiles could feel cold air blowing in, almost forcing him to move into the tunnel. 

"Let's see what's on the other side," Derek announced to his packmates, who just nodded. 

"It's creepy, Derek.!" Stiles complained. "Can't we go back? We're lost in the middle of the night."

Don't be such a chicken, Stilinski," Jackson mocked him, already walking into the tunnel. "C'mon, let's take a look," he said and was soon followed by the other wolves. 

'Come on, it'll be fun," Scott said to his best friend, half of his body already in the tunnel.  

I'm staying here!" Stiles protested, crossing his arms. Not ten seconds after Scott had disappeared, Stiles realised he was alone and unprotected in frightful woods. "Wait up!" He shouted, running into the tunnel grabbing hold of Scott, who chuckled at his human friend's antics. 

He was almost amazed to discover, at the end of the tunnel, a street. A street like Stiles could have found in any city. Small street lamps and shops. The only difference was the street looked abandoned. There was no sign of life. 

"Wait, where are we going?" Stiles added when the wolves decided to explore the street. Stiles sighed. This Pack did not have any sense of self-preservation. Something looked shady; they went right in it, leaving the humans around them to find a plan to save them. "Let's go back. Please!" Stiles begged, pretty sure they were watched at that point, just like always.

The wolves did not even bother answering the human. For a second, they seemed frozen, but the next second saw them looking frantic, growling and speaking so fast. Stiles could not understand everything.

"Do you smell something?"

"Hurry up, Stiles," Scott shouted as the wolves were far ahead, running. Something must be wrong for them to bolt of like that. Stiles knew it. He should have bet on that.

"Wait for me!" He yelled, only met with silence. Something was terribly off because he could swear he could hear noises, almost like cries. He ran, trying in vain to catch up with them. 

He stopped when he could not spot out the wolves on the street. 

"This way," He could hear Derek, but still, he could not see him. 

"Can you believe it?" He heard Isaac. 

"There's nobody here," Jackson added. Then, Stiles spotted an open space, the only area lightened up, contrasting with the abandoned other buildings. However, it was only lively thanks to the four werewolves presents. 

"Over there!"

"Come on!"

"Come take a look," Scott said to Stiles, pointing at a buffet right in front of them. 

"This is amazing," Isaac muttered, fried chicken already in his mouth. 

"Hello, is anybody here?" Jackson hailed, already picking on food.

"Come on, Stiles. It looks delicious," Scott called, his mouth full. 

"You got customers!" Jackson continued, grabbing a lobster and using his werewolves teeth to bite the shell and the chair. 

"'Let's see now..." He Saw Derek almost stretched out on piles of food to grab a roasted chicken on the top of the pile. 

"Stiles, try some," Isaac offered, shoving a turkey leg in front of him.

The smell was atrocious to Stiles' nostrils; it smelled like rotten food despite its perfect appearance. Stiles stomach writhed in pain and felt bile going up to his throat. The sweat building on his forehead and sick look did not seem to bother any of the wolves. "I don't want any." Isaac just shrugged his shoulders and gulped it, and Stiles shivered when he heard the bones breaking inside Isaac's mouth. 

"It's very tender." At that, Stiles turned away to vomit. Tears rolling down on his cheeks because of the fool smell obliged him to move out. He could stay a minute more around. He had to get a grip on himself to find a solution. 

It felt like an eternity before he got rid of the smell. He warily approached a fountain and relaxed when the water had seemed unharmed. He splashed his face, but it did not calm the building panic attack. 

"Go before dawn. They are coming," he sweet voice said, waking him up. He must have passed out after his attack. He almost jumped when he saw a young girl looking at him with wide blue eyes and a teddy bear. The only thing out of place about the girl was the fact she was translucent. 

He just ran, trying to find back his friends, getting far away from the ghost (?) girl. If he had to believe the girl, they all should leave as soon as possible. But she was right; he could see the first light of the morning; the sky was a bit clearer with orange tinting the clouds. 

"Guys!" He yelled. 

When he arrived at the food court, he had left his friends; he realised something terribly wrong had happened. 

He grabbed Scott's shoulder and yelled when he realised his friend's face was the one of a pig. 

Scott only grunted, pouring back his head inside a full plate. He was also massive, torn clothes that showed a fattened body, covered in grease and food stains. His face was the only one that had changed; his hands were still humans grabbing greedily more food. 

The same had happened to Jackson and Isaac. The two blondes were as transformed as Scott, unable to talk, but squealed between mouthfuls of the stinky food in front of them. Isaac seemed to try to reach for Stiles, but the call of the food was stronger. Jackson, who had pivoted toward him when he had heard his packmate, fell off balance from the undersized stool, oinked in pain when he heavily hit the floor, sweeping plates and food along his fall, only to reach the closest items into his maw.

He started to cry, and he was sure a second panic attack was coming. Only Derek was missing, he fooly hoped Derek had got himself out of this mess, but he guessed he just had to follow the noises and grunts. He passed the three pigs his friends had become, dodging the buttons the went flying when the pressure of Jackson's belly made his shirt burst. 

He found Derek. Or what was left of him. The Alpha could not help them, given he had eaten himself to the point that his enlarged limbs could not even touch the ground. Stiles could not even start to imagine the quantity of food needed to grow a belly that massive. His fattened pig face looked at him when Stiles muttered his name. His eyes were blank, and he put his new snout back into a pile of food. 

Stiles realised he only had one solution left. He hated it and was running out of time. The sun was already up, lightening the top of the buildings. 

Then he saw them. Stiles could not say what they were, but they looked like dislocated corpses waiting and groaning. Just like in a race, they start walking toward him when the street lights switch off. 

He glanced once last time at his former friends and Pack, then ran toward the tunnel. When he reached the other side, he took a deep breath, his mind already working on trying to find a solution to save them. He burst into tears when he realised the tunnel had been bricked up.

Chapter Text

It was almost 11.30 pm when Stiles passed the Hale house gate. He should have made it earlier if his father had allowed him to go to Derek's Halloween party. Scott had invited him as his plus one because Stiles was always the plus one, and Hale had not specifically invited him. Not that he expressly wanted to go to that party; he was going because Derek Hale was throwing a party. 

The mysterious, elusive, scowly Derek Hale had announced to his lacrosse teammates they were invited to celebrate Halloween; intrigued Stiles because despite being one of the most popular kids in the school, Derek did not do the things popular kids do. He had never dated one of the cheerleaders, never went to Homecoming or Prom, and never attended a party, so throwing one sounded abnormal. But Stiles' father had decided to spoil the mood by forbidding him to go to that party with - Stiles would defend it - fallacious reasons. The party was certainly going on by now; he had to wait for his dad's departure at the favour of some kids' shenanigans on the other side of the town to sneak out. 

The Hales were living outside the city, neighbouring Beacon Hill Preserve, and being honest, Stiles was not really at ease on his bike in the middle of the night and the forest. Afterall, people had disappeared in the past. 

He finally arrived at the Hales and spotted Jackson's Porsches and Scott old motorbike. He leaned his bike against the expensive car and made his way to the front porch, but before even climbing the stairs, he jumped at the sound of a loud howl. If someone asked, he would say it was predictable to put on some tricks like that. Afterall, there were no wolves in California. 
The door was ajar, he pushed it, but he was welcomed with utter silence and darkness to his surprise. He tried to call Scott, but it went straight to voicemail, which was weird because Scott was more of the 'I put my phone on silence and never answer'. His last text dated back from 8 pm, when Scott arrived late at the party. Then nothing. Weirder...

He wandered in the hall to find himself in front of a big patio door in the Hales' living room opening onto the garden. The only light source in the dark of the scariest night of the year came from a barn at the other side of the lawn. 

Stiles opened the door and started to walk there faster than necessary, the creepiness of the place bothering him. It was weird to have a barn in this part of California, Stiles told himself. The Hales are rich; they certainly built it to welcome guests or for parties like tonight. It was not a cold night, but he found himself having goosebumps. Only the moon was lightening the lawn, allowing Stiles to see where he was going, still growing ill at ease with the silence.

He was only feet away from the wooden building when he finally heard a strange noise. To his surprise, it was not music, laughter or people partying; it sounded familiar but so tricky to describe to the teenager, but the closest thing that popped into his head was swallowing or maybe slurping.

He pulled the door, and when his eyes adapted to the bright, industrial-like light that had blinded him, his eyes were opened wide with shock.

The place was filled with large masses Stiles assumed were persons. Hugely inflated persons. 

"What the hell..." Stiles wondered, tripping on something soft and squishy. On his butt, he moved away when he realised the obstacle was a human being. Said human being was distorted with fat wearing remnants of clothes. The human's thighs were spilling over his calves, dimpled and soft. His upper arms were the size of pillows, holding a tube to his mouth. The obese cheeked face was greedily sucking into the tube, his impressive chins and swollen, sagging breast jiggling with each gulp. But the most remarkable sight of this immobile pile of tanned flesh was his big and overflowing belly. Dread filled Stiles as he realised the man looked like his teammate, Danny. 

All of the people sucking and expanding in the barn were members of the Lacrosse team. 

Stiles was petrified. He had to do something, but all the guys were ignoring him, too engrossed in drinking a mysterious liquid from the tubes. 

They were all here, most of them completely naked with a blissful look on their face. 

They look like cattle. 

Scott! Scott might be one of them! And he might not be in such a state if his dark-haired friend had arrived later than the others. Still, as some were already approaching immobility, Stiles just hoped Scott would be easier to take back home. 

Unbothered by his presence, the hypnotised teenagers were too focussed on gulping the addictive liquid to remarks Stiles checking them to find his best friend. He recognised so many familiar faces among them, his heart ached. Greenburg was lying on his side, the mass of his gut resting on the floor; Jackson Whittemore, the captain, the vainest jock of them all, on his fattened knees, his underwears almost completely tore on his expanded rear.

Stiles was relieved when he saw that the member on the team still standing was a familiar tanned boy with a dark mop on his head. 
"Scott," he yelled, running to his friends, dodging between the bodies, "It's you!" 

The mysterious substance Scott was still drinking took a toll on the boy. Far from Jackson's or Danny's size, his best friend had started to spill out of his clothes; his jeans ripped at the waist, from which his bottom stuck out; his shirts barely coming down to his deeper bellybutton and losing battle to cover his growing love handles at all.
Scott finally spotted Stiles in front of him and decided to stop his drinking momentarily. 

"Oh, hey..." Scott greeted Stiles as if the situation was not bothering him, wiping his mouth, spreading a bunch of the syrupy liquid on his cheeks. "It's...you...Stiles." The fattened boy articulated with difficulty, as if he was saying a complicated word they had to learn for the SAT. 

Like the rest of his body, Scott's face had softened to the point that fat had almost made disappear his crooked jaw with chins and swollen cheeks. 

"What the hell is going on here?" Stiles shouted frantically, contrasting with the passive and docile attitude of his best friend. "We need to leave now!"

"Mo...More...important..." Scott started, catching his breath, making his chin and man breast wobble. "This stuff..." He showed the tube he had in his throat a moment before. "It's... real good." The smile he gave Stiles made his fat cheeks and chins even more pronounced. Still, Scott's eyes, despite looking happy, seemed so dulled to Stiles, as if the man, not a genius, to begin with, had regressed. 

Scott kept pushing the tube in the direction of Stiles, the syrup flowing at a steady pace. 

It seemed good, indeed, and the smell was so sweet it started to make Stiles drool. He quickly changed his mind. They had to leave now. Scott looked confused like a puppy when he saw his best friend typing on his phone before shoving the tube into his mouth. Instantly, he forgot the presence of his best friend to enjoy the syrup. 

"Come on," Stiles muttered, "Answer," he pleaded his phone as he was ringing his father. He could not hear the sound of his thoughts as the situation was unthinkable. Scott and his teammates...The Hales kidnapping them...Fattening them... Why? How? And what next? He could not think straight; he could not do something to stop all that... They were going to...

"Stiles," his father's voice was cutting off his thoughts. The voice grew worried when the Sherriff could hear the laboured breath of his son. "Stiles, kiddo, calm down. Tell me what's going on." He said gently but urgently at the same time. 

"They are fattened up like...like...They did that!" 

"Stiles, Stiles," The Sherriff cut him. "You don't make any sense. I'm coming home. I'll be here soon, kiddo." He could hear his father closing his car's door and the siren turning on. 

"I'm at the Hales!" Stiles shouted. "They are doing something! To Scott...To the others!"

He heard his father sighting loudly. "Stiles, I told you to stay at home tonight."

"But, you have to do..."

"Run," his father ordered. "Run and drive home as fast as you can, do not turn back." He said quickly. 

"But Scott!" Stiles protested. He could not leave his best friend here when the Hale manifestly did something! And his father knew it.

"You have to! And don't drink any of their stuff. It destroys your will after one sip," The Sherriff shouted back. "I'm so, so sorry, son." The man added, crying. 

"Please, run." He begged his son.

Stiles glanced at Scott, engrossed in gulping more liquid. The boy had been his best friend, but now he had realised the fattened version of him was just a mindless zombie. Scott was gone now. "Sorry, man," he murmured softly before running to escape from this trap. 

He was almost out of the barn when he felt a strong hand digging into his chest, pushing him to the floor. He looked up to see what had caused his fall, only to see a monster.

The humanoid beast was growling at him. His face, somewhat human, was distorted and hairy with sharp fangs, glowing yellow eyes and razor-sharp claws. 

The beast was approaching his prey, scowly. He was just inches from his face when he started sniffing him. Stiles could feel tears swelling up in his eyes as he did his best to hold his breath. 

He was going to die. He will not see his father ever again. 

Slowly, he looked, horrified, the beastly face melting away to reveal such a familiar face, almost angelic and with curly blonde hair. Isaac Lahey, or Hale since they had adopted him. Isaac Hale was a shape-shifting monster. 

That could not be. That had to be prothesis and good makeup. Maybe it was a huge, elaborated but not-so-funny prank. 

The teenager before him eyed him up. He could see his lips move but could not understand the words as they were murmured. Then he heard multiple howls behind him. Wolves. Shape-shifting wolves, Stiles realised.

"Hello, Stilinski," He growled, not waiting for an answer, and grabbed Stiles and pushed him back into the building, making Stiles crash with Danny's body, who dumbly looked at him. 

Stiles panicked when he saw Isaac grabbing the tube from Danny's mouth, making the former bright boy squeal. His canines were elongated, and with a hungry look in his eyes, he jumped on Stiles, trying to force the tube into the human's mouth. Stiles did his best to fight off, but the blonde was stronger than him. Isaac's hand moved around his jaw to force it open, allowing Stiles to use his free limb to push him away. They froze for a second when both teenagers realised what had happened. Isaac's face was smeared with the syrup. 

Stiles let out a sigh of relief when Isaac let him go to suck the tube, moaning in delight. With his tormentor lost, Stiles managed to reach the exit only to find Talia Hale, eyes glowings in front of him. 

He had seen the woman before, and despite her smile and class, he had never been able to shake off the feeling of something powerful living inside her. 

Unlike the two monsters she was in between, she had kept her human features, except for the crimson eyes pinning Stiles to place. She eased the growling coming from the beasts, and they turned back human only for Stiles to discover a middle-aged blonde man snarling at him and Derek Hale.

"There is no need to run," Talia said, as Stiles was trying to find a way to pass past them, "Your father is on his way to pick you up. Nothing will happen to you, Stiles."

He was unsure if he could believe her, but obviously, his dad was working with them. His dad was aware the Hales had a breeding facility...for humans. Once they were all round and fattened, like pigs, they would end up as their dinner. His father had a part in that. 

True to her words, his father arrived alongside another woman Stiles suspected to be Derek's sister. When he saw his son, the Sheriff embraced him with all his strength, crying, muttering words of apologies to his hears. 

"Hm-hm," they heard, and both men realised the monsters were still here. "Well, Sheriff, what now?" Talia Hale asked. 

"You know the deal. My son is off-limit."

"Your son was not supposed to be here tonight. Derek," she added, looking at her son, who only nodded, "did not invite him. And he obviously hurt one of my packmates."

"Legitimate defence," Noah objected.

Talia Hale was silent for a moment, or that was what Stiles thought when he saw her silently moving while the three others nodded or air-talked back. 

"Fine, you may go," she announced to the Sheriff before turning to Stiles, "I imagine you understand you can't talk about what happened tonight."

"Stiles only nodded, and the Sheriff grabbed his arm to take him back to his car. "Wait," he shouted, "we can't let Scott here! He's going to..."

"Son," the Sheriff grabbed his shoulders, "I know I know. But there is nothing we can't do!"

Stiles grabbed his phone and ran into the barn, surprising the five others, before snapping pictures of the fattened students. 

"Scott goes or else..."

"Or else what?" the older blonde sarcastically asked, his claws sprouting out.

"No," the Sheriff shouted, trying to fight off from the two younger Hales restraining him. 

"Peter," Talia called, her voice full of authority, "go take care of Isaac." Peter huffed but executed the order, flashing his blue eyes one last time to Stiles before turning to a potbellied Isaac who was still greedily sucking the tube. 

"We will take care of your friend," she said, her clawless hand stretched out, palm up. Stiles put his phone in it before Talia smashed the device effortlessly. 

The drive back to their home was utterly silent. It was only when they were inside that Stiles broke down. He cried himself to exhaustion in his father's arms.
--
The news of the disappearance of several students of Beacon Hill High reached him three days later. But as always, despite the mystery behind all that and the commotion of worried parents and friends, the local police could not find clues. The FBI had been implicated, but Stiles got the confirmation some of the agents had deals with the Hales. 

Stiles had been conveniently home-schooled after a bad flue. In reality, Stiles was too scared to go to school with werewolves. Because that was what they were. Howling beast feeding of humans. He could not bear the thought of seeing Derek Hale, nor the empty desks in classes while knowing the missing students were piled up in the Hales' freezers. 

Things were tense with his father. The lies about the disappearances this city had suffered for years, the existence of the supernatural world had been too much for Stiles to bear. 

He had news about Scott from his father and Melissa. True to Talia Hale's words, he had been taken care of and was now part of the Hale Pack. He could remember how Melissa had held him so tight in her arms, thanking him for saving her son, her sobs only hurting Stiles more. Scott was now a werewolf, just like Derek and Isaac, who had urges to feed on human's flesh. He had to bite his tongue not to say to the woman he considered as a mother that she had lost her son. That her once asthmatic, goody-two-shoes son was now a monster. 

Scott had tried to reach out to him. He had missed calls and texts he had not opened. The new werewolf had even tried to visit, but the Sheriff had always ushered him out. Stiles suspected his father was as scared as him. 

Both Stilinski found themselves unable to refuse Talia Hale's invitation to spend Thanksgiving with them. She even dared to point out she had heard about Stiles' delicious pumpkin pie recipes. 

So on Thursday, Stiles found himself preparing the dessert for the dreaded dinner.

On the way, they picked Melissa, who, unlike the men, was excited to see her son, who was now living full time at the Hales, to control his new powers. It was almost sickening to see her hugging her son while Talia was welcoming them. 

"It smells delicious, Stiles," she smiled at him while her daughter, Laura, was bringing the pie in the kitchen. "Sheriff, would you mind helping me choose the wine of the dinner?" She asked his father. The older man glanced at his son, nodding at him that everything would be alright. 

Stiles found himself in the large hallway only with Scott, Derek and Isaac. 

He could see the unease of his former best friend, who was keeping his distance. He had foolishly thought the boy would not look that normal. Sure the effect of the syrup had taken a toll despite having slimmed down from the night in the barn. He was far from the twig he used to be, and the added softness on his face, with the bulging cheeks and double chin, made him look like an innocent, everyday teenager. 

"Hey."

"Hey", Stiles answered back before being engulfed in Scott's arms. Where Stiles used to grab his friend closer to him a few weeks ago, he stayed still on his spot, fear seizing him. 

He supposed he was too obvious because he felt then embrace losing up, and Scott sighted.

"I'm still me, Stiles." The werewolf said."The bite did not change that."

'Except you are now howling at the moon and eating people.' 

"I'm different, but you don't have to fear anything. I love you, dude. You save me."

'I loved you too.'

He heard a growl from behind Scott. Derek Hale was glaring at him darkly, something Stiles had anticipated given he had threatened to spill their secrets. Isaac was there too, frowning as much as Derek, but for different reasons. Where Isaac had looked like an Adonis, he was now seriously plump because of their fight. He could understand why Isaac could not stand the sight of him. 

"Don't need to be so disgusted, Stilinski," Isaac growled. He was silenced by Derek flashing golden eyes at him while Scott hunched his shoulders. 

"We can smell your emotions", the brooding werewolf stated, and it tickled Stiles' curiosity. That sounds almost awesome, undoubtedly useful, but at the same time sounded like a violation of his privacy. It was an element he should add to the list of what he should be careful about werewolves. If they smelled his emotions when he was right in front of them, they could smell him up to one mile if they shared the same abilities with wolves. Plus the fangs, claws and super speed. "You can calm down," he added, his eyes right on his chest. Instinctively, Stiles put his hand against his heart to feel it beating wildly. He just nodded, trying not to meet their eyes. 

The four teenagers dreaded the uncomfortable silence, but the three werewolves had seemed to catch something because Isaac fleed to the next room and Derek motioned Scott and Stiles to follow. 

They entered a large room with a long table whose every inch was covered with food. Most of the Hales were sitting, and Stiles realised he did not know so many of them. Derek turned back to him, clearly unsurprised and disappointed of his fears, while Peter Hale was smirking at him. Sheep in a wolf den...

Once seated, a plate full of food was given to him. Mashed potatoes, stuffing, sweet potatoes, turkey, red meat. It looked succulent, and Stiles could only follow the others when the Hales started to wolf down their plates at a rate they were asking for seconds before Stiles could have tasted all the dishes on his plate. His traitorous imagination turned the food they were eating into human flesh. He could see them tearing on a forearm and gobbling fried toes while dipping them into blood sauce. 

He froze before the meat was in his mouth when a sickening thought emerged in his mind. 

"Is the meat not your taste?" Talia Hales asked from the other side of the table. He let his fork cling on the plate, driving all the eyes to him. 

"Is that... Is it..." Stiles tried to formulate. 'Is it human? Are we eating Jackson or Danny for Thanksgiving?'

"It's beef, Stiles," she chuckled like a parent to her kid's antics when she guessed what had been on his mind. "We don't eat humans for Thanksgiving." The whole table joined her in laughing —all, except for his father, who certainly had the same thought. 

"It doesn't come even close to human meat," Peter commented nonchalantly, slashing through a turkey leg with his claws, Isaac agreeing with him with a nasty smirk directed to the human. 

"It is not," Scott muttered to his friend with a tentative smile, but it did not help the human to relax. 

"I can understand your...hesitations," Talia continued, "but now that you are aware of our existence, you understand why you must be monitored."

"Talia," The Sheriff choked on his food.

"Sheriff," she smiled at him, "I'm just extending to your son the deal we have with you." That sentence silenced his father. "Stiles, I can't begin to imagine how difficult it is to have your beliefs and world views being bowled over, but you can understand the need for secrecy." She waited for him to nod. "And of course, wrapping your head about all of it takes time, and I would be glad to give you enough time to adapt, but I can't. You see," she added after receiving a perplexed look from the teenager. "We, wolves, have something called an anchor. It is different for each of us, but it is necessary to remember we are also humans and not just bloodthirsty beasts," she explained, knowing it would be enough for the smart boy in front of her to understand. "Unfortunately, Scott here," she pointed at the new addition of her pack," has a human anchor. It is not stable to choose a human." Stiles wanted to scoff; not stable surely meant a human could end up in their barn. "You understand where I'm going with it, Stiles?"

All eyes were on him, waiting for his answer. Stiles had hoped the human was Melissa... Of course, it was selfish, but finding himself being the anchor, he had to look that up of the deadly hazard Scott had become. He hated imagining the man that had been his brother as a brother clawing at human skin, foam and blood spilling from his fanged mouth, eyes blood-red, face distorted. He shuddered at the thought such responsibility had fallen on his shoulders. 

"Yes."

He saw Talia Hale smiling at her, Scott breathing a sigh of relief, Melissa mouthing a 'thank you', Peter and Derek looking suspiciously at him and his father questioning look. 

"Perfect. Of course, if you talk about what you know and what you will learn, we will..."

"Making me the next meal," Stilles thought, only to realise he had voiced it out loud. Talia Hale chuckled. Peter Hale smirked alongside Isaac. Derek Hale rolled his eyes, exasperated.

"Of course not," she said, "We will just make you one of us."

Freeze seized his body at this possibility if the plan he had devised failed. 

"Deal." 

They will never hurt humans anymore. 

Chapter Text

"Morning!" Stiles greeted and, with eyes half-closed, made his way to the coffee machine. The smell of fresh coffee wafted through the air to the human's delight, accrediting the "coffee addict" label his packmates had bestowed him. It was only after his second cup that Stiles realised he had talked to Isaac.

"Hm... Oh, hey! Morning, Stilinski!" He mumbled as he reached up on the table to grab another can of eggnog. Stiles grimaced behind his cup. Sure, he enjoyed a cup of eggnog during the season, but it was Isaac's consumption that disgusted him. 

Derek did not stand a chance when Isaac had looked at him with big doe eyes, shyly asking him if they could take a pack of canned eggnog. Derek was a teddy bear despite his tough exterior and indulged his beta. 

Stiles would never admit the look of pure joy had warmed Stiles' heart, still, he scoffed when the blonde werewolf had stated he had never drunk something so delicious. The general consensus among the Pack was not to point Isaac's new addiction. But it was both fascinating and disturbing to see the number of cans he was chugging at any time of the day, with the blessing of Derek, whom two-thirds of the fridge were reserved for the cans and gallons. 

The over-consumption brought a consequent toll on the blonde's physique. 

It had been easy to see it. Like all the other werewolves, Isaac had stopped being shy about his body. It was common to see them tossing their clothes at odd places and times to transform and wrestle. So, Stiles could have a daily eyeful of Isaac in boxer briefs. Ill-fitting boxer briefs battling against the wolf meatier thighs and rump and whose waistband was abused by the growing abdomen. Said formerly defined six-pack Isaac had gained with the bite were now a perpetual bloated dome of pudge, nothing enormous per se, but a radical change from the blonde's concave torso. The flat pecs were meatier but still looking strong, and the slender limbs were covered with a small couch of flab, making them more prominent. He just looked like a food-pregnant bulking football jock. 

"Seriously?" Stiles asked when Isaac opened the third can earning him a raised eyebrow from the wolf, "Drinking eggnog at 7 am?" 

"Oh! You know me!" Isaac playfully answered after finishing chugging the drink, smacking his swollen gut, "I have to start the day with a full tank!"

He smirked when Stiles fleed the room, beet-red face, embarrassment and attraction pouring from the human. It was always fun to mess with Stiles, especially after discovering the teen attraction to his softer body. Isaac knew he had put on weight since his first can weeks ago, something he thought had been impossible with his enhanced metabolism, but he would worry about that when the season would be over. 

"Stop messing with Stiles," he heard his Alpha growling from across the house. 

"Yep, sir," he answered, popping open another drink. 

Chapter Text

"Right!" Derek declared, burping loudly. The fork he had been holding fell on the empty plate in front of him. "I'm full!" Derek announced the obvious, reclining on his chair, his ballooned belly to packed with food to allow him a different move. "I'm not eating another bite!" He warned the human, who was already filling up another plate for him. 

Testing Stiles' Christmas meal had been both enjoyable and painful. Just as Thanksgiving prep that had left maybe more traces on Derek's waistline than the actual Thanksgiving party. Stiles was an excellent cook; he could not deny it. The only problem was his incapacity to stop himself. If he found his mashed potatoes not unctuous enough, he would make another batch with twice the butter while Derek had to finish the rests. Derek had even stopped counting how many pies he had tried by 10th November. 

2021 had been their first Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner parties they had hosted. Still, he should have seen it coming, especially when Scott had looked so relieved last summer when he had not been Stiles' guinea pig for said dinners. 'At least, I think I could only go up one size this season', the young werewolf had said. Derek would have been lucky with just one. He was already up to two sizes and guessed he had to upgrade one more time for New Year's Eve party, hosted, thank goodness, by Lydia. 

Stiles looked at the shirtless werewolf squiring on the chair, trying to ease his stomach. Stiles admitted that he cooked for a small army most of the time, and those dinner parties were vital. It was always the occasion to gather the whole Pack and their family. So it had to be perfect. The round potbelly the had sprouted out from Stiles' abdomen did not bother him, so why would he bat an eye on Scott, or now Derek, porking up during that time. Stiles might have outdone himself even if Derek had never needed him to overindulge. Werewolf appetite Scott had explained once. They were adults; they could always choose to stop eating. 

"Yes, you will!" He laughed, placing a plate overflown with turkey, pasta, mashed potatoes and French beans all covered with gravy. Derek glared offended at the plate, which would lead him forward into chubbiness, but the smell was too good to be ignored by the larger man. 

"No! I'll burst!" He growled, disliking the patronising tone his boyfriend had used, gathering all his werewolf's power to look intimidating. It would have almost been if he was not battling so hard his sleepiness. 

"But there is another batch to go! And then onto the main course..." Stiles said, using the terrible weapon of his puppy dog look. 

Derek grumbled and tried to lean forward to grab the plate, his face becoming red when Stiles placed said plate on the werewolf round belly. 

Chapter Text

Stiles groaned when his alarm went off. He grabbed his phone and sighed in defeat. It was raining, again. It had been raining for the past thirty days, and the teenager did not need to watch the date to know it was Thursday 25th November, 7 a.m., Thanksgiving Day. Again. By now, it should have been Christmas, but a whim of fate had locked him in a perpetual loop. Thirty days of Thanksgiving, he had unsuccessfully tried to find a way out. 

Their first Thanksgiving had been outstanding. He had shared an excellent breakfast with his father, who had been off of the precinct for the first time in years, then, before noon, Scott had drooped by with pies his mother, who had a shift that day, had baked. Derek and Peter had followed him with the turkey and drinks. The meal had been good, the conversation pleasant, and each of them ended up in their respective day with a full belly and good memories. 

Then the next day, Stiles had pointed ut the weirdness of a second Thanksgiving, earning him scoffs from his father, suggesting his son should sleep more at night. Still, their guests arrived at the same hour as the previous day, with the same dishes. They held the same conversation, watched the same football game and went to bed at the same time. 

On the third day, he confronted the Hales, explaining it was his third Thanksgiving. He had been met with looks of worry; Scott even proposed to call his mother to check for a possible concussion. 

For the fourth 25th, he bolted out of his house and drove to Deaton. At least, the man had seemed to believe him but, as always, could not help Stiles. He had proposed to see if he could find something but mentioned that it would be impossible in only so few hours. That night Stiles, fighting the fatigue, had tried to stay up all night. But when his phone should have indicated the 26th, 00:00, it froze to the 25th. 

Since then, when he had drained all the possible resources that could have helped him, he resigned himself to being stuck like this.  

It was not the only change. He had realised that after seven days of gorging, eight hours per day, had taken a toll on him. Unlike the werewolves and the perfect body the bite had given them, Stiles was the skinny kid of the Pack. Skinny, but hours of Lacrosse, werewolf boot camp training and running for his life had toned his body. Small muscles his packmates would tease him about, but he had to admit he had gotten hot. Any change on his lean body had to be evident to the human. Surveying his reflection, he found himself thicker around the middle than at his first Thanksgiving. He was not overweight and hardly had a belly, but a small coat of flab had hidden the abs he had fought to cut. As focussed as he was on his reflection, it had appeared to him that now his hips had seemed wider and his buttcheeks rounder. Still, those changes were small enough to be easily covered by his clothes, for the moment as every day was a feast. 

He had not been the only one to change, and unlike the others, his weight gain was not as significant. He had been so worried to find a solution he had missed the way his father was starting to develop a beer belly that had begun to strain his shirt after the diner. He had been blind to his best friend plumping figure and to Derek's form-fitting henleys that displayed a perfect shaped curvature beneath his pecs. 

He realised how much hungrier he had become. He could vaguely recall being full after the main course, giving up the competition with the werewolves and their bottomless appetite. Soon he had realised he had second helpings of pumpkin pie, after a second helping of turkey. Still, nothing compared to his supernatural guests. 

It had only been on his twelfth 25th that two things happened. 

First, his weight gain continued, not surprising given how much he filled himself up. He had continued to widen up and, with love handles sprouting where he used to have slender hips, a pale squishing belly that dropped ever so sightly over his waistband and plumper limbs. What had surprised him had been the way he easily put on his pants. He had frowned at the fastened button because it could have been impossible, despite his collection of baggy clothes, he could have fitted his new heft in it. He realised his pants were not the usual 30 inches but a comfortable 34. It could have been a mistake, a larger cloth he had forgotten about on the back of his closet, but it had been the same pants, neatly folded. He quickly emptied his whole closet to find all of his clothes larger, from pants to size large plaid shirts. Even his Star Wars underwear bought years ago fitted him like gloves. 

The second thing that had weirded him was that no one commented and acted normal. No one mentioned the unmistakable bulge beneath his shirt. How could they? The Sheriff had been sporting a taunt round belly for a few days, perfectly fitted in his uniform. It was the same for Peter,  looking with his plus-sized dad-bod. Scott still wore the same grey tank top under an opened blue shirt he could have easily buttoned over the large gut and plushier pecs he had developed. Stiles had wondered how any sizes Derek's pants had gained, as the chair hardly contained the watermelonesque bottom and tree trunk thighs of the Alpha. No mention of diet or restrain had been shown by neither of the men. They gorged on an even larger dinner to end up panting and easing stomachaches. 

That night he got an answer, and the pieces clicked together in his mind when he looked at a photo on his Facebook posted by Lydia for the last full moon. They had gathered at Derek's, playing card before the pull had become too strong for the werewolves obliging to go for a run in the Preserve while the humans watched a movie. It had been a fond memory. He could see himself trying to mime Derek for Time's Up. The original Derek was on the picture, too, glaring at his imitation. However, the photo called the differences with the original one to Stiles' mind. It was a chubbier version of himself impersonating a fatter version of Derek. Still glaring at the human, the werewolf was glutted on a couch he was generously filling. He gasped at the sight and realised this picture was from early November. 

He scrolled through different albums only to see chubbier versions of himself. 

His first day of Lacrosse where fourteen-year-old Scott and Stiles widely grinned at the camera, emphasising their double chins and bulging cheeks. 
Junior Prom where Scott round belly strained his suit, the weekend at Lydia's lake house last summer with Stiles sunburned gut... 

The more he scrolled to earlier years, the more he realised the reality had changed as for the world, Stiles had always been a chubby kid, just as Scott. Or even Derek when he found a picture of the Alpha in a full wolf form, making him look more like a well-fed pet. Despite that massive change, all the events they had lived in were untouched; the supernatural world existed, Scott had been bitten. 

The days after this realisation only reinforced the changes. Every day he could see himself and his friends filling up on the pictures and in real life. Every morning, his gut stuck out further than the day before. Yesterday, he had almost choked when he found his father's shot for his first day at the Academy, only to display a heavily overweight young man. 

Thirty days after, Stiles' belly had the waistband of his XXL boxers, a size he had never thought he could achieve in this life. His chest had grown into a pair of moobs that pushed out over his stomach. He had even started waddling, for god's sake. 

He had definitely lost hope, not that it was uncomfortable. Each day was fun, despite having the same conversation, watching the same football game and going to bed nauseous. He was used to it now. After all, he had been a fat boy for all his life and had picked the habits of one. He realised it when his Lacrosse's gears had disappeared from his room or when he found more and more pictures of Pack outings in dinners or food fairs. 

He had also enjoyed watching the other blowing up. He was still the skinny one of their Pack, despite all the pounds he had put on in just a month. Scott had become too large and heavy for his old motorbike. Derek had traded the Camaro for a pickup truck allowing him to transport Peter and an ungodly amount of food. His father, whose unleashed diet had allowed tens of pounds settle on his frame, had become a parody of the fat cop. Peter was no better, as the older werewolf looked way less threatening with his added pounds and his mouth always full. Derek was one of the most advanced in gaining weight, and Stiles only hoped to see the day the skin-tight jeans would rip under the pressure of the extensive size of Derek's hips and buttcheeks.  

Ready for another copious breakfast with his father, then a pre-lunch with Scott, Stiles hauled himself downstairs. 

Unlike the other days, he spotted his father sipping on his coffee on their couch, his belly spilling in front of him and resting on his tighs. Stiles frowned; usually, his father was in the kitchen, cooking their breakfast. 

"Hey, sleepyhead," the Sheriff called when he spotted his son, "They have started without you."

He gestured his son to come, and Stiles' eyes were bombarded with lights coming from a Christmas tree, taking pride of place in the centre of their living room, Jackson and Lydia ornating it with more baubles and tinsels.

"Thanks for coming to help, Stilinski," Jackson snorted from behind the tree while Lydia glared at him. 

Obviously, the red-head had been affected too, as Stiles had his eyes glued on her ampler chest, but it was nothing compared to her boyfriend, Jackson. The latter had become the embodiment of the Michelin Man in a form-fitting, undoubtedly expensive, designer shirt.  

"Now help us so we can enjoy breakfast before your father finishes it all," the girl ordered, pointing at the table that was covered by a decadent amount of breakfast food. 

Instead of moving, Stiles seized his phone and looked at the date. Saturday, 25th December. His eyes were glued on the December. December, not November. 

The three others worriedly looked at him when he cheered. He did not know how he did it, but it was over, finally! He was, at least, free from this time-loop. 

After his euphoria had calmed down, he found himself sandwiched on the couch by Scott and Jackson, digesting his breakfast. Still, he quickly realised memories of a weird 'adventure' floated through his mind like a vague dream—too much sugar before bed certainly. Also, what a curious thought, imagining himself without that big pale belly and with abs. He would not have said no to a body like that, but he was a big kid that had too many overindulgences. He rubbed his belly with one hand and stuffed half a waffle in his mouth with the other. 

Chapter Text

The Preserve

"I hate doing that," Jackson spat, "with you!" the werewolf turned around, his eyesight adjusted to the dark to spot Stilinski 200 yards behind him. The human's slowness was getting on his nerves. "Can you at least keep up so it's over soon?" He asked, taking long strides in his direction.

"Screw you, Whittemore!" Stilinski huffed, out of breath, after running for only fifteen minutes. "I didn't ask to spend my New Yer's Eve running in the woods with you!" 

"Shut up!" Jackson growled, gripping the collar of Stiles' jacket and pushing his back onto a tree. "You think I didn't have better to do than hanging around with a loser like you?!"

"Hey!" Stiles yelled when the blonde finally let him go. "If you have a problem, gotta ask your Alpha!" 

Both men knew it had been Derek's fault. They were supposed to have a party to celebrate 2022. Still, the broody werewolf found it essential to find a supposed new threat after the disappearance of several people le in the county, despite Stiles affirming, thanks to his police connexion, that nothing supernatural had been behind them.

Stiles and Jackson ended up patrolling in the Preserve while Scott, Isaac, and Derek were in the Southern part of the town. Only the girls had been lucky enough to stay at the house. Derek might be bossy; he could not deny the fear Lydia would have inspired him if he had asked her to patrol. 

Obviously, Jackson and Stiles' search through the Preserve was infructuous. It was calm and dark. Stiles hoped the three others would find the source of the disappearances.

Somewhere in Southside Beacon Hills

Scott munched into a piece of pizza, letting most of it hang outside of his mouth. "Pretty sweet !" Scott could not believe their chance. He had not been pleased with the cancellation of their party and his separation with his best friend for the patrol, but it had turned out better than he had expected. Quickly after investigating whatever Derek thought nefarious in this city, they heard a woman yelling. They found a poor woman closing her restaurant. They did not see the assailant, but it had been obvious it was the thing Derek wanted them to hunt. The woman, Jennifer, gave them a free meal to thank them. This was the greatest food Scott had ever eaten, and he was sure he would not have something that good in a long time.

"Mmmh, delicious..." Isaac agreed, his mouth full of french fries. There was something so satisfying about the taste of salt and oil, making him continue to reach and chew faster and faster. 'But so very greasy', he noted but quickly shrugged the thought off. He was a werewolf. He could not gain weight; thus, he did not need to diet because of a bit of junk food. At least he was not wandering into the woods like Whittemore and Stilinski. They did not know what they missed; these might be the best fries Isaac had ever had.

"I don't know..." Derek said after he finished his cheeseburger. "This place is a little odd..." But the teenagers with him did not even react. He did not know why he had accepted following the woman they had saved. Her reaction had been weird; she did not seem surprised to see three werewolves. She did not even ask about it, just proposed them food and gave them an evasive recollection of the events before their intervention.

Jennifer looked at the three werewolves ripping through the buffet she had summoned. It had been so easy to convince them she had been attacked, and as soon as they 'saved' her, her magic ran its course. 

They would make excellent meals, even better than the couple humans she had feasted on Christmas. 

The food was already taking a toll on them, but none of them noticed the rounder bellies pushing their tee-shirts and their fuller cheeks.

The Preserve

"No answer." Stiles voiced what the werewolf knew. For the past 5 minutes, they had tried to call them, only to end up on their voicemail. For McCall, it was not a shocker. But Derek, their paranoid Alpha, not picking up the phone, that was another story.

"Try again," Jackson ordered. 

He tapped his foot when the human did not obey. "Do you think..." Gosh, Stilinski smelled like dread and fear, "something happened?" 

Jackson had to admit the thought had crossed his mind. 

"They would have yelled or something," He assured, his voice steady, turning away from the other man, "Come on, keep moving." Still, Jackson was not reassured at all. He hoped, at least, he had reassured Stilinski; he did not have the time to deal with a panic attack. 

Somewhere in Southside Beacon Hills

Too lazy and impatient to taste the oversized pepperoni pizza in front of him, Scott folded it and sunk it into his opened mouth. Crunching as fast as he could to grab another delicious pizza Jennifer had cooked for him, he nearly choked if it was not for a tall glass of strawberry milkshake that helped him drown it down. "So tasty..." he mumbled, noisily slurping the remaining liquid. If the food were not so tempting, he would have wondered about his appetite. He had not counted the pizzas he had tried, but he was sure it was more than he used to do. The dark-haired werewolf found himself still hungry to the point he decided it was a good idea to toss a taco on the pizza, then fold it, then eat it. Too bad his best friend was not here. He would have loved to try it. 

Issac burped loudly after finishing a bowl of deep-fried onion rings, his nose scrunching at the smell. He had made a pig of himself as he contemplated his sauce and grease-laden white tee=shirt. He knew the cloth had supposed to be too far gone with a patrol, but at least, it had not been blood and dirt. A welcome change, the blonde decided. He should do a pause to let his stomach settle, but the plate of burgers in front of him pushed him to indulge. 

Derek threw another fried chicken leg behind him before grabbing another covered with barbecue sauce. It was delicious, but the Alpha could not get out of his head the feeling of weirdness this place and Jennifer were giving him. He should try to investigate more, to ask her questions, even if it was really nice of her to provide them with all this food. For that matter, Derek wondered how she was doing to keep their plate full and to make such delicious dishes. He should try to tell his betas it was time to go home. They ate their fill, and now they should leave. However, Derek found himself unable to move from his chair. As if the more he ate, the harder it was for him to stop. The chicken legs were crispy, the pizzas were cheesy, and the burgers were juicy. Speaking of burgers, Derek noticed a plate full of them, hot and smelling heavenly, in front of Isaac.

The latter burped loudly right on the face of Derek, who was trying to reach a plate of burgers in front of Isaac. The younger did not feel the need to apologise. Derek did not even react to busy stuffing a burger into his mouth with feral fervour as crumbs and droplets of grease splattered on his face and Henley.

Jennifer was happy with the development in the dining room. 

Despite the Alpha being the hardest to persuade, she could see the last remains of restraint leaving him. He was not really far from the two others. 
The legs he had now were making the witch salivate. With buttcheeks hardly fitting onto the chair, they promised to be the biggest she would eat in a couple of hours. The ample belly pressing into the tabletop was almost disappointing in comparison and paled into insignificance next to Scott, whose own stomach had pushed him far from the table. Soon, she would have to make the food come directly to him. Isaac was a combination of the two other werewolves, but his greediness was, Jennifer was sure, even greater than the others. She would have bet the boy knew about hunger, real hunger. Those poor, tortured souls always made the best meals. 

The Preserve

"Lydia says Danny tried to localise their phones, but they are disconnected."

That sentence alone gave Jackson shivers. Despite his strong appearance, he craved for the bonds of his Pack and realising three of them were missing was driving his wolf insane. 

"Allison called her father, and I'm going to ask my dad." 

Both of the teenagers were on the verge of having a panic attack. They faced many dire situations, but never so worrisome. Three hours without hearing from the rest of the Pack. Could Stilisnki be useful and deliver them a well-put plan or something? It was hard for Jackson to think clearly right now. Should they go back home? Or try to follow the barely present scent of their packmates? 

"I can smell their trace," Jackson announced, Stiles turning his head abruptly toward him. 

"You could have said that earlier," it was not really an accusation, and it gave Jackson an indication of the state of distress of Stilinski. It was more frustration than anger toward him. 

"You know what it implies," the werewolf stated, walking right into the lion's den. It went unsaid, but they knew it meant risking the same fate as their packmates. Stilinski just nodded. Afterall the others would have done the exact same thing. 

Somewhere in Southside Beacon Hills

Eventually, having the three housebound werewolves easily filling now two chairs each at the same table began to be an issue Jennifer quickly solved. Having them laying down on ottomans allowed their lard-filled limbs to rest. That would make the meat tender. She also enchanted the food to directly go into their mouth as their swollen hands and forearms made it harder to reach their faces. They did not notice a single change, being now mindless machines bound to eat and grow. She was happy about the results. A couple of hours to wait, and they would be ready. 

Derek was at the point it would have been almost impossible, without magic, to get him onto his feet without physically lifting his heavy love handles. Each protuberance was toneless, muscleless rolls of pure, soft lard. Hundred pounds of dead weight belly fat that overhung on bloated out thighs and calves swallowing with an avalanche of expanding chub his joints. She drooled at the bottom-heavy man whose meat would make perfect hams. 

It was a welcome addition to the younger werewolves. Scott's belly dominated his body, an enormous beachball filled with jelly jutting out of his lardish body. The tanned flesh completely engulfed his thighs and stood so far his blueberry arms could only reach the top half of it. The deep belly button was unreachable for the teenager. Isaac was experiencing the same issue. With limbs to shorts to reach the peak of his rotund gut, he had to fight with the obstacle his doughty chest had become. His once square and defined jaw was now a thick roll of double chin merging with two thick, flabby moobs. The sacks of flour rested sluggishly onto the round curve of his wide belly and braced his fattened upper arms up at awkward angles. 

The three werewolves would make the perfect meal with another hundred pounds or so. 

Derek thought he should stop that there was something important he had been supposed to do instead, but he could not stop gulping the thick chocolate milkshake that ran steadily into his mouth. He should really stop eating so much, but it was so tasty, so addictive. Then more fries made their way, and he just munched and chewed. It all tasted so good and irresistible. He just wanted more. 

More. That was the word, the only word that was on Isaac and Scott's minds. Everything touching their lips was delicious, savoury, irresistible, making them wanting and needing, always and forever more, more and more. 

South Central Avenue, Beacon Hills

The city's Southside, reputed for its pubs, clubs, and restaurants, was filled with joyous party-goers celebrating the New Year. Jackson and Stiles tried to make their way through the masses of drunk and happy people. Stiles did his best not to lose sight of Jackson. It must have been difficult for the werewolf to focus on his packmates' scents with the loud music, the smell of hundreds of individuals and bright lights. Stiles was disoriented just with his regular and perfectly human senses. 

Still, he could see the werewolf determined, sweeping away people on his path. 

"Jackson," Stiles mumbled when he found himself crowded by frat boys blocking him. Seconds later, Jackson gripped his shoulder and pushed the himbos to continue their way. Then they heard it. Well, Jackson heard it. It was a woman yelling. 

He grabbed Stiles by the end and dragged him in the sound's direction. They found a woman huddled up on the pavement, crying and bleeding on an empty street, a corner away from the festivities. 

The poor woman was terrified about her assault, and it was clear she would not give them any indications about what had happened to her before calming down. They had to help her. She might have seen or heard something about their packmates.

Jennifer mentally cheered, ecstatic. It was time, at least. The only way for Jennifer to identify the werewolves was their hair colour and tattoos that stood out above the horizon of flab that had spilt out far beyond the ottomans limits. They were forever lost to gluttony. 

Their massive legs were buried, hidden by bellies perilously close to filling the room she had secluded them in. 

Their arms were useless because too fat to move. Even their hands swelled up with so much fat they looked spherical. 

Their faces had lost any trace of humanity with obstructive fat on them, transforming the sound of their voice to lower-octaves of satisfied mutters. Their eyes could not see over the swells of their growing rolls of fat.

Still, buried under a sea of lard, they were bottomless pits, blobs ready to be eaten, still living to chew and swallow, too eager to fill the void in their stomach to think to stop. 

But what were three large meals without two copious desserts, she thought when she opened the door of her restaurant to her two saviours, Stiles and Jackson. 

She was going to have a very happy fat year in 2022. 

Chapter Text

Stiles' dad had gotten fat. 

Stiles was back from college, up north, for a mandatory pack meeting since his departure in mid-August, given that his father used to look almost athletic despite his age. Afterall he was the Sherrif, and given the supernatural activity Beacon Hill had to put up with, much less since the werewolves and hunters had found an agreement, added to the human one, had made his dad toned, more than his 18 years-old son. So the pounds the Sheriff had put on while Stiles was away had been the first thing Stiles had noticed when he showed up at Derek's loft. His dad had not blown up while he had been away, but the weight had started to climb, a round mound poking out from his middle, not more than an inch or two thick, but it looked solid and squishy. The Sherrif was definitely filling out with arms and legs just so slightly softer.

Stiles wanted to comment but refrained from doing so. First, he did not want to show him up in front of their packmates, especially with physically gorgeous werewolves and Chris Argent, the poster man for DILF. Second, he felt partly responsible for his father's weight gain as he monitored his diet for years to ensure the man was not clogging his arteries with grease. Third, Stiles had also gained weight during this first part of the semester. He did not feel authorised to lecture his father even if it was only seven pounds. That would even be hypocritical, given Stiles had wanted to put on those seven pounds. Stiles had come out as a gainer during his first week of college when he had shared a meal at the cafeteria with his roommate, an already hefty guy with a strong appetite. Stiles, who had been attracted to meatier guys for some time back then, had taken the plunge. Then, he had opened a Grommr account and, with the bits of advice of feeders and other gainers, he planned to open an account before Thanksgiving to fuel his growth. Fourth, the weight his dad put on looked pretty good on him, particularly when his sharp jawline had softened while there was a slight curvature to his torso. 

For all those reasons, he could not comment, but he felt like Noah had caught on to him staring. The wolves would have certainly picked on his internal turmoil. 

He was envious of his dad when it had come to the Pack diner. Just as Stiles remembered, Pack diners were mostly potlucks where each member brought something, but Derek, being the richest, provided most of the food, like vegetables and fruits only the fit wolf would indulge. But right now, a large plate of ribs was in the centre of the table, mostly already on pack members' plates, but nothing compared to the number of ribs on his dad's. Stiles had moved back to the pizza. He found himself shyly munching off his second piece of pizza while eying his old man attacking his diner. 

The silence and the spectacle were killing him! He could gut himself with a delicious pizza, adding precious calories to his softer figure, but he could not keep his eyes off the sauce-covered ribs the Sherrif was packing into his mouth!  

"Sir, are you feeling okay?" Scott had asked when Noah paused.  

"Just hungry," He chuckled nonchalantly as he forked a heaping mouthful of mashed potatoes past his lips, shocking Stiles.  

Impressive as it was, Stiles was jealous. 

The rest of the weekend was uneventful. He did not even have a moment alone with his father, given the odd hours of his shift and the constant presence of packmates around Stiles. At least Scott had brought junk food with him for their video-gram marathon. It compensated for the fact he did not have the opportunity to stuff himself with tacos or brownies in his childhood bedroom in shirts he had not put on since his first year.  

-----

Stiles gainer activity had taken off with every pound he had put on. It had helped he had brought on his old clothes from home for his videos. His OnlyFan account, BigMischief, sent a steady flow of money, allowing Stiles to rely on it with his free-meal plan to grow. 

And grew, he did. Every part of the pale young man looked like melted ice cream, or at least the results of chugging it. His shirt caught his belly, leaving pudgy slivers of love handles sitting on top of his sides. The several inches he had gained made him look stockier, almost a football team member - he had made a video on that theme. Even his cheeks and face were rounder, with a double-chin visible under his jawline. 

He was proud of his progress and even more happy to share it with gainer friends of all ages and weights. This support group had given Stiles ideas to maximise his caloric consumption, for his video's content, and he had even received 'gifts' he had sworn to outgrow. 

In the end, his gains were shadowed by his father. He complained about that in their chat group. How could his 'civilian' father gain weight that fast? Most of them sympathised; some asked for pictures - something he would never do - or advised him to ask his dad bluntly. 

A bit full because of a stop at McDonald's on the road, Stiles had not refused his larger father a coffee cup to catch up. Of course, Stiles could not help but glance down and see how his father's uniform shirt protruded out of his torso, following the cascading curvature of a thick gut that jutted nearly half a foot out of his midriff. It sat heavily in his lap on top of his thighs that pressed together despite the slight angle to accommodate his bulky middle, while a set of moobs sloped down over the edges of said belly and toward the love handles lining his sides. 

Again, neither of their grown figures were mentioned, and when the Sheriff left for his shift, Stiles found the perfect way to spend his afternoon. Using a coupon, he found himself in an empty house with two boxes of forty-two sushis. Mentioning that to his friends, he received many encouragements, but most of the guys were too busy to actively encourage him to eat it all. Only a profile, FatJohn95351, of a man who had gained a fair amount of weight, proposed his services with the promise from Stiles to return the favour. They had exchanged a few messages already, while Stiles did not know much about him. He was older than him; he had understood he had a son and irregular working hours. It had been typical to see the profile unlogged for a couple of days, but all the pictures and updates the man had posted were terrific, and FatJohn was friendly and joked about being the 'dad' of the group calling everyone son. 

It was the first time they shared private messages, and Stiles could understand that the man was certainly not out with gaining, having a job and a family, but the young man would not stop at that.

Eat.  Stiles turned toward the first box. Each of the forty-two pieces looked beyond enticing, and before he knew it, he reached out at a steady pace. 

Always keep eating until there is nothing left.  Though his bites were slower when he had started the second box, under the good orders of his friend, Stiles continued to chew with his tired jaws and swallow. His gulps slid heavily down into his stomach, where a familiar pang of fullness started radiating.

Always finish your meal.  Without realising it, Stiles threw away the chopsticks to grab the last sushis, soaked in soja sauce, and stuffed them into his mouth.

Now drink.  Stiles only complied, his eyes closed, filling the last remnants of his stomach filled with sugar. He had rarely felt this stuffed. He placed his hands on his middle and groaned. He leaned back and rubbed his hands on his stomach, trying to relieve the intense pressure. He felt a rumble in his stomach after drenching the bottle, and before he knew it, a long and loud belch escaped his lips. 

He took a quick picture of the hard dome attached to his abdomen, thanking FatJohn, who answered immediately with emojis at the state of Stiles. 

I'll be back at 11 tonight. Ready for my turn? 

Sure. Gonna sleep off my food-baby first. 

------

His alarm woke Stiles up. Still bloated, he shuffled on his bed to find a better position, between the empty soda bottle and the boxes. He would have to hide them if his dad would check on him, but he felt the Sheriff was still at the office. He would have heard the snores otherwise, and given his dad's new size, a chain saw would have been hard to miss. 

Is phone pinged with a new notification from FatJohn, asking if he was ready. 

Go ahead!

What's planned for tonight?  He asked while putting on his headphones and launching an episode of Doctor Who.

Dessert.

Got my way through tacos earlier with a friend. The answer came back with a picture, a before picture of the man's torso. It was safe to say the khaki shirt fitted fine before his diner, but right now, none of the buttons did up - Stiles could see most of them had popped off, his love handles exposed alongside his unfastened pants. 

Good job, big guy.  

A picture of a pint of melted ice cream appeared on his phone. 

Need something to cool off the spices. 

Surprised my son left it. He porked up nicely. 

Better chug it fast then!

Gainer father and son? 

Stiles did not know if asking about the man's son was safe. Afterall, said son could be underage.

No. Terrible diet. Bound to happen. 

Okay. 

Couple of friends help me, but my son doesn't know. 

Plan to tell him? 

Not yet. Have to limit the food when he's around.

If you become too fat to leave your bed, I think he'd guess. 

When! 

Stiles snorted at that. He could not imagine having his father too big. Actually, it had never crossed his mind, and despite the weight he had put on, he was sure it would not happen. But the other way around, that would be possible. 

Same with my dad, man! 

How's the ice cream doing? 

Gone in my belly. 

Going to try the maple-glazed doughnut I bought. 

And you? Feel better? 

I'm settling.  Stiles answered, caressing his stomach. 

Go get ice cream. You'll love it. 

Haha! I might!

Stiles hauled himself out of his bed. Having so much food sitting in his stomach made him drowsy, but he found himself stimulated by FatJohn and his appetite. Not really sure how much capacity was left in him; the gainer in him gave him enough assurance that he could, at least, have several spoons of ice cream. He had spotted a pint of ice cream earlier in the fridge, and, honestly, given his potbelly, no one could blame him for treating himself a bit. 

Heading downstairs, clad only in a tight pair of boxers and empty boxes, and hearing no sound from his father's bedroom, he walked to the kitchen, only to find a dim light catching his attention. 

He ignored the new notification because he recognised his dad's silhouette outlined by the glow of the open fridge. The Sheriff was crouched in front of the refrigerator, looking for something. The sound of another notification from Stiles' phone made the man turn away from the open fridge. Like his son, his stomach was sticking out far in front of him, but his attire caught Stiles' attention, looking precisely like FatJohn's ones. Same exploded shirt leaving his upper body exposed and unfastened pants. 

The two Stilinskis were staring at each other, both red in embarrassment, but they could see each other's wheels turning in their heads, trying to comprehend the situation. 

Stiles' suspicion got correct when he sent a message to FatJohn. After a few seconds, the Sheriff's phone lit up. 

The Sheriff cleared his throat, a hand on his head. "I guess we have things to talk about."

Stiles just laughed in front of this awkward scene, his round belly bouncing with him while the Sheriff relaxed and rubbed his own fat gut, smiling easily. 

-----

The first time Noah had found his attraction to weight gain was just after his son's first day of high school. 

He remembered clicking on an email from a guy he went to high school with. It was an invite to Facebook. He knew that Stiles and other parents were already on it, but the Sheriff had refused to join the site for a while. Still, after a few minutes, he found himself logged and updating his information; name, work, a few face pictures, adding friends who had already sent invites etc...

He felt old as the profiles and pictures he was scrolling were of several of his former classmates from twenty-five years ago, all older, with parallel lives as his own; house, kids and work, same greying hair, lines around the eyes. Noah felt better about himself, at least it was not just him, and then he came to Bill Hollister. That man had been the best athlete at the Police Academy. Noah could remember how jealous he had been when he had failed to compete with Bill's perfect set of abs, V-shape and toned arms. Well, Bill was now a seasoned deputy of a small Kansas town, and from the picture, he might have doubled his weight. The shoulders were still big, but his narrow and tight waist was now a considerable belly, wider than his shoulders.

He had a vision of himself looking as big as Bill.

He often wondered when he would take the plunge, but having a kid like Stiles, a precinct with numerous unsolved cases and discovering the existence of the supernatural world, had postponed the idea. Sure, he had kept an eye on Bill's waistline and never missed the growing figures of his deputies and other parents. 

It was when his son left for college. He was far away, but the Sheriff found himself living alone for the first time. He could, at least, relax a bit. The supernatural had been handled by the Hales and Scott, with the help of Chris Argent. After all they had endured, it had been a relief. 

That was when the idea of gaining weight gained ground. He found himself watching videos of men stuffing themselves, weight gain stories, and a community he had never heard of. He started to read about communities gathering guys called 'gainer', who gained weight, and 'chaser', who likes gainers. The idea of growing fatter and enjoying it while people adored it lingered with Noah, who had just signed up and made a profile. He decided to use his middle name, John, to ensure no one from the gainer community would link his first name to the growing Sheriff of Beacon Hills. Better safe than sorries. 

He almost abandoned when he took a picture of his torso in front of his mirror, but FatJohn had gained dozens of followers, views, and likes on his photos and private messages in a couple of weeks. Most of them were chasers, but he found messages of encouragement from guys who had just blown out in a few months. 

The praises and advice only fueled his desire to gain more. He had not really tried to. He had put on a couple pounds since his son, principal diet watcher, had moved out, leaving the Sheriff free to enjoy chicken wings, pizzas and ice cream. Food strictly forbidden by his son, who had spent half of his life lecturing his father about dieting, cholesterol and diabetes. A pang of guilt invaded him the first time he tried a gainer shake recipe. 

The feeling soon left him, but while he was laying on his couch, his abdomen round and taunt, feeling nauseous, he had promised himself to limit the number of shakes per week. 

He did not know how the Hales found out. They, mainly Peter, but Derek was not outdone, started to provide the Sheriff with food. At first, Peter gave him his slice of pie at the Pack diner, then Derek made his favourite meat, only to find Peter bringing the Sheriff coffee and doughnuts several times a week at the precinct. They never mentioned anything about the Sheriff's new way of life, and that understanding went through the Pack. 

Even Scott was on it, bringing the Sheriff lunch at least three times a week because he had promised his best friend to make sure his father would not forget to eat. Eat healthily was what Stiles had certainly meant, not the greasy burgers Scott was providing. 

He had developed a slight belly pooching over most of his pants waistbands when he saw Stiles for the first time since August. He had braced for a lecture but discovered that his son had plumped a bit at college. It really suited him and was a welcome change from the emaciated kid he once was. He made Noah think about the legion of young men on Grommr who were just like his son, skinny and toned in August but with a small couch of flab developing around their middles and limbs. 

To his surprise, Stiles did not peep a word. Noah and the Pack relaxed, and he tried his best to reign his appetite in front of his son, not that Peter helped when he placed most of the ribs covered in sauce on his plate; Noah's favourite. He knew his son was scrutinising him, certainly looking at him as a mystery he needed to solve. 

He did not enjoy some time alone with his son because he was caught up with underaged hooligans partying around a bonfire on the Preserve. By the time he had been done on Sunday morning, Stiles had to drive back. At least he had had a good time with Scott, especially when Noah found out the leftovers from their marathon. Pushed down his throat not an hour after Stiles had driven off, he had received an invitation for brunch from Peter. 

-------

After more pounds had been added to his figure, Noah started gaining a lot of attention and even joined a chat group of gainers in North California. Most of them were younger and fatter than him, but it felt good to develop a group of 'friends' who understood him. Not that he had planned to meet any of them. Even if his entourage had been supportive, he was not ready to meet face to face with someone who could out him to his son or job. But, he had done online feeding with some of them. 

It contributed to fattening the Sheriff. He had noticed how he was surely but slightly going on the chunky side in a matter of weeks. His stomach had started to bow forward a few inches from his torso and rounding out along his sides, forming a prominent paunch and a widened waistline making his pants squeeze his hips. Despite loving the feeling of his too-tight uniforms and how his ancient Police Academy's sweaters could not cover his fattened abdomen, he had been obliged to upgrade his civilian clothes while keeping the old ones for pictures and videos. It was always fun to burst out from his old shirts or try to fasten his suit pants. 

However, it was his face that gave it all away. A second chin had sprouted under his jaw, and his cheeks were fuller. He simply looked large and soft, just like how he should look. Still, he felt like that was the ideal size for him for whatever reason.

His fellow gainers had good results, too, especially a young man, BigMisschief, barely an adult who had packed a good twenty or twenty-five pounds. It was the same one he had noticed. He had always liked the black and white pictures or the videos the kid made, but recently, he had sped up his game, enjoying, as he said, college food and take-outs. He had witnessed the rounding out hips, the new set of broad thighs stretching to the edge of the fabric of his pants and the growing bow of his shirts representing the sprouting of a belly. 

And the challenge he threw himself in! Noah chuckled at the thought of the man devouring an entire pot of chilli, almost to make himself sick. Noah had been very impressed, motivating him to attack two full buckets of chicken, sliding one down his throat after another and coating his face with sauce. 

Noah asked himself if maybe his son could get that far. In months, they had not seen each other, and he wondered if the younger Stilinski would pack on some more weight. He had felt oddly proud to see his kid plumping up but also jealous when he realised how far Stiles could go if he was also a gainer. 

The day Stiles was supposed to be back, Noah's breakfast had just been a platter of doughnuts and muffins. Then, at the precinct, he did his papers with another batch - courtesy of Peter. After what had been an entire morning breakfast and paperwork, the Sheriff found himself hungry while driving back home and ended up in his kitchen with a family-sized pizza, buckets of fries and cartons of mozzarella sticks. Before tearing the pizza down, he deeply breathed in the smell of salt and grease saturating the living room. 

Sitting up on his couch, waiting for the imminent arrival of his son, he could feel his packed belly rising off my chest, resting on a small portion of his thighs. 

The first find Noah thought after hugging his son was how bigger he looked. He checked the boy in snug clothes to find pudge hanging off his waist, with inches appearing each time Stiles moved his thicker arms. It suited him, and he feared his son would be embarrassed at first. He would even say his son looked better and more confident, just like his father. 

They drank coffee before Noah had to leave for work, a slow evening at least. They chit-chatted about Stiles' classes, and neither of the men commented about the other's weight, which was weird because they were unmistakably crossing the chubby line. At least, it felt good to have his son back. Stilinskis were not men of many words, but moments like that where they shared stories about their daily lives meant gold to them.

While Tara was upfront doing paperwork at the office, leaving the Sheriff with little work, he opened the gainer chat, only to find a message from BigMischief announcing he had just brought two sushi boxes. Most other guys greeted him, but the boy asked if someone could encourage him. 

Noah sent him a private message proposing his services in exchange for doing the same tonight. After all, Stiles would surely spend the night at the McCall's, leaving Noah free to gorge in his kitchen.

  Eat.  He sent after BigMischief sent him a picture of the boxes.  

Always keep eating until there is nothing left.  He added when the picture of a pale belly and an empty box appeared. Then another one with the same angle but with now a filled box. 

Always finish your meal. 

Now drink.  He ordered the younger man, referring to the two-litre bottle of soda he had spotted earlier. After three minutes, a picture appeared where Noah could see a hard dome attached to BigMischief's abdomen.

Thanks

I'll be back at 11 tonight. Ready for my turn? 

Sure. Gonna sleep off my food-baby first. 

Noah chuckled at that. 

-----

Before that, Noah ended up at the drive-thru of Taco Bell with an order that had made the cashier girl think the Sheriff was treating the whole precinct. If only she knew better. 

He drove to Peter's, and while the wolf had only one taco, Noah ended up with the six others. Supersized, of course. He was not that hungry when he sat in front of Peter, but he could not help himself. 

That was where Peter entered the game. After the first one was just gulped down, Noah went up for seconds, then thirds, and then even when he realised he was nearly too full to fulfil his later engagements. That was where Peter entered the game. He pinched a belly roll poking out from the tight shirt, and instantly, Noah felt pain wasting away. Sedated with the werewolf's healing, he launched himself on the rest of his plate. 

Noah commented about his son's weight gain with his mouth full of tacos, making the wolf laugh. 

"Like father, like son," Peter commented, staring at Noah's shirt stained with grease splotches, and most of the buttons burst, letting his inflated belly out. "At least he cannot comment on your diet."

Noah arrived just before 10.45. Fifteen minutes before his meeting with BigMischief. 

Ready? He sent. 

Go ahead!

What's planned for tonight?  He asked while Noah carefully entered his house. It was dark and empty, and while Stiles' jeep was on the driveway, he could not imagine his owl-like son to be already asleep.

Dessert.  Got my way through tacos earlier with a friend. He answered, opening the fridge to pick up the pint of ice cream and posing for BigMichief, to show him the damages to his diner, his shirt fully open and his khakis unfastened.  

Good job, big guy.  

Need something to cool off the spices.  He explained with the picture of the melted ice cream.  Surprised my son left it. He porked up nicely. Maybe he should have not talked about his son's weight.  It had not been a secret to his community that he had a kid, but he had always made sure he had never talked about him. 

Better chug it fast then! The answer came back, followed by. Gainer father and son? 

Noah paused, wondering what he could answer to that. Sure, that would be fun to live with a gainer, but maybe his son would be weirded out by his midlife crisis. He wished he could talk openly about this subject with his son, despite said son guilting him to eat healthy most of his life.

No. Terrible diet. Bound to happen.  Noah was positive Stiles' weight gain was just his metabolism catching up with the end of 'running for his life in doomed Beacon Hills'. After all, he had witnessed his son eating whatever junk food whenever he could. Just bound to happen at some point.

Okay. 

Couple of friends help me, but my son doesn't know. He explained.

Plan to tell him? 

Not yet. Have to limit the food when he's around.

If you become too fat to leave your bed, I think he'd guess. 

When!  Noah chuckled. He had not wondered how far he would go. He had thought 300 would be a nice weight. Big but still able to do some stuff around, like his job or going on vacation with his son... But the ideas of being too wide for his house doorway, too heavy for his couch and insatiable all day long were enticing.   

Same with my dad, man!  Noah hoped BigMichief's father did not give him a hard time about his weight. He had witnessed some parents commenting about kids putting on weight. Always with harsh words.

How's the ice cream doing? 

Gone in my belly. Going to try the maple-glazed doughnut I bought. Noah answered, showing a picture of the box. And you? Feel better? 

I'm settling.

Go get ice cream. You'll love it.  He wrote. After all, a growing kid needed his sugar. 

Haha! I might!

That's good! Noah sent, crouched in front of his fridge to find beers to wash the pastries down, only to hear a notification ping behind him. The refrigerator's light allowed him to see the pale form of his son when he turned around to the sound. Stiles was only wearing a tight pair of boxer briefs cutting into his fleshier thighs and leaving uncomfortable indentations on his waistline.

After what had seemed to be an eternity, Stiles started to type on his phone, and Noah saw his lightening with a new notification. 

"I guess we have things to talk about," Noah tried, slowly putting the piece back together about what he and his son were. Both gainers. Both men who put on weight and like it. Both men who had certainly feared the reaction of the other. 

The awkward silence ended when his son started laughing, making Noah realise they had found a new bonding subject. 

Chapter Text

"Bonjour, et bienvenue à l'hotel Paris Saint-Germain-des-Près," was the greeting they received from the 30 years old man behind the counter as they entered, rolling their luggage. People turned expectantly to Allison, who sighed. 

The Argent being the only one not speaking pidgin French, unlike Scott or Stiles, who had made their personal mission to greet every people they would see with a "Bonjour, oh, la, la", the Pack had elected her official translator. It only took a couple of minutes with the clerk to settle everything. 

“Oui, biensur Mademoiselle Argent. Your luggage will be placed in your respective rooms. You still can enjoy lunch," he announced before giving Allision an envelope full of documents. "Also, these are your passes for the different museums and bus tours of the city."

"I can organise a visit to Disneyland Paris for the day after tomorrow if you want," he proposed, shoving in front of other members of the Pack a brochure with a familiar pink castle. 

"We have to go!" Stiles exclaimed, bouncing with excitation, making Jackson roll his eyes exasperated, but an elbow in his ribs prevented him from commenting. 

"A good change from museums, yes," Allison said. 

"I've never been to Disney before."

Isaac's words made all his packmates go silent and settled the issue.

Derek hawked and gave his approval to the clerk, who m toothy smile was almost suspect to Stiles. But afterall, the man had probably earned a good commission for selling a group trip to Disneyland to American tourists. 

"Perfect! Enjoy your stay."

Chapter Text

After spending a day and a half walking through the street and avenues of the French capital, posing in front of the Mona Lisa and an epic race on the stairs of La Tour Eiffel, the Pack was en route to the theme park. Up at ungodly hours of the morning to prevent being stuck in a traffic jam, the clerk, François, with his butchered English and strong accent, had explained to them what to do and try at the amusement park.. 

"Here we are!" he said, slowing down the minivan to stop in front of the gate. "You must pass the gates and follow the path to the entrance. I'm going to park the minivan, so do not hesitate to call me when you wish to leave," One by one, the pack members got down and admired the castle they could spot at the end of Main Street. "Oh! Before I forget," François exclaimed while rummaging through documents, "I booked you a session for costume trying. They will wait for you after the security check."

"Amusez-vous bien!" He waved at them, his usual toothy grin bigger than usual while driving off. 

"Costumes, really?" Jackson huffed, not thrilled to be in an amusement park he had already seen in California, Florida and Japan. "Are we what? 6?"

"Oh, Jackson, still afraid people might see you enjoying yourself for once," Stiles joked, poking at the blonde werewolf who growled and flashed his eyes before hiding behind his best friend, who sighed with fondness at the human's antics. 

"Hey, stop, guys!" Scott tried, knowing that making them stop was impossible. "Come on," he grabbed Stiles and Isaac's hands, dragging them to the gates. 

"Stop acting like children," Derek growled at the rest of the betas, dismissing Jackson's attempts to protest. "Move," he ordered, pushing Jackson. 

"Boys..." Lydia complained, arm in arm with Allison, who just giggled. 

After nearly three hours of attractions, a giggling Jack Sparrow and Pinnochio converged to Belle, Prince Ali and Han Solo, while, from the other side Captain America and a female version of Indiana Jones joined them with a booklet from the park. 

"So it's noon," Indiana Jones announced, "Let's find somewhere to eat!"

Allision thanked her human ears as all of her packmates were shouting and defending their restaurant preferences. 

"Well, I guess we each go on our way and meet back around 2 pm at the Castle?"

"Shouldn't we try to find something that could satisfy everyone?" Belle asked, taming her strawberry blonde hair in place. 

"That would be nice to eat together," the shy version of Jack Sparrow muttered. 

"Well, I don't want to sit next to Stilinski and his bony elbows," Prince Ali sneered at Hans Solo, who, maturely, stuck his tongue out at him while being hidden by a floppy-haired Pinnochio. 

"We already spend a lot of time together during these holidays, so maybe some alone time could be beneficial," Captain America settled. "Don't worry," he turned to Isaac, "tomorrow we will visit Versailles; the clerk told Lydia about a nice brunch restaurant with a view of the gardens.

"Hey!" the redhead protested, smacking the werewolf, "That was supposed to be a surprise!"

"So, we meet here in two hours, right?" Allison proposed, already knowing where she would go for lunch. 

Unbeknown to them, a shadow was luring, observing them. 

"Tout simplement parfait."

Chapter Text

'It's about damn time', Allison thought when the server of the Silver Spur Steakhouse placed the Cowboy platter in front of her, full of pulled pork quesadillas, chicken wings, cheese-stuffed jalapenos, onion rings, goat's cheese-stuffed peppers, guacamole and Doritos.

She only hesitated a second before her fingers grabbed handfuls to shove down her mouth, covering her face and chest in grease. Her entire front half was soon covered in various crumbs caught between her cleavage and staining her shirt while she was already salivating at the thought of the pork ribs.   

Chapter Text

In the Chalet de la Marionnette, a chalet-style eatery straight from the universe of Pinocchio, Scott reached over to unwrap another Bavarian hotdog. He opened wide and took one big bite, a surge of grease and currywurst sauce spilling onto his face and dungarees. 

He stammered a thank-you with his mouth full of meat to the server, who placed napkins for him to use later when his focus would not be on his plate. 

He tossed the empty wrapper into the pile he had been accumulating since he had let himself plop down to the chair and sipped away the last of his soda. Satisfied with this introduction to what Scott was sure was typical German food, Scott leaned back and stiffed a loud burp, waiting for a Pretzel-style burger with loin of pork, red cabbage and mustard sauce. 

Chapter Text

"Where's my food?" Jackson grumbled in what was supposed to be a restaurant granting all his hungry wishes, his spurting double chin shaking.

Long gone was any sense of decency or manners, as the gluttonous impersonation of Prince Ali Ababwa spent his time in the buffet barking orders to the staff who willingly brought him plates and plates of tajines, couscous, maakoudas and briouats. Wiping his hands on his costumes that displayed a softening chest resting on a rounded-out middle, it would have been doubtful to see the blond werewolf using his plumped-up legs to serve himself more Moroccan delights, the cushions of his ampler bottom being more comfortable. Not that he ever wanted or could get up at this point.

Chapter Text

After the ungodly amount of amuse-bouche and other French dishes she had shoved down her throat, Lydia hummed at the white chocolate mousse, strawberry and almond shortbread in front of her. 

Un-princessly with her extra chin thickened thighs, and fattened arms, she shallowed mouthfuls of the mousse. The dessert was in a long line of dishes that helped to strain a bit more the yellow corset that tried to hold back her engorged and sagging breast, obliging her to wiggle her body against the fabric that had decided to mould every curve of her hips and bulging belly obstructing the sight of her feet.  

Chapter Text

Avenger Campus – Pym Café 

With one hand still on his belly, the dark-haired Captain America did not let himself be distracted by the old-lab-style restaurant as he reached around with his other hand to grab the oversized Foccacia of his Family-sized Pym-ini. 

Overflowed with salamis, ham and marinara sauce, Derek tried not to destroy it before it reached its final destination. Breathing heavily, he dutifully munched down until half of the Italian toast was in his mouth. Grunting and groaning, he kept chewing until he could finally swallow it all, marked by a rasped gasp as his mouth opened up again.

As soon as it opened up, he shoved the straw of his enlarged Pingo Doce soda in his mouth, easing the building pressure in his stomach with his free hand. 

Breathing heavily, he grunted at the server, who brought him another oversized can and a couple of Not So Little Chicken Sandwiches. 

"That was good, wasn't it?"   
 

Chapter Text

Scott's face had swelled up compared to how sharp it had been when he first entered the Chalet. With pudgier cheeks and a filled-out double chin erasing the crooked jaw, so many girls and guys had fawned, the line between his face and neck had withered with each apple strudel Scott had shoved down his throat.  

While growing with him, the red dungarees and yellow shirt still outlined the jutting out chest and expanding nipples while down there, fighting with a belly that had decided to stick out in all directions: horizontally with his love handles pushing out, and vertically with the combined force of his underbelly hanging lower and lower while the top was filling out into a balloon shape. 

Weighted down by all the food he had scarfed on inside of him had started to make it difficult to move as he wished, but it did not dull his enthusiasm to keep wolfing down on more German pastries. 

Chapter Text

The famous and unmistakable theme from Pirates of the Caribbeans woke Isaac up. He yawned and stretched his long, flabby limbs, still heavy and sore from overuse. He rubbed his eyes and opened them after a strategic nap in his seat, cradled by the sound of waves of the artificial tropical lagoon of the restaurant, the dim light and his stomach packed with various dishes of oven-baked Mahi-Mahi fish steak. And Caribbean chicken and prawns. And slow-roasted smoked suckling pig.

The strategic rest was a way for the curly-haired werewolf to prepare himself for ordering another round of his favourites before settling for desserts. He tried to stand up straight at the sound of the server calling his colleague in the kitchen to prepare the next round of plates for his table, but his blueberry-like belly, whose Isaac's sagging moobs were resting, gave him the run-around. His half-buttoned costume shirt let the top of the large and wobbly appendage appear while the other roll of fat caked in his clothes flopped down towards the floor between his spread and plush thighs. 

He leaned his head over the table when the server finally brought another round of chicken but met resistance when his chins flopped into his moobs. Siting as correctly as possible turned out to be tougher than Isaac thought when his belly forced himself against the table, leaving him panting for breath after this effort before biting into the chicken.

Chapter Text

Allison Argent's meaty buttcheeks made it hard for the booth to hold all the added girth. The furniture was not supposed to welcome such a voluptuous behind and needed freedom. Soon, the girl occupying it would be obliged to move to chairs, especially when the respectable beer gut was torturing the table it tried to overflow.

But for the moment, the brown-haired huntress was too engrossed in lowering the first bites of enchiladas covered in as many toppings as possible and dripping with grease down her throat while they were still warm. 

The first enchiladas devoured in a matter of minutes, she opened her mouth, and a hearty burp from deep down in her tight stomach passed her lips. Satisfied with the newfound room in her guts, she attacked the second.  

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Stiles started to feel his body jiggle as he sat up on the couch and leaned his back against the armrest. The flaccid shape of his softer and squishier belly undulated with every move. 

He had been happy with the Hyperion Café. The futuristic Star Wars decor was well made and the food excellent. Just classic burgers. A safe bet in the eyes of Stiles Stilinski. Even if this fast food did not offer curly fries, not French enough for French people, he had guessed. The real issue was he needed to heave himself up to the counter to order and receive food, something a bit hard with his thighs cramped in his Jedi pants that fought them for space alongside his waist. Still, it did not take too much effort to get himself off his seat, hunger motivating him to plod his way to the counter, twisting slightly to get through some of the other tables. Even as he did so, his belly grazed against the furniture. He did not bother to excuse himself. At this point, the others should make room for him to pass. 

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While it ran snugly over his skin, the costume button-down gave Isaac's belly an extra roundness that the 60 inches ball of lard did not need. 

His once Adonis-like face had slowly transformed to a Cherub style then, as he was shoving another piece of chicken down to his mouth, had moved to a decadent Bacchus with cheeks and chins joined into a doughnut-like ring of fat around his face. 

Soon he would have to haul himself up and abandon the delicious dishes of Captain Jack's to get back to his friends. A gruelling task where he would have to control the wild bouncing of his belly. 

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The wide and lardy Pinnochio was almost ready to consider leaving the restaurant. It was not something he really wanted. He would have prefered staying inside, cradled with the fantastic smell of the food and his full stomach, the wide globes that were his buttcheeks sticking out of the chair by about two feet. 

When one was Scott's size, moving around was because of absolute necessity, especially with a large stomach coming down to where his knees should appear and man-boobs pushing his arms to an unnatural angle. At least he could use his fleshy love handles as an armrest.

The only thing that really bothered him was the snugness of his costume. It was almost distracting him from his plates and drinks as the fabric was digging deep into his generous rolls of lard, trussing him up.  

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Jackson lumbered lumber off towards the large buffet tables and used what he could gather from his werewolf strength to scoop food into his mouth with his large hands, not bothering about decorum or what he was funnelling down to his throat with vigour. 

He just inhaled the food, barely even chewing. He continued to waddle down the table, with his mouth wide open and just like a vacuum, he sucked the food out of the plates and into his body. He paused at the end of the table, leaving behind him a trail of crumbs and emptiness, only to locate his next target to chew and gulp down. 

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Derek's dwarfing body seemed accentuated by his white, blue and red costume. Captain America's suit left nothing to the imagination about the size of his impressive collection of curves, from the love handles and the indentation of his belly button to the protrusion of his nipples. The elastic fabric compacted all of this lard and held it in suspension as if at the moment Derek would get out of it, unsuspected waves would emerge.

He shuffled away to the exit, making the tables, glasses, and cutlery shake with each heavy and laborious step. At the same time, his immense buttcheeks rose and fell when his buried-in fat feet touched the ground while his generous rippling hips swung around. 

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Of course, Stiles knew he would be late, but at that moment, he did not care, and after all, he was on his way out of the restaurant. He could not be blamed for wanting to have a drink for the long journey back to the castle on Main Street. 

The half-gallon of milkshakes the server put on the counter looked tiny compared to Stiles' size, and it did not last long when the young Jedi seized it and launched himself into a concerto of loud gulping sounds, his gut growing heavier from the liquid under his robe.  

With a gasp of relief, the young Jedi put down the empty glass and patted the side of his belly, trying to smooth the swollen stomach. 

Swollen with all this dairy, he grunted when he hauled himself outside. At least he was hydrated. 

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"Oui, Monieur, I see them," François said to his interlocutor on the phone. Not that the group he had left at the park hours priors could be hard to spot. Massive mounds of flesh lying on benches, bellies rising and falling with each lumbering breath wearing silly enchanted Disney costumes.

"Et bien, it is evident they will not be a threat to your plans, now. And merci for the second half of the payment," he continued, seeing another million being added to his bank account. 

"If you please can excuse me, I have to make sure they return to the hotel safe and sound. They have a big day at Versailles tomorrow." 

François had never judged his clients for the odd jobs they were asking. This one had even been fun to oversee. And he made a good deal of money with that one.: a fattening spell with minor reality alteration and a cloth enlargement supplement. The only difficulty was ensuring the massive figures fit into the bus. If not, a good old transportation spell would do the trick. 

"A pleasure to do business with you, Monsieur Hale."

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Eight years after completing Vet School, the newly appointed vet of Beacon Hill took a much-needed vacation. It was not that far, but his friends and family had clubbed together to send him to a paradise resort on the coast for two weeks. The first real vacation in almost a decade had made the Alpha happy. Far from textbooks, internships and Pack business, he could simply enjoy the presents he had received: massage sessions from the girls, comics from Isaac, a list of TV shows Stiles had decided his best friend had to watch, a bunch of other fun activities from his mother, the Sheriff, Derek and Deaton. All the good ingredients to spend stress-free weeks relaxing in paradise. 

The only thing that made him come back to earth was the full-length hotel mirror, where Scott realised how fat he had gotten since his senior year of high school. 

He had been perfectly aware he had put on some weight over college with the added stress, lack of lacrosse, and receding supernatural threats. Still, the dark-haired guy looking at him in the mirror was past the dad bod territory, especially with the most prominent feature that was his belly. 

Where he had once a washboard of abs, Scott McCall sported an inflated moonscape of lard, bowing out in front of him and concealing the waistband of his swimsuit, with a deep crater of a bellybutton in the centre. Atop, tubes of soft pliant lard had formed and obliterated his lean pecs and lats.

While they were digging into his overgrown middle, his swimsuits fitted him perfectly and prevented him from thinking he had an allergic reaction. 

'You're a werewolf, dumbass.'

And given this had been a gift, people must have been used to seeing the young Alpha that massive. And no one said anything! He had never heard worried words from his mother or other adults. Even his best friend, Stiles Stilinski, klutz extraordinaire, and his incapacity to stay quiet had never piped a comment about Scott's weight. 

He dared slap his gut to watch his shaking violently back and forth before witnessing with stupor the shock wave propagating through the rest of his body, from legs to double chin via his moobs and love handles. 
 
Realising he was in the middle of the lobby, with other clients staring at the fat man staring at his reflection, he walked down the hall toward the pool as quickly as his body could. 

Now aware of the shivering of every overnourished curve he had grown, Scott realised he quickly had to get back in shape: sports and cutting down on stress-eating and fast food. Especially if he had managed to double his weight with his werewolf metabolism. 

He would do that. When he would be back home. It would be counterproductive to stress himself with losing weight while being on vacation that was supposed to be a relaxing time for a stressed newly vet, right? Plus, cutting down too abruptly on the bad habits that had led to this situation would be the wrong strategy. 

Right now, he should just enjoy and relax. 

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Four werewolves were enamoured by their reflection as they pushed themselves to have a chance to admire their bodies. 

Jackson Whittemore brought his arms up slowly, salivating at the tensing of his engorged biceps, bigger than overgrown melons and billowing triceps lined with fat veins. 

Derek Hale turned around to watch his tightly packed abs framed by strong obliques moving South into an obscene Adonis belt resting right above dense, trunk-like muscle-up legs and luscious glutes filling up his too-tight swimshorts. 

Isaac Lahey tried a side-chest pose to see his two overfed pecs contracting. He could not see anything past them as they stuck out far in front of him, but the mirror confirmed they were suspended abode eight rock-like abs. 

Scott McCall was amazed by how he had outgrown his tank tops. The grey fabric looked painted on his skin and left nothing to the imagination, mainly when they only covered his shield-sized pecs while highlighting the deek canyon between them, his thick neck and sprawling, bulging shoulders, while his cobblestone abs were in the open air. 

Stiles looks at them, showing off in front of the mirror, but they are fat. 

He reminded himself about the bars he had brought to bulk up because he felt insecure compared to the other wolves. But, Isaac found out, and they made fun of him. 

He realised that they saw themselves shredded. 

Stiles looks amazed at his four packmates posing in front of the mirror, not knowing what attitude he should adopt, when his best friend eagerly showed him how his tank tops had transformed into crop tops because of his massive pecs. He just hummed, and, at least, it was enough for the brown-haired werewolf. 

To think that he had brought those bulking protein bars for himself in an attempt to buff a bit and not feel so self-conscious when hanging out at the lake or the pool with his packmates and their supernatural abilities to look toned naturally. Of course, there had been a bit of jealousy because most people would not glance twice at the scrawny, pale young man when he was next to a bunch of underwear models. His lithe and toned body was pale in comparison to the fullness of their muscles, and he was the one who had to work for it. That was how he had found himself on the testimonial section of a supplements website looking at before and after pictures of massive bodybuilders. The transformations, at first, looked fake, but he had spent half of the night on their social media, stalking them and witnessing their body covered in muscles in the span of months thanks to the bars and, of course, hard physical work. In the end, amazed by the promise of results, it finished tempting him, and he ordered a box. 

Of course, Stiles had not been the one receiving the so-expected parcel. Isaac had been the one collecting it and wasted no time in sharing his discovery with Jackson. When Stiles arrived at the loft, he was met with the blonde duo's snark. Of course, he had tried to let it go, but Scott and Derek added their remarks on wasting money on scams before each ripped open a bar.

In the end, Stiles had been glad the wolves monopolised them because the results were far from what Stiles had expected. Indeed, coupled with their unnatural appetite, they had over-bulked. But, obviously, a load of calories from the bars and their little to no exercise had different consequences. 

But what truly amazed Stiles was they thought they were fit and swollen.

From his point of view, four behemoths were fighting to have a chance to catch a glimpse of their enlarged bodies. And now, the gains were not only muscles, if not at all. 

Jackson had managed to haul up a ham-like arm, still impressive in size, but only because the flesh hanging like a bat-wing that Stiles had seen for the past couple of months growing and growing until it had started to engulf his elbows. Still, it was impressive that Jackson could bend his arms like that. 

Scott's crop top looked like a sports bra whose seams had started to rip, letting pouches of fat back roll peeking out while fighting against his growing chest. The former tank top had totally abandoned the idea of fitting around his midsection, now poured generously forward into a full-on beach ball in the South, while up to the North, the collar had been engulfed by a ring of fat under Scott's jawline. 

Isaac had grown a massive chest. Sure he had grown massive everywhere, but the former pecs had sprouted so far in front of him, and round it made more than one girl jealous. It looked like Isaac had stuffed two balloons under his teeshirts. It was almost hilarious. He had heard Isaac mumbling about not being able to see past his chest, something Stiles wholeheartedly believed in. Still, if he could have, Isaac would have seen his chest resting on a fleshy cascading gut, fleshier legs and fattened feet.  

Derek and his obscene beach attire were impossible to fit into the mirror, given how large the Alpha werewolf was. 

From the neck up, he looked merely chubby with a respectable baby double chin. But it was under his pillowy chest that Derek killed the game. If Scott had a billowing belly making him deeper from belly-front to buttcheek compared to his packmates, Derek was the widest from hip to hip. His stomach was vast, hanging down in three enormously thick rolls, on in front of him, hiding the sight of his feet, and the two others were attached to his hips. 

His lower body was massive. 
His thighs were mammoth and widely spread apart and fighting for room, his calves were now the size of Stiles's own thighs, and his knees and ankles were a distant memory.

The swim shorts that had once highlighted Derek Hale's round bubble butt were being swallowed into the masses of his chubby thighs, fattened hanging gut, and swelling fat of his crotch. Ridding up because of his tree-trunk quads, the large spheres in lieu of his tights glutes forced the abused cloth down.

"Come on, let's go to the beach! Jackson declared, averting his eyes away from the perfection his body was. He had to admit the group's token human had a flair with those bars. At first, he had not believed it could be that effective, but with the first box empty, they had already seen promising results. Soon, many, many boxes found their way down their throats. "You too, Stillisnki", He added, smirking at the scrawny human. "Don't worry. People won't even see what a weakling you are," He joked, high-fiving Isaac and making the two humongous bodies giggle. 

"Yeah, we won't show off," Isaac added, half of Stilinski being visible to him.

"How thoughtful," Stiles muttered. At least it was true; the four wolves would steal the show. Scott, amused but still ready to defend his best friend, placed a heavy arm around his shoulders, not noticing the weight was almost crushing him, dragging him to an afternoon of fun, while Derek, thanks to his werewolf's powers, managed to waddle behind them. 
 

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Danny squinted his eyes at the sight of his best friend, turned rival, not that the blonde had been aware of this. Of course, Jackson was showing off. Mister perfect abs, perfect shaped pecs, Mister I'm-everyone-styles. At least Danny could rival when Jackson had been human. Since he became a werewolf, after turning into what Danny had guessed a kanima, he was genuinely insufferable. Most of the werewolves were. Boyd, Scott and Isaac, who became the team's best players overnight after years of being benched? And Stilisnki making dog jokes? Please. At least they had not discovered Danny had been a wizard. The only one who could have unmasked him would have been Deaton, but Druids were obvious to that kind of thing. So, the Pack of Beacon Hill could have no clue if Danny would cast a tiny little spell the better his life. Or worsen someone's. 

Danny was ready to cast all of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse against Jackson. If it had been normal behaviour from him to belittle people to protect his ego, but to bench Danny, to put another werewolf as the goalkeeper? No. He had crossed the red line. And Danny just knew where to strike the man. Vanity being one of Jackson's most significant flaws, Danny could teach him a lesson. Twitching his hands and sparks coming from his fingers, Stilisnki would make a Doctor Strange reference if he could see him; he cast a spell at the blonde werewolf, too wrapped in showing his superiority to first-year students that did not even know the supernatural world could exist to realise it. Danny just granted Jackson a valuable gift, being the biggest wolf on the campus. But not in the sense Jackson had imagined it because that gift would take him out of the competition. Soon, even with the werewolf's powers, his bulging belly would slow him down enough on the field that his only use would be warming the bench. 

Jackon was too focused on the game against East-Beacon to care about anything else. He had to impress, win and be the best. Still, he did feel something weird quickly coursing through the rest of his body, blood pumping through his veins. He had dismissed the sensation and the worried glances of his packmates, who advised him to slow down. They just wanted to take credit for the win, Jackson reasoned. 

Danny watched with interest the blond werewolf still jogging but clearly in pain, smirking. But the most exciting thing was Jackson was expanding. In a matter of seconds, his jersey was already skin tight, and his athletic arms and shoulders were boulders of muscles ripping the sleeves. 

'Enjoy, Jax,' Danny thought. Then a detonation could be heard by the spectators and players, stopping dead the game and the cheering. Danny could see the werewolves turning to their Alpha, Derek Hale, in the grandstand, trying to find out what had happened. Then, in the eyes of the world, Jackson's body literally burst out of his clothes.  

The burgundy jersey decomposed with the force of his hulking upper body, his pecs and lats bouncing the moment they got out, while his strong arms had passed a melonesque size and looked like they could hold all the lacrosse team. His pants could not fit the monster, skull-crushing, tree-like legs Jackson now had and had decided to burst, leaving the werewolf with a revealing fabric over his bouncing glutes. 
 
At least three hundred pounds bigger than he had been a minute prior, the whole stadium was silent and immobile—even the werewolves, who looked warily at their packmate.  

And, before anyone could move or say something, Danny cast the second part of the spell with a delicate swirl of a hand. A second detonation struck the stadium, and Jackson groaned before witnessing his body surging forwards. His abs bowed out before covering themselves up with a sprouting couch of lard. Then the two meaty pecs he had no time to truly enjoy budded to rest, flaccid, against the top curve of the billowing belly, while his buttcheeks and legs finished destroying the white lacrosse pants. 

Jackson found himself in tattered clothes, tiptoeing 13 feet tall and weighting a ton of fat. Disoriented, he tried to walk to the bleachers. Panic and fear found their echoes in public when the weight of Jackson's steps started to tremble the whole field and nearby buildings.

Too high to realise that he continued to approach, his deep and resonant voice almost too loud for people's ears, calling his packmate to help him until disoriented, he let himself fall to the ground, the impact of his titanic bottom making everyone lose their footing. 

Sitting in the crater his lower body had formed, the obese, enormous, gigantic and naked version of Jackson Whittemore gripped at the belly resting in front of him as the pale mass of lard started roaring with hunger. 

Danny smirked, happy with his mischief, snapped a picture of Jackson, and then left the stadium. 

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"That's right, come one, keep chugging, my little fat wolf…." Stiles cackled as he watched Isaac finish his dinner with an entire gallon of chocolate milk. 

The blonde wolf was such an obedient boy since Stiles had put him under his spell weeks ago, never been asked twice to finish the food he had set in front of him. The taller wolf would have hated him for calling pet names, but well, he was not in a position to complain about that. 

The Adonis body Isaac had acquired with the bite had made way for a Dionysus one. Gone was the set of defined abs composing his tight Adonis belt, and Isaac had welcomed with no emotion a bulging, wobbling belly that sloshed with every movement. 

His copious drink settling on the packed stomach, Isaac shamelessly released a vibrant and resonant belch while rubbing the dome of flab as he staggered over to a love seat. Reinforced by a spell, the love seat did not collapse under his weight, but the teenager completely buried it with flesh as his stomach could not be wholly contained between the armrests, preferring to spill over the top. 

Stiles would not let the werewolf sleep off his gorging session. Oh, dear, no! As soon as Isaac's padded buttcheeks touched the cushion, the television turned up to his favourite show, and various bowls and plates of snacks appeared all around him. 

The Spark smirked at the sight of Isaac's rear glued to the couch and his eyes glued to the television while his hands were glued to doughnuts on the plate atop his looming gut, knowing he would only be obliged to continue to get rounder because of the obedience spell. 

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The first time Derek noticed it, he should have realised immediately something was wrong.

He was working in his loft's kitchen while Stiles was on the other side of the table, busy organising notes to update the Hale/Argent's bestiary. Stiles' soft muttering and mumbling did not annoy Derek in his work. Honestly, the boy was not as loud as he could have been.

He turned his eyes from the book he was reading when Stiles called his name.

"Are you hungry?" He asked in a suggestive tone, and his head tilted to the side, showing his neck, making the Alpha's eyes bulge. Derek did not even finish nodding when his stomach started rumbling, and Stiles moved at light speed. Derek felt his body hitting the couch a couple of feet away from the table. Stiles straddled the werewolf. With one hand pining for the werewolf on the sofa with superhuman force, the other pushed to his lips a juicy burger. 

"Eat." The teenager ordered. His voice was as powerful as an Alpha werewolf. 

"Stop!" Derek told Stiles, but his mouth reached for that burger and bit on the juicy patty. He tried to say to himself to stop, but soon it was his own hands that took over Stiles' and shoved more of the burger into his mouth, and from there, his fangs kept ripping the food. 

"How about another?" The now sensual voice asked, but the thought of saying no to the hope and innocence in Stiles' eye was suddenly impossible for the Alpha werewolf. But the thought of another juicy burger was almost erotic. He stifled a few ample belches and attacked the presented burger. 

Derek groaned audibly, his stomach heavy as a rock and pressing against his Henley. He was just so painfully full. At least, Stiles rubbed at it gently, trying to soothe it. 

"Congratulation," he muttered, his plump lips touching his stubbled cheek delicately. A powerful feeling welled in his chest. It broke for freedom when he heard himself belching loudly.

"Are you okay?" a concerned Stiles asked him. Derek quickly realised the other man was no longer straddling him on the couch, feeding burgers, but right in front of the heavy bestiary while Derek's book was still in front of him. 

Derek flushed vividly, embarrassed but relieved from the pain of being stuffed. He quickly excused himself from the room. 

He shivered at the memory of Stiles's face, the ghost of his lips on his skin and, surprisingly, at the savour of the burger he had imagined eating so vigorously. It had been the first time he had ever daydreamed like that. But it would not be the last. 

Despite trying to avoid Stiles, Derek started to wait impatiently for Dream Stiles. He soon noticed the differences between the two young men. Dream Stiles looked larger than life itself. It radiated power and safety. His gestures were fluid, and he moved with a grace he had never seen. His voice was sweet like honey but still sharp in his orders. He could be so submissive but challenging simultaneously that it drove his wolf crazy to please him.

The only way for Derek to have this Stiles with him was to obey him blindingly. And he did. 

When Stiles told him that food would make him happy, he agreed before chomping through a first slice of pizza, then another until the whole thing had disappeared down his throat. Belching, hands on his stomach and feeling like he was going to burst, he did all that with a bright smile on his face. 

When Stiles told him he should not exercise too much because it was not good for him, Derek decided to glue himself on his couch between piles of empty fast food wrappers and pizza boxes, obliging his body to rest. And every time his body tried to make him go for a too-long walk around the house or outside, he simply reached for a pack of twinkies to go with it.

When Stiles told him he should get bigger and bigger and bigger, Derek let his gut spread wide all around him along his once-toned buttcheeks that grew swelled with adipose. His broad chest had grown soft, his arms had faded to doughty useless limbs, and his love handles had given him a generous pear-shaped body. 

Stiles looked at the werewolf slouched, watching television while his increasingly puffy cheeks forced his lips into a perpetual pout while nibbling on chocolate-filled doughnuts. 

He had worked well on Derek by using the lust the werewolf had for him to make him his puppet. He had honestly thought he would have broken Derek slower than he had been. He could count on the fingers of a single hand the number of times Derek told himself the situation was not right. But, with the care he provided the werewolf and the love Derek had for him, voices of temperance and restraint in his brain had been replaced by desires for food and fat. 

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For weeks, Peter had joined Derek and felt under the spell of the Spark. He had snuck on him and just kidnapped the two men. A powerful one, given he was a former Alpha and born werewolf. He had since spent weeks happily gorging and feasting, passing over the feeling of fullness and sickness. If he had been in their right mind, he would have noticed belly was constantly taut and on the verge of bursting. 

The spell had worn off days ago when the Spark had acknowledged Peter would not try to fly away, and, if he had to be honest, it was funnier trying and failing to resist. The older werewolf had realised how big they had gotten and were aware of their peculiar situation, but it was too late. Their size and, mainly, their appetite would prevent them from trying anything against the Spark. 

Trapped by an appetite that had grown alongside their bulging bellies. 
Trapped by nearly constant hunger and, of course, the fact they could not fit through the doors. Derek did that to himself willfully for love, Peter had realised.

The remanent superstrength innate to werewolves had allowed Peter to haul himself and stand up. Not that it was handy, but at least he could get his sight away from the overflowing feasts on the dining table.

Peter knew he was the prime illustration of obesity with an oversized yoga ball of a gut that impeded his view of everything below his waist, a set of hips that made him three times as wide as he used to be, a set of thunder thighs that brushed up against one another and doughy arms. 

At least he could haul himself around the house, unlike his nephew—a far cry from the muscular werewolf. The younger man did not have the choice of walking away because he could walk at all. Peter had never imagined someone could reach this level of obesity, as he was twice as large as Peter. He had covered the couch long ago, with hips flowing on the armrests and his expansive lower body obscuring all three cushions. He was just a pile of flab with chins and moobs hanging onto a belly that hit the ground, helping to stabilise him to reach the feast in front of him with his sausage fingers. 

"Bon Apetit, my plump wolves!" Stiles appeared while conjuring more food on the table. "Time for the little turkeys to stuff themselves once again."

Stiles must have decided Peter was walking too slowly because the older wolf found himself dragged to the chair by his magic. "I know you don't want to eat anymore," Stiles said, almost gently, his hands patting Peter's shoulders, "but your bellies are telling you to keep stuffing it in. Afterall, Thanksgiving is around the corner. And what is Thanksgiving without its turkeys?" He chuckled. "Dig in!" 

They picked up their first cake and began stuffing their faces, bloating already taunt pile of flab growing under the careful eyes of the Spark.

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"Well done, boys!" The Spark greeted when he saw the two teenagers groaning on the couch, bellies distended. "Aren't you looking nice and plump after that nice meal?"

Using Mason and Liam's trust in him, Stiles had lured them with the promise of free food after lacrosse practice. That was weeks ago. Just a tiny hunger spell did the job. Although they were aware of what had happened to him, there had been no begging that had made the Spark move an iota. 

The human and the werewolf had been obliged to fill themself to bursting and witnessed their growing. Now wearing only tattered sports clothes, with flabby sides packed against each other, they were powerless in front of such an insatiable hunger. 
 
"Please let us go," Mason begged when Stiles appeared with a mountain of cupcakes, his voice muffled by the wide tire of flab around his neck, "you know we can't stop! We're gonna be too big to leave soon!" Plus, he was full, too full it hurt. At least the obese version of Liam had managed to move his king-size pillow arm and sausage fingers on Mason's billowing fleshy hip to drain some pain away.  

"That's exactly the plan, buddies!" Stiles exclaimed, the floating plate of cupcakes following him. "I'm gonna make sure you get your fill!" 

Liam opened his mouth to plead with Stiles, but a massive burp erupted, making the wooden table vibrate. The werewolf put his hands on the mountain of fat that was his gut, trying to soothe his straining stomach. Stiles smirked, and the cupcakes started flying into their mouth with a snap of his hand. They instinctively chewed while their stomachs begged for more. 

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Stiles had not used a single subterfuge to draw Scott into his net. There was no need. Scott simply adored his best friend and could not imagine Stiles could do something as nefarious. 

After all, Stiles invited his best friend to hang out and grab some food. Nothing to make Scott suspicious of anything. 

Bringing Scott to the table had not been hard. It was keeping him that had necessitated cunning ways. 

So Stiles played the perfect host, ensuring he was comfortable and providing him with incredible food. Scott even gently admonished Stiles for only giving P&J sandwiches and Doritos for years while he was apparently a great cook. 

"As long as you clean off your plate, buddy," Stiles laughed. With his enhanced appetite, Scott did not have to be told twice to finish his plates, even if he wondered when Stiles had the time to cook so much. Finally full, he could not fit anything else into his gut. He had lost track of time, but he earned a high-five from his best friend when he belched loudly and patted his bowed-out belly. 

Stiles gathered the empty dishes in front of Scott, and the dark-haired werewolf dragged himself up to help him. 

"Don't worry about anything like that now, buddy," Stiles interrupted him. "I've got a big dessert planned! The human announced, disappearing into the kitchen while Scott protested. 

"I have to get back home, man," he told his best friend, "Mom is finishing early today. I have to rest a bit before dinner."

Scott did not realise the lunch with his best friend had lasted more than a few hours. With a slight distortion of time Stiles had cast, Scott had been sat down at the table for two weeks.

After so many days of inactivity, the first stomp sent a thick wave of ripples from his bulbous calves to his fleshy torso. This was expected, given the two weeks of feasting had left Scott McCall with thick love handles on either side of his rounded torso and a large set of moobs that rested on top of the apex of his gut. He found himself resting on the table, catching his breath and wiping the sweat that had started to pearl on his hairline, his body exhausted by the effort. 
 
Intending to see his best friend, he desperately waved his flabby arms in circles to find balance, but a loud, earth-shaking thud signalled he had ended up on the floor.

"Oh, Scotty," Stiles tutted when finding the werewolf on the ground with his thick legs spread apart and his gut resting between them on the floor, "Let's get you more comfortable," he said instead of helping the man get up. 

Then Scott saw his best friend snapping his fingers, and to his utter bewilderment, sparks spread out around him. He felt comfier as if the floor had been padded with cushions and coffee tables materialised in front of him from whom plates of food arose. 

He looked at his best friend with dread as Stiles preyed on him viciously; now, Scott looked more like a boulder than a human with flabby arms that could barely wrap around the sheer mass of his torso while his thighs and buttcheeks had inflated to raise him off the floor making his bulk tower over Stiles. 

"Dig in, buddy," Stiles muttered suggestively, "There is everything you like, and even more..."

Scott heard a deep growl coming from his stomach as the idea of rich, succulent and fattening food danced in his mind making his mouth salivate and awakening his appetite more and more. Stiles and Scott knew the werewolf could not even try, but he rushed to the food in front of him. 

"Enjoy yourself, buddy. I don't want you to go hungry! Our dear Scott McCall deserves to be nice and well-fed!" He encouraged patting gently the chipmunk cheeks that bulged out the sides of his face and sagged toward the fat of his chins and moobs.

The interruption resulted in the longest and loudest burps of Scott McCall's life. "Awesome...buddy", Scott tried to articulate, catching his breath and hiccupping, "Can't...get...enough!" 

Stiles knew it would have been easy with Scott. 

Chapter Text

"Danny, Danny..." The familiar voice of his classmate had pulled him away from his book. After his little mischief, he was laying low. But who could suspect him? 

"You didn't think you were the only magical guy in town, did you?" Stiles continued, raising an eyebrow.

Danny looked flabbergasted at Stiles Stilinski. Clumsy, hyperactive Stiles emitted an aura of power and danger he had never suspected. 

"He does look shocked to meet a Spark, doesn't he?" 

Danny had read about Sparks. Powerful being travelling from human to human. Unbeatables. Danny gathered enough strength for a spell, standing very still, focusing his attention on Stiles's smirking face. A mind control spell would buy him some time to warn and collect the local werewolf Pack. Stiles groaned, holding his head, face contorted with pain, and then he cackled. 

"Oh, that's adorable!" He brightly smiled at the young witch. "But I'm a Spark. You're gonna have to do better than that, buddy." 

Danny threw his whole body behind the blast he had mustered. But, to his surprise, nothing had happened. 

"Your magic's no good here." Stiles simply said, bored. With a wave of his hand, the whole library dissolved, and he found himself in a loft Danny recognised as Derek's. Then he was lifted in the air with his wrist bound behind his back. Danny's body was forced to fly to the centre of the room with a contemptuous come-hither gesture from the other teenager. 

"Mind control, transmutation of the body, insatiable hunger spell: classics. A quick incantation plus a feeble psyche, and you're good to go, right?" He asked knowingly. "But all three at the same time? Well, that's something special, baby," he praised his prisoner. "And, I have to admit, I kinda enjoyed the results," he added, in a conspirational tone, winking at him. 

"Why don't we apply that to yourself, Danny boy?" He chuckled, making doughnuts appear out of thin air. Danny struggled against his restraints while Stiles crept closer, looking greedy. Hungry.

Danny did not know how much time had passed, but Stiles had fed him mercilessly, keeping his belly packed full. Each time he tried to escape, the Spark mocked him, shoving more cakes in his mouth as punishment. Even his attempts were vain as his arms wobbled and stained when he tried to get up, shaking an outer layer of flab that engulfed them.

"Silly boy, you're not going anywhere!" Stiles told him again after another failed attempt. "Measuring yourself to a Spark, tt."

Danny bit in the piece of cake to prevent Stiles from suffocating him with all this cream. "I'll fatten you until you're nice and plump like the others. Now be a good growing little witch and keep eating!" He ordered as he watched Danny accept his defeat as he gnawed down the latest piece of fattening cake. 

Chapter Text

"Welcome to Hell," a friendly voice greeted, as Stiles was panting, covered in dirt from head to toe. 

The throne room ceiling is high, just as he had expected. The palace was huge and visible from far, the main light source looming above the lands like a lampshade.

The voice sounded entirely unsurprised to see Stiles, not because of the commotion he had caused to come to this realm. He had been waiting for him.

Lucifer. King of Hell. The demon was not what he had thought to be. No horns, tail, fangs or wings. Instead, he looked like an ageless statue. Timeless even, as Stiles could swear he had seen this face on paintings. It had undoubtedly been him. The demon was old, ancient. "I hope you did not have too much trouble finding me," he continued, his mouth curving up into an almost smile. Stiules grimaced back.

"Well, what journey. Pretty exciting!" He got up from his throne, the dark green robes floating behind him. "Please, follow me," he gestured. If Stiles had the choice, he would have kindly reminded the man he had been taught not to follow strangers. But that luxury was not something Stiles could afford. 

"Not what you expected, right?" The devil asked arm in arm with his guest. The smile was beautiful, breathtaking even, but certainly full of malice. "I know you humans have a peculiar vision of Hell. Sure, we are morally bad if you want, but it doesn't mean we have to live in a desolate place." He gestured the corridor around him. The palace had an odd vibe, with different styles from Ottoman to neoclassical, and the atmosphere was filled with flower scents and a warm summer breeze. Not at all what Stiles had imagined when he had travelled to Hell. No dungeons, dark castle, fire and blood. 

"I came for..."

"I know why I came here for," the man cut him, "after all, I'm one of the all-knowing, right?" He laughed at the joke. Certainly, one of the beasts that tore down Beacon Hill came from Hell. Lucifer had been Stiles and the survivors' only option to defeat them. It was also the only way to save his friends, packmates, and father. Every spirit they had consulted had promised them they were in Hell and that only he could save them. Could bring them back to save his home and what the future held in store for them.

"So, can I take them back from here?" Stiles asked, hopeful. 

"Sure," Lucifer nodded. "Using their Sparks to fuel yours has great chances to work in your favour." In confidence, he goes closer to his ear. "That little rapscallion of Fate with my sisters Death and Destiny ganged me up to not kill your packmates." The faux annoyed look on his face would have made Stiles roll his eyes. "Something about a play you have in a future battle against powerful forces."

"Yes, they are alive, but..." There was always a but somewhere. Deaton had warned him about that.

"But?" He asked, trying to look impassible, emotionless and blank while being freaked out. 

"But, they have their own quests, per se," The devil explained without further detail. "You'll see," he cut down the conversation, continuing walking through his palace before stopping in front of a gold metal gate. 

"That brings me to another point. I will allow you to take back one of your choices. The others simply have to finish their quests before returning to Earth. Fair trade, right?" The smile he gave Stiles gave the human shivers. He had foolishly expected he could have taken all of them back with him. Choosing one was impossible. It would rip Stiles' heart to leave the others in this place, with someone who, despite politeness, was the king of all demons, left to their fate.  

"Oh! Here we are." The king announced, and with a flicker of his hand, the gate opened to a vaulted room separated mid-way with five french doors.

The first window was stained with a muddy colour liquid. It was moving like waves on the other side. Pressing his face to the glass, Stiles distinguished two forms inside, in the middle of the dark pool. His vision got clearer when the room enlightened. The two forms were pushing against each other while gulping mouthfuls of mud. 

"It's chocolate pudding," the devil commented. "Your friends Scott and Jackson have to team up to prevent the room from filling completely. I understand there was some rivalry between the two. 

He could not recognise his best friend and Jackson. Swollen as they were, he could not have. They were both on different sides of the room. Jackson had his end under one of the channels that leaked the pudding, twisting his fattened face as much as he could to drink it. It seemed difficult for the former kanima as his torso, inflated with so much sugar, pushed him away from the wall despite pressing all the newly acquired flab. 

Scott was panting heavily on the floor, the pudding immersing half of the boulder of a belly he had developed. He looked exhausted and sick from so many puddings. Still, Stiles could see his tongue poking around to catch the dash of liquid pouring down to his head and chipmunk cheeks. 

Stiles tried to open the door. Then when he realised it was locked, he tried to break one of the panes. 

"They can't hear nor see you," his host informed, "come see the others."

The following window showed him Peter Hale in a parody of Homer Simpson in Hell. Bound to a chair, a machine pushed doughnuts into his mouth, between cheeks rising in his field of vision while the distended belly Peter had grown was barely touching a pressure plate in front of him. Unlike Homer, Peter did not seem to enjoy it. Stiles wondered if the older werewolf had tried some trickery to get out of there, but in the end, the determined look on his fattened face told Stiles it either failed or that stuffing himself was the only solution. Peter was not someone he particularly liked and would not be the one Stiles would choose first, but Stiles only felt sympathy for him, despite all. 

The next room was only furnished with a giant-sized Roberval balance. It was not balanced, as one of the weighting platforms was higher. It carried a square-shaped block of lead, while the other had one of Stiles' Packmates. Stiles could only recognise Isaac's golden curls. Laying on a vast mattress that was his stomach, he gulped down sirup coming from a tube. Stiles understood Isaac had to lift the lead block to its maximum to free himself while most of the former lacrosse player's body, now piles of pliant blubber, hung over the platform. Still, Isaac was not heavy enough to free himself and painstakingly managed to grab the tube to pour it into his mouth. Stiles could not imagine how immobile the blonde would be when he completed his "quest".  

Stiles gasped when he looked through the fourth window, frantically trying to open it, while the devil sighed at his antics. 

In the room was his father. The man he had always dreaded losing after his mother's death. His only parent left. He was trapped with Parrish, and both officers frantically tried to find something through the mountains of candy corn and other candies. 

"They have to find the key to open the door," his host piped, "but it is hidden inside one candy."

The look of determination and, if Stiles could say, madness painted on his father's face as he was gobbing handfuls of candies quick enough to disrupt Stiles' stomach scared the teenager. A fattened, starved rogue animal who only had to eat to survive. That was the thought that passed through his mind. By the state of his father and deputy, Stiles could only imagine they had eaten at least thousands of sweets, as their swollen bodies had tattered their uniforms. They gorged with such vigour, sticking the candies so far in their throats that it looked impossible for them to really spot the key. The human had no doubts there was a key somewhere, but he doubted the police officers would find it soon. 

It was the hand of Lucifer that tore his glaze off of the window, leaving an indelible memory inside his mind. His poor father, whom Stiles had tried as much as he could to preserve from the supernatural world and was pestered by his son to eat healthily, was too far gone. If he could make it out, Stiles would dedicate his time to making up for it and hiding candies. 

He was still far from the window but could hear loud thuds making the window frame vibrate. Derek was in there. On a treadmill while chained to the opposite wall. Oh, and a hose pipe strapped to his face. 

Derek's legs were the cause of the noise. Stiles did not try to guess the weight of the Alpha, but Derek was larger than tall, and he assumed if the treadmill were not magically enhanced to support his weight, the machine would have scrambled. Stiles froze at the sight of so many rolls shaking and undulating at any movement the werewolf managed to make. Restricted by the chains around his waist, at least Stiles guessed it was where the metal held Derek because of the humongous muffin top it created, Derek tried to reach the big, red, Stop button. 

"He has to get rid of his chains," the demon commented. "He tries to resist too much." The meaning of it was both for his physical chains and mental ones. He had to break both. If the werewolf could stop being so stubborn, he would have broken his chains by now, but the exercise he imposed made the process much slower. 

"So, ready to make your choice?" Lucifer smiled, happy like a kid showing off his new toys. 

"Oh, well, silly me," he continued without letting Stiles answer. "You have your own quest to complete before that."

And with a flick of his hand, Stiles found himself with his head trapped in a box, two tubes inserted through the top of the cube, connected to two tanks. He tried to hit the glass, but the cube began to fill with milkshake. He sputtered when a sip of the sugary liquid made its way into his mouth, and his brain froze at the cold mixture. In a matter of seconds, it rose just under his nose. 

"A little word of advice," Lucifer said, about to close the door, "I would not move too much if I were you."

And then, he left Stiles. So the tubes opened when he moved. So being still would allow him to empty the cube. He just had to drink it—nothing too hard, while trying to find a way to escape.  

Chapter Text

Winter 2022

Sheriff Stilinski took a step back, hands up at the sight of his son scowling at him, a spatula raised in his direction. 

"Yes, son," the Sheriff calmly stated, as if bargaining with a terrorist," I will not touch any of the cookies you baked for Santa."

This was ridiculous! All that circus for cookies. Santa cookies. Did the man even exist? It was not an answer the Sheriff wanted to solve. After all, werewolves, kanimas, banshees, and many other mystical creatures he thought belonged to fairytales and child books had been walking on Earth. So, why not Santa Claus? 

Warned, the Sheriff returned to his occupation, not giving the cookies another glance. But, unlike him, Derek, Scott and Isaac had missed Stiles' warning, roaming through the house overwhelmed by the smell of sugary baked goods. 

"These really are fresh," Isaac mused in admiration as he scrutinised one of the tasty-looking chocolate chip treats. 

"Oh man, these are really good!" Scott said, spraying a few crumbs out of his mouth. 

Derek frowned at the younger werewolf's lack of manners but had already taken a great piece out of his own cookie. He hummed at how soft and chewy it was in his mouth as if it had only just come out of the oven. Before he knew it, the Alpha had reduced the cookie to a few meagre crumbs.

"Who baked that?" he asked, looking at his packmates.

Isaac's reply came in the form of a cookie-muffled grunt, and Scott simply ignored him and was already moving on to his second cookie. Derek grunted and decided to go to bed, taking one or two cookies to save them for the following morning. But despite his own will, his hand was already putting the Christmas cookie into in mouth. 

Spring 2023

Stiles could only stay a couple of days after New Year's Eve before returning to Quantico. At least he had spent quality time with his Pack and father. 

With all the work he had been given at the Academy, he had to settle for phone and video calls with his loved ones. Mostly his father, actually. Because Scott was never answering him. Just a couple of texts and a month's call. 

In April, he insisted on having a phone call with his best friend. After all, he had realised he had yet to exchange a single text with him in two months. They had to change that. 

When they managed to Facetime, he almost choked when he saw his best friend sporting a beard. It was as dense and dark as Derek's and so weird on the face of the boy he had known for two decades to be as beardless as a newborn. Once the shock had passed, the two friends talked about nothing and everything. As if nothing had changed. But something bugged Stiles. Though the fuzz on his face hid Scott's jawline, the angle and the light on Scott's side made it look softer. His cheeks seemed fleshier, and even his lips, bordered by dark hairs, looked fuller and plumper. He shooked the idea off, the novelty of his look making Stiles imagine things. 

However, if Stiles could have seen what happened after the video call, he would not blame that on the new beard and the lightning. 

He would have seen Scott plopping down on the couch, admiring himself. He would have seen Scott's once flat stomach replaced by a rounded belly, sitting on his lap, and his fit legs heftier.

He would have also seen a bearded Isaac next to his best friend, with his chest covered in a very thin layer of fat that sagged and jiggled like his newly formed belly.

He would have also seen Derek entering the room with bags full of cookie boxes and gallons of milk, definitely rounder and fuller than he had ever been. 

His powerful thighs had gotten wider, rubbing against each other, while the Henley displayed his belly button and struggled to cover his bloated ball-shaped gut. 

Finally, Stiles would have seen the three werewolves laughing and toasting with their gallons, all fascinated with their new looks. 

Summer 2023

Summer for Stiles was uneventful. Supernaturally uneventful. But academically, it was packed. Stiles found himself stuck in Virginia between classes, tests and an internship. He was proud of landing such a great internship, and his father had been ecstatic about the opportunity. Even his packmates gave him a thumb up when he announced the news, while it meant Stiles could only afford the time to travel back home the following Christmas. 

Still, he managed to talk regularly to Lydia instead of Scott. The other man went m.i.a. She also had a good load of work on her side, but the two had managed to find time to talk and debate on subjects only they in the Pack could discuss and comprehend. However, she let him know what happened with the Pack, courtesy of Parrish. That was how he heard about Derek getting more involved with the city, renovating buildings, helping with shelters and doing social work. Surprising, yes, as Derek had only shown Stiles a grumpy face and anger toward a town that had forgotten what it owed to the Hales. 

The morsel of information about life in Beacon Hill became increasingly annoying, especially when one best friend only gave him half-assed excuses. 

He complained about his father, who unashamedly dodged the issue by asking him about cookies he had baked the past Christmas. 

Autumn 2023

Autumn had been like summer for Stiles: far from his family and Pack and overloaded with work. 

Just like summer, Autumn came with its load of surprises, the first being Stiles's unable to make it home before December. The second, perhaps most important, was learning from his father that Scott had quit vet school. 

That information alone left the hyperactive young man speechless. Scott had sworn to become a vet and work with animals for years. And now he was quitting? As a brilliant future FBI agent, Stiles had to inquire. 

While using every means, legal and a tiny bit less legal, at his disposal, Stiles found a copy of Scott's resignation. The word used in it did not make sense as Scott apparently desired to spread happiness and peace worldwide. Did he want to enrol in NGOs? 

He also found, courtesy of Beacon Hill Gazette, that Scott, Isaac and Derek opened a gift crafting shop in a former disused part of the town. 

He managed, in the end, to contact Scott by phoning the shop. The only explanations the other man gave Stiles were the same in the letter he had written to the university. Stiles having no filter and Scott being utterly patient with him, Stiles tried to pry about all the changes. But nothing concrete came out from the deeper-sounding voice his best friend had now. Maybe he had been sick with a supernatural virus?

He almost choked when he heard Derek greeting him, sounding jolly. 

Stiles promised himself he would solve all that as soon as he arrived in Beacon Hill. 

Winter 2023

Stiles almost crashed when he drove into town on the 24th of December. 

"What the heck?" He swore when he realised he was not in Beacon Hill but Christmas Town. He had never seen so much decoration like giant sugarcanes, snowmen and fairy lights. 

There was even a 'Meet Santa' stand overcrowded with children and three large Santas distributing presents. 

Overwhelmed by so much Christmas inanity, Stiles rushed home. He shared a small dinner with his father before the man took his shift. After all, the big party was the next day at Derek's loft. 

Stiles woke up on the 25th but not because of natural causes or alarms. It was the commotion downstairs that woke him up. 
He went on red alert because he was supposed to be alone. His father was supposed to be back at 6 am. It was 1.30. 

He hopped out of bed, wearing only his boxers and crept out of his room to investigate with his metal baseball bat, his faithful ally when hunting supernatural villains. 

Only enlighted by the artificial Christmas tree, Stiles noticed wrapped presents under it. He frowned because he and his father were not into exchanging gifts since they had lost Claudia. 

Stiles stiffened when he heard the noise in the kitchen, and holding his bat high; he tiptoed towards the room. He spotted the intruder standing in front of his open refrigerator drinking milk straight from the jug. 

In the dim light, Stiles saw a broad, hefty man wrapped in red pants, black boots and a tight green button-down shirt. 

He looked young, with a thick golden beard and curly hair hanging freely to his shoulders. 

An intruder dressed as Santa? Not someone from the town, because trying to rob the Sheriff's house? Amateur. 
Also, breaking into someone's house to drink milk? Weird. 

He flicked on the light, only to see the large intruder jump in surprise. 

"Who are you, and what are you..." he did not finish his sentence when he really caught sight of the intruder. He was young and outright fat. Maybe twice Stiles' weight and his height made the Santa towering him. He even looked ready to burst out of his clothes as his plush chest was outlined by a shirt that could not entirely cover the large gut he was sporting, letting a few inches of soft belly fat exposed. 

Still, the man looked familiar. The golden curly hair, the blue eyes. But when the intruder said his surname, preceded by a series of 'Ho, ho, ho', Stiles realised who it was. 

"Lahey?" He asked, but the Santa was fleeing the scene at an inhuman speed. 

Stiles rushed to lock the door, which the intruder (Isaac?) used. Checking the other ones, he returned to his room and ensured the window was closed. In the silence of his home, he then tried to phone his pack mates. Scott and Derek went to voicemail. Only Lydia answered, voice thick with fatigue. 

"We will talk about that during the day," she decided when Stiles finished retelling the night's events, "go back to sleep, Stiles. Afterall you drove back here, and with your internship, maybe you..."

"I did not imagine this, Lydia!" How dare she imply Stiles hallucinated. he knew hallucinating was, and he was sure someone was in his house and that this someone was Isaac Lahey. Sure maybe 200 pounds heavier and bearded. 

"I did not say that," she sighed, "but now is not the right moment to play detectives, Stiles. We will do that tomorrow."

Stiles did not sleep well after his little adventure. As soon as the sun got up, he jumped out of his bed, showered and drove to Derek's loft, impatient to have answers.

He was about to open the loft door when Derek beat him on the other side. 

"Der..." Stiles gasped at the sight of an intimating pear-shaped form Derek Hale had become. 

"Oh, good, you're here, Stiles. A true Christmas present," Derek Hale boomed, with a full-bodied, warm voice that matched his enlarged form. His wide cheeks bulged out due to his bright smile, while his full wavy dark beard hid them. 

Speechless, Stiles could only follow the Alpha, whose weight made the floorboard groan painfully, and Stiles was sure, given Derek's size, Isaac's and certainly Scott's, some of which even cracked. 

Speaking of Scott, he was asleep, using Isaac's as a pillow. His night visitor was also sleeping on the couch, taking up a large part of it, and did not seem to care about the snoring dark-haired man weighing down heavily on him. Stiles realised now it had not been a trick of light during his last video call with him back in spring. Stiles would bet his best friend could barely move his head at that point. The blubber on his shoulders and on hairy chins had formed a large, tire-shaped pillow of lard that engulfed the back of his head.

The state of the fatness of the three werewolves, the letter Scott sent to his university, Isaac in his house and his father asking about the cookies. 

"You!" He accused, "The cookies for Santa! You ate them!"

Derek laughed heartily, ignoring the scandalised look of Stiles. 

"it was for him! To keep his Christmas spirit up!"

Derek plopped down on a love seat which managed not to break under his weight. Sitting must have been a relief for the werewolf's feet but also for his stomach, which popped open the shirt he was wearing, freeing itself and swelling inches outward. Derek sighed indeed in relief. 

"So you turned into Santa?"  Derek nodded, "And you did the Christmas Tour last night? Eating cookies and drinking milk in every house in Beacon Hill?" Again, Derek nodded. 

Stiles could not help but poke and smack Derek's belly to ensure it was a real deal. A year ago, Derek would have snapped at him for doing that, ripping Stiles' throat with his teeth, etcetera. But Santa Derek just smiled, falling asleep after a long night of work. 

Chapter Text

The full moon cast an eerie glow on the dark forest as Derek Hale stepped into the witch's lair. Bubbling cauldrons oozed a thick, sickly, sweet-smelling potion that made Derek's nose crinkle in disgust.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the big bad wolf," cackled the head witch, her claw-like fingernails tapping against the side of her cauldron.

Derek flexed his claws, ready to strike. "Leave my territory," he growled.

The witches erupted in raucous laughter, their shrill voices echoing through the trees. Derek lunged forward, swiping his claws at the nearest witch. She shrieked and barely dodged his attack.

"Oh, we've got a feisty one here, sisters!" the head witch exclaimed. "I think he needs to be taught some manners."

She raised her hands, her palms glowing an ominous purple. Derek's eyes widened as a blast of energy slammed into his chest, knocking him off his feet. He landed with a heavy thud just inches from one of the bubbling cauldrons.

"Now, now, don't damage the goods," another witch chided. "We want him nice and plump for the feast!"

Derek scrambled back, his heels digging into the dirt as the witches closed in. 

"Stay back!" Derek yelled, slashing at the air with his claws.

The head witch cackled, the sound grating against Derek's ears. "Oh, don't worry, we won't hurt you...much."

She flicked her wrist, and an invisible force yanked Derek to his feet. He thrashed against it but couldn't break free. The witches' laughter rose to a fever pitch as they paraded around him, pinching and prodding at his muscles.

"Mmm, so lean and muscular," one purred, raking her nails down Derek's chest.

He snarled, snapping his teeth. "Let me go, or I'll rip you all to shreds...with my teeth!"

The head witch leaned in close, her rancid breath hot against Derek's face. "Big talk from such a little wolf. But not for long."

She thrust her palms out, and a blast of energy catapulted Derek backwards. He yelped as he flew through the air, arms flailing helplessly. With a heavy splash, he landed in one of the bubbling cauldrons.

The liquid was thick and sweet, almost like syrup. It clung to Derek's skin and clothes as he struggled to pull himself up. But something was wrong. A strange tingling sensation was spreading through his body. He could feel the potion seeping into his pores. Derek's skin felt like it was on fire as the tingling intensified. He gasped, clutching at his chest as an uncomfortable pressure built within him. His clothes grew tighter across his body, the fabric straining.

"No, no, no!" Derek grunted in dismay. "What did you do to me?!" Derek shouted. But the witches only cackled in response.

Before his eyes, his limbs began to expand, bulging outwards. His biceps swelled against the constraints of his jacket, the seams splitting as his arms grew thicker. His pecs ballooned outward, buttons popping from his Henley.

His stomach ballooned into a full, round gut, swaying heavily over the waist of his pants. He grabbed at the cauldron edges, struggling to pull himself up, but his swollen limbs were too heavy now. Derek's horror mounted as his butt plumped up, becoming two massive mounds of flesh spilling over the cauldron's sides.

"Look at the big piggy wolf!" one witch cackled.

Derek thrashed in humiliation and rage. But he was well and truly stuck now, his obese body wedged tight in the cauldron.

"You'll pay for this!" Derek's cheeks puffed as his face grew chubby, and his jawline disappeared under a second chin that wobbled as he yelled.

But the witches only laughed harder, gathering around to prod and pinch at Derek's doughy new form.

"Oink, oink!" one witch teased, flicking Derek's newly sprouted pig ears.

He tried to swat her away, but his arms barely lifted off his bulging sides. 

"Look at his cute little tail!" Another witch said in delight, giving it a sharp tug.

Derek squealed involuntarily, his face burning in humiliation. He thrashed his legs, but his thighs rubbed together, swollen and dimpled with cellulite.

"Let's give this piggy more slop!"

The witches cackled and added more ingredients to the cauldron. Derek felt his stomach gurgle hungrily in response. To his dismay, he found himself salivating at the thought of food. He tried to resist the urge to gorge, but his new pig-nose twitched, inhaling the tempting aromas eagerly. The witches smirked in satisfaction, watching their plump prize finally giving in to his new porcine nature.

He tried to scream through his slop-packed cheeks but could only manage a muffled squeal while his gluttonous hunger overwhelmed his willpower.

Derek's stomach ballooned outward as he gorged himself from the enchanted cauldron. He was so focused on stuffing his face that he didn't notice the witches gathering around the rim of the giant pot, licking their lips hungrily at the sight of his expanding form.

---

"Mmm, he's getting nice and plump now," one witch said, poking Derek's bulging side flab.

"So juicy and tender," another added, pinching a roll of his thickening neck fat.

Desperately, he attempted to hoist his huge, heavy body out of the cauldron. But the results were comical, his legs feebly bicycling in the air as his swollen, spherical belly and oversized ass wedged him tightly in place.

The witches cackled with delight at his struggles. "Going somewhere, piggy?" they taunted.

Derek grunted and strained, but escape was impossible. All he could do was whimper as the witches licked their lips, savouring his panicked oinks and squeals as they decided who would take the first bite.

"Mmmm, just look at these fleshy arms!" one crowed, squeezing his chunky thighs.

"I call dibs on his scrumptious rump!" another shouted, kneading his expansive ass cheeks.

Derek tried to protest but could only manage a series of panicked snorts and squeals. The witches cackled with delight, amused by his useless struggles.

"Don't worry, piggy, we're going to savour every inch of you," one purred, running her hands along Derek's multiple chins.

He squealed in terror as she pried open his mouth, pulling an apple between his lips. "Mmmm, I can't wait to taste this juicy ham!" she said.

Chapter Text

The door to the Hale family vault creaked open, and Stiles, Scott, and their packmates stepped inside, their eyes widening as they took in the dusty, dimly lit chamber, ancient artefacts lining the walls like whispers from the past.

"Whoa," Stiles breathed, his gaze darting about as he marvelled at the relics before him. "It's like we just walked into the freaking Batcave, but, you know, werewolf style." He nudged Scott, who offered a grin.

"Kinda cool, huh?" Scott replied, his eyes twinkling with excitement. 

"Derek really came through for us."

"Totally," Stiles agreed, grinning. "I can't believe dude actually let us in here. This stuff is like...hella old, man."

"Don't touch anything," the older werewolf growled, his eyes squinching at the spazzy human who tried to give him doe eyes of innocence. 

"Of course, Souwolf," Stiles put his hands up in mock defence, but the corner of his lips was still twitching in a way that meant he was holding back a laugh. 

As the group wandered deeper into the vault, exploring the treasures of the Hale family, Stiles couldn't help but feel drawn to a particular object, as if it were calling out to him. A glimmering, ornate ring sat on a pedestal, nestled among other treasures. The metal shimmered ever so slightly, catching the scant light filtering into the chamber.

"Guys, check this out!" Stiles exclaimed, his voice hushed in fascination. He approached the pedestal, his heart pounding with curiosity. There was something almost magnetic about the ring, pulling him closer, urging him to take it.

"Stiles, be careful," Lydia warned. "We don't know what that thing is."

"Relax, Lyds," Stiles reassured her, still unable to tear his gaze away from the captivating piece of jewellery. "It's just a ring. What's the worst that could happen?"

"Maybe you'll turn into a pumpkin at midnight," Malia quipped, rolling her eyes. "Or, you know, something equally ridiculous."

"Ha-ha," Stiles retorted sarcastically, yet his hand inched closer to the ring as if it had a mind of its own. An odd mixture of excitement and trepidation coursed through him, but he couldn't resist the allure of the mysterious trinket, even with the potential dangers that might come along.

"Stiles, seriously, don't—" Scott began, but Stiles was already entranced by the glimmering object before him, unable to hear his best friend's warnings.

"Aw, c'mon, Scotty," Stiles replied, shooting his best friend a cheeky grin. "Where's your sense of adventure? Live a little!"

"Living is overrated when you're cursed," Lydia chimed in with a note of dry humour.

"Hey, just because it's shiny doesn't mean it wants to hurt me," Stiles argued, his eyes locked on the glimmering ring. It was as if it whispered sweet nothings into his mind, luring him closer, daring him to touch it. And boy, did he want to.

"Ugh, fine," Stiles groaned when he heard Derek growling, rolling his eyes but not taking them off the ring. He hesitated for a moment, mulling over the potential consequences. "Alright, alright!" Stiles finally conceded, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I won't touch the pretty, shiny... Oh, screw it."

With a half-defiant, half-excited smirk, Stiles reached out and snatched the ring off its pedestal, ignoring the collective gasp from his friends. He examined it for a moment, revelling in the intricate engravings and the way the metal seemed to dance with light. Then, before anyone could stop him, he slipped the ring onto his finger.

--
The moment the ring settled onto Stiles' finger, a strange, electrifying sensation surged through his body. His eyes widened as he felt every nerve ending light up like fireworks, and an involuntary moan escaped his lips.
"Stiles?" Scott's voice was tense, alarmed by his friend's reaction. "Are you okay?"
"Uh, I dunno," Stiles stammered, caught off-guard by the sensations flooding his system. "Feels kinda... weird."

With a groan, he forced the ring down to the base of his finger, where it squeezed tightly. Warmth flooded him, a rush of hunger and greed and something darker. He felt powerful. 

He moaned again, the feelings stronger with his pleasure. Then, Stiles' body began to expand rapidly. His body rippled outward, clothes shredding under the onslaught of fat, replacing his lean body. Rolls pilled atop rolls, consuming him in a sea of flab. 

"Wh-what's happening to me?" Stiles gasped, breaths coming in wheezes as he lay on the floor, utterly helpless under his immense size. 

"Uh, dude..." Scott stuttered, at a loss for words. The rest of the pack stood frozen, unable to comprehend what they witnessed.

"Is this normal?" Stiles asked incredulously, trying to adjust his new bulk. He attempted to cross his lard-laden arms over his enormous belly, but it proved too large, and he ended up resting them on top instead.

"Normal?!" Lydia scoffed, her voice a high-pitched squeak. "You're the size of a small whale! How is that normal?"

"Hey, watch it!" Stiles huffed indignantly, his jiggling mass quivering with each breath. "I've got feelings, y'know!"

"Okay, everyone, just calm down," Derek interjected, casting a dark but worried glare at the humongous teenager. "We need to figure out what's going on and how to fix it." he declared, attempting to take control of the situation. 

"Fix it?" Stiles mused, his mind racing before the warmth of the ring gave place to a stinging cold in his brain. What to fix, he wondered while watching in fascination as his memories shifted, showing him he'd always been massively obese. In his mind, images of childhood days spent gorging on sweets and fast food danced alongside memories of adult indulgences, all intertwined with laughter and the warmth of friends and family. There was nothing to fix. 

He realised he had said that out loud when he heard his best friend answer. "You're right," Scott's eyes glazed over Stiles' sheer size, "You've always loved to indulge."

Like Scott, his packmate's faces lit up with smiles and excitement. They carried bags laden with all sorts of delicious treats, no doubt ready to cater to his every need.

"Hey there, big guy!" Lydia greeted with a teasing lilt as she approached, engulfing herself between his arm and overflowing moob with a tray of Stiles' favourite snacks. "Got room for more?"
"Always!" Stiles proclaimed with a hearty laugh, eagerly accepting the offering. 

Derek appeared at his side, casually caressing the massive jowl Stiles' had grown. "You know we'll always take care of you, right?" he murmured, glancing warmly in Stiles' direction.

Stiles pulled the werewolf into the folds of his flesh, moaning at the warmth of his friend's body. "Now, be a good wolfie and get me some pizza. I'm starving."
He nodded, utterly devoted. "Whatever you need."

"So good," he mumbled, Derek already placing another piece of pizza into Stiles' mouth while Scott settled against Stiles' side, hands roaming soft skin and curves. "You need to eat. Keep growing big and strong."

Stiles snorted, leaning heavily into Scott's touches. As if he needed encouragement. He devoured another slice, then another, hunger building with every bite.

The ring kept pulsing, flooding him with warmth and greed. Stiles whimpered, toes curling at the rush of pleasure. His belly surged outward, swelling under Scott's hands.

"Look at you," Lydia breathed awe in her voice. "So huge. So powerful."

Stiles shuddered, desire and magic twisting together and arched into the sensation of his friends' hands on his flesh.

More," he rumbled, the single word commanding his packmates into redoubling their efforts to cram more food into his maw faster than he could swallow. All that mattered was more--more food, more size, more of Scott's devotion. He moaned, the ring's power surging through him in a rush of heat and hunger.

Bigger, he thought. Bigger. Always bigger.
Stiles sank into the bliss of excess, the ring twisting him into something new. Something ravenous.
Something unstoppable.

Chapter Text

Derek had been wandering aimlessly in the Preserve for hours, trying to clear his head after another argument with Scott and his misfit gang of teenagers.

"Stupid True Alpha..." he muttered, shoving a low-hanging branch out of his way.

The trees suddenly parted, revealing a small clearing. Derek halted, eyes widening. Half-hidden in the tangle of roots sat an ancient stone shrine covered in moss and vines.

Despite knowing fairly well the vast stretch of the Preserve, he had never discovered this place. A tingle of excitement ran down his spine. He crept closer, nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air. The scent of incense and ash hung heavy, but underneath was something else. Something that called to his wolf like a siren song.

Derek reached out a cautious hand, fingers brushing the mossy entrance surface. Power thrummed under his touch, making his arm's hair stand up.

This was no ordinary abandoned shrine. Hidden for who knows how long, and radiating an energy Derek had never felt before. His inner wolf whined eagerly, drawn to the tantalising aura of this secret, ancient place.

Inside was pitch black, the sunlight blocked by the close-knit trees surrounding the structure.

As his eyes adjusted, Derek made out a hulking silhouette at the back of the shrine. He tensed, claws extending as he prepared to face some unknown enemy.

A spark ignited in the darkness, casting flickering shadows over the walls. Derek blinked in surprise as the silhouette was illuminated - it was him. Or rather, an obese, grotesquely large version of himself lounging lazily on a golden throne.

The wolf's glowing eyes tracked Derek's stunned face, an amused rumble echoing from its cavernous belly. The wolf's lips peeled back in a wicked grin. "Well, well. Look who decided to pay me a visit." Its guttural voice was like an echo from a deep cavern. It heaved its massive bulk with a grunt, the throne creaking under its girth.

---

Every instinct screamed at Derek to run, but his feet seemed rooted to the spot.

The wolf's heavy footsteps shook the ground as it approached. Derek's claws remained extended; his muscles coiled tight even as his mind reeled. He had never seen anything like this creature.

It towered over him. Rolls of fat jiggled with each lumbering step, its swollen gut nearly brushing the floor. The wolf reached out a meaty paw and trailed a claw down Derek's chest, a rumble of amusement vibrating through its flesh.

"So tense...you need to learn to indulge yourself." Its hot, damp-breath washed over Derek's face.

Before Derek could react, the wolf grasped his hips, blunt claws digging into his backside. A jolt like electricity shot through him at the contact, and he gasped, knees nearly buckling.

The energy coursed through his veins, setting every nerve alight. Derek's body began to tingle, a strange pressure building within. 

"What...what's happening to me?" Derek panted, a mix of shock and exhilaration swirling through him. He grunted as his pecs expanded, buttons popping from his shirt as his torso blew up like an over-inflated balloon. His abs vanished under a growing paunch that spilt over his waistband.

The wolf leered as Derek rapidly outgrew his clothes. "Giving in to your desires isn't so bad, is it?" It chuckled a deep rumble that shook its obese frame.

He looked down at himself in disbelief, hands sinking into the swollen slabs of flesh that were once his sculpted abs. He gasped, breaths growing and laboured under the increasing bulk. Derek's shirt was nothing but tatters now; his sweatpants stretched obscenely around tree trunk thighs.

He lifted a thick arm, watching it jiggle and noticing how much effort that small action now took. Everything felt heavy, his steps slow and laboured as if he were wading through mud.

Despite the shock, a tiny part of Derek thrilled at the raw power in his new physique. He felt invincible like he could crush anything in his path. Still, he struggled to manoeuvre his immense bulk, thighs rubbing together and belly sagging heavily over his tented pants.

"Look at you...so big and strong now." The demon-Derek smirked, clearly enjoying his dismay. It reached out to pat Derek's wobbling gut. "Don't fight it. Just give in to your hunger. Indulge to your heart's content."

Derek grunted, the touch sending another spike of ravenous hunger through him. As his stomach rumbled loudly, part of him realised the creature was right. When had he ever let himself indulge before? 

---

Derek lumbered out of the shrine, his immense bulk blocking the narrow entryway momentarily before he managed to squeeze through. The fresh air hit him, and along with it came the mouthwatering scents of food - burgers sizzling on grills, fries frying in hot oil, cakes and pies cooling on windowsills.

His stomach growled ferociously, the hunger almost unbearable now. He looked around, spotting the scent of a busy food truck miles away.

When Derek reached the food trucks, he was ravenous, saliva pooling in his mouth. The vendors froze at the sight of the grotesquely obese man, shocked. Derek ignored them, grabbing an armful of burritos and shoving them into his mouth. He tore through cartons of fries and tacos, devouring hot dogs and milkshakes in seconds. The food was incredible, but Derek could not get full.

His hunger only seemed to grow with each bite, and he knocked the food truck over when he realised it was food-empty. The vendors backed away in fear and dismay.

"More..." Derek grunted, licking his fingers clean before spotting a grocery store ahead. 

He shoved the doors open, the glass cracking under his weight. Derek rushed through the aisles, grabbing everything in sight - chips, candy, cupcakes, cheese. He feasted right there, sending debris flying as he tore through each item. His obese body only grew larger with each binge, but his appetite was bottomless.

When Derek emerged, the store was destroyed - shelves emptied, walls dented by his massive bulk. He let out a monstrous belch, patting his enormous, taut belly. Nothing could satisfy his hunger now. He had to have it all.

Chapter Text

Derek dug his claws into the moist chocolate cake, shoving a huge bite into his mouth. The sweet, rich frosting melted on his tongue as he chewed with abandon, barely tasting it before swallowing and shovelling in more.

"Whoa, slow down, Sourwolf," Stiles joked. "Save some for the rest of us."

Derek growled, hunching over the cake protectively. Stiles just laughed and swiped some frosting with his finger. As soon as it hit his taste buds, his eyes glazed over.
"Oh man...this is...I need..." Stiles reached for the cake, but Derek snarled, the sound muffled by mouthfuls of cake.

Scott watched warily. Something was off. As Derek crammed more into his bulging cheeks, the buttons on his shirt strained against his growing belly. Scott backed away slowly, unsure what was happening but knowing he wanted no part of that cake.

"Give me that!" Stiles shouted, lunging for the cake. Stiles tackled Derek, knocking the half-eaten cake to the floor. Derek howled in protest, clawing at Stiles, but the skinny human easily overpowered the bulky werewolf.

"Out of my way!" Stiles growled, shoving Derek hard. The Alpha went flying, crashing into the wall and landing in a daze.

Before Scott could react, Stiles was on him, grasping his jaws in an iron grip and forcing them open. Thick, fudgey chocolate poured from Stiles' hands, flooding Scott's mouth. He choked and tried to spit it out, but Stiles clamped his mouth shut, rubbing his throat to force him to swallow.

"Yeah, take it all in," Stiles purred. Scott's hips and ass swelled against the constraints of his jeans. They creaked loudly before the button popped off and the zipper split open. His round, jiggling cheeks spilt out indecently.

"S-stop," Scott gasped, but Stiles just cackled and kept pouring. Scott's thighs thickened, straining the ripped denim. His t-shirt rode up over his inflating belly.
"Stiles, please!" Scott begged. But his friend was gone, consumed by dark magic.

With a roar, Derek launched himself at Stiles, knocking him away from Scott. They tumbled across the floor, a tangle of flailing limbs.

"You want more?" Stiles hissed, grabbing Derek's jaw with preternatural strength. "I'll give you more!"

Thick chocolate poured down Derek's throat. His stomach gurgled and swelled under his shirt, the buttons straining. He felt his ass growing heavier, the seat of his jeans getting tight.
Scott took the chance to scramble away on all fours, his swollen gut and enlarged backside making it challenging to stand. He glanced back to see Stiles still feeding a helpless Derek, whose round ass was now busting out of his jeans.

Derek moaned, aroused by the forced gluttony even as alarm bells rang in his mind. But the chocolate overpowered his senses, and soon, he was a mindless eating machine devouring all Stiles gave him.

Scott escaped the room, weighed down by pounds of new fat. He had to get help before Stiles fattened them all into immobility. Behind him, Derek's ecstatic moans echoed alongside the sounds of greedy consumption.

Scott stumbled through the halls, the extra weight of his enlarged belly and swollen backside throwing off his balance. He managed to find Isaac, who was coming back from patrol. "Isaac! We need to stop Stiles. He's gone crazy!"

Isaac took in Scott's changed appearance with surprise. "What the hell happened to you?"

"No time to explain," Scott panted. "Come!"

They hurried back to the room, Scott struggling to keep up. Isaac kicked the door in, and they charged at Stiles, yanking him away from the Alpha.

"No! My precious!" Stiles cried.

Scott pinned his arms while Isaac knocked him out cold. With Stiles contained, they turned to Derek.

The Alpha werewolf was enormous, his ripped clothes barely covering the bulging fat of his swollen gut and gigantic ass. He lay in a stupor as the flow of chocolate had stopped, moaning softly.

"Oh man," Scott said. "How are we gonna move him?"

Even with their werewolf strength, Derek's sheer size made him almost impossible to lift.

"We've got to get you both help," Isaac said, eyeing Scott's enlarged body.

Scott nodded, feeling uncertain. He really hoped Deaton had a solution, but a ravenous hunger still gnawed inside him, and he suspected the same cravings tortured Derek.

Once they reached the parking lot, Derek let out a sudden wail. His mouth fell open, and a jet of melted chocolate shot out, splattering all over Isaac.

"What the..." Isaac gasped.

Before he could react further, Derek grabbed him, pulling Isaac close and forcing more chocolate into his mouth. Isaac struggled weakly, but the heavenly taste made him quickly succumb. He gulped down mouthful after mouthful as Derek fed him relentlessly.

Isaac's shirt tore open as his belly swelled larger. Love handles burst from his sides as he gave himself over to the intense pleasure. Derek held him in a vice-like grip, consumed by uncontrollable hunger spasms. His butt swelled against the shredded jeans, man boobs bursting through the remains of his shirt. Moans of ecstasy escaped his chocolate-smeared lips.

Just when it seemed Isaac had reached his limit, a thick chocolate tentacle emerged from the ground. It wrapped around his thickening torso and forced its way into his mouth. Isaac's eyes rolled back in bliss as the tentacle pumped more enchanted chocolate directly down his throat. His belly ballooned outward, sagging heavily toward the ground. His ass grew rounder and broader, shirt and jeans little more than tatters fluttering in the wind. Manboobs jiggled as the tentacle violated Isaac's willing mouth.

Soon, Isaac was utterly unrecognizable, a fat, moaning shell of his former self. His organs filled with chocolate as the tentacle filled him again and again. All thoughts faded except the need for more.

Meanwhile, Stiles had returned. Still under the spell's influence, he tackled Scott from behind. Scott fell forward with a heavy thud. Before he could react, Stiles had shoved a handful of chocolate into his open mouth.

"No...stop..." Scott groaned weakly, but it was too late. The heavenly taste dissolved his protests. As Stiles force-fed him more chocolate, Scott's backside swelled rapidly. His pants split open, exposing his expanding cheeks.

Lost in gluttonous pleasure, Scott could only moan and swallow as Stiles crammed chocolate down his throat.

And Derek, now monstrously obese, turned to Stiles with hunger in his eyes. Stiles smiled wickedly, summoning a tsunami of chocolate. Derek opened his mouth eagerly, ready to gorge.

Derek's jaw unhinged inhumanly wide as the chocolate flooded into his mouth. He swallowed gulp after gulp, moaning in ecstasy as his body swelled larger and larger. His hairy gut surged outward, spreading over his legs like rising bread dough. His ass inflated to the size of beach balls, tearing through the remains of his jeans.

Stiles cackled maniacally, directing more chocolate into Derek's maw. His body was now an amorphous blob of blubber and fat rolls. He resembled a beached whale, immobile yet still growing.
Derek moaned in ecstasy as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful. The chocolate smeared across his multiple chins as he ate messily.

His blubbery body expanded slowly outward, resembling a blob of dough rising in the oven. Derek would make sure he was the fattest werewolf of all.

Chapter Text

Stiles froze, a box of curly fries halfway to his open mouth. There, in his kitchen, stood a gorgeous woman smiling at him.

Stiles blinked hard. Yep, still there.

"Hi?" he called out weakly.

His father hurried in, shirt half-tucked. "Son, you remember Emily. My, uh, friend."

Friend. Right. Stiles scoffed.

"Brought treats!" Emily trilled, holding up a heaping platter of cookies.

Stiles practically drooled as the gooey chocolate chip cookie plate was set down before him. 

"Dig in, boys!" Emily chirped, her voice light and musical. "I baked up a storm this morning."

Stiles didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed three cookies at once, shoving them into his mouth. The chocolate chips were melty perfection, and he couldn't hold back a blissful moan.

"Slow down there, kiddo," his dad chuckled. "Save some for your old man."

John grabbed a handful of them, sighing contentedly as he bit into the first one. Crumbs tumbled down his uniform as he chewed. Stiles smirked, mouth full. "No way, Pops. I'm gonna eat all of these before you can even blink."

"Oh yeah?" John challenged with a grin. "We'll see about that."

Emily watched approvingly as father and son began stuffing their faces with wild abandon, reaching for cookies and brownies faster than they could swallow them. She had to stop herself from rubbing her hands together gleefully.

This was going perfectly.

Over the next few weeks, Stiles and his dad settled into a new routine. Mornings meant waking up to the smell of Emily's famous pancakes - tall stacks smothered in butter and syrup.

Stiles eagerly shovelled forkful after forkful into his mouth, cheeks bulging. His pyjama pants were getting pretty snug these days. Next to him, John was focused on demolishing his own towering portion, belly swelling over the waistband of his sweatpants.

After breakfast came lounging on the couch, too stuffed and sleepy to do much else. John would prop his feet up and rest a hand on his bloated gut with a satisfied sigh. Stiles would sprawl out, absentmindedly rubbing his rounded stomach, peeking out from under his shirt.

Emily made sure they never went hungry for long. She'd bustle in with snacks - cookies, doughnuts, slices of cake - urging them to dig in.

"Go on, don't be shy, boys," she'd say with an indulgent smile. 

John and Stiles were only too happy to oblige. They'd polish off the treats in minutes, leaning back with low groans as their bellies swelled even further.

In the evenings, it was pizza night. Emily ordered stacks of boxes brimming with cheesy, greasy slices. Stiles eagerly competed with his dad to see who could eat more. John would give his big belly a pat and dive in with gusto. Stiles refused to back down, shoving slice after slice into his mouth despite the protests of his own rounded gut.

Stuffed and exhausted at the night's end, they'd collapse into bed to start the whole routine again tomorrow. And all the while, Emily looked on, delighted by the growing boys under her care, pleased with how well her spells worked. The Stilinski men were helpless to resist her fattening charms. Soon, they'd be ripe for the taking, just as she had planned.

Emily took a seat at the table, observing her handiwork with satisfaction.

Stiles was really packing it away, fork and knife continuously shoving food into his mouth. His swollen gut rested heavily on his thighs, pressed against the table's edge. With every bite, his chins wobbled, and his moobs jiggled under his strained t-shirt.

John was likewise focused on the food, barely pausing between bites. His enormous bulk overflowed the sturdy chair, rolls of fat bulging over the armrests. He paused only to let out tremendous belches, patting his mountainous stomach.

"How are my growing boys doing this morning?" Emily asked.

John just grunted, mouth too full to respond properly.

Stiles mumbled something around a mouthful of bacon and eggs, spraying crumbs. He swallowed hugely. "Starving," he said hoarsely, reaching for another stack of waffles.

"That's what I like to hear," Emily said. "Eat up. I've got plenty more where that came from."

She rose to fry up more sausage and bacon, knowing her magic would stoke their appetites to match the bounty she provided. Before long, her gluttonous spells would make them far too immense to ever leave her care.

Stiles shovelled more food into his mouth, barely tasting it as he chewed and swallowed mechanically. The clink of utensils and the smack of lips were the only sounds breaking the silence.

As he ate, a creeping sense of unease worked its way through the pleasant haze in Stiles' mind. Something felt off. He spoke slower lately, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. His body felt heavy and alien, challenging to manoeuvre.

Stiles shifted on the sturdy chair, causing it to creak under his weight. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the far wall and froze.
The young man staring back was enormously fat, with a round face atop a thick pile of chins framed by plump cheeks. His belly rested heavily in his lap, a taut sphere of flesh cresting his thighs. Love handles spilt over the strained sides of the chair.

Stiles gripped the table, fork clattering from his fingers. This couldn't be real. He hadn't always been...this huge, had he? But even as he thought it, the details grew hazy.

Emily appeared behind him in the mirror's reflection. "Everything okay, sweetie?" Her tone was light, but her eyes were sharp.

Stiles opened his mouth but found himself at a loss for words. How could he have let this happen?

Emily stepped closer and placed a hand on his soft shoulder. "Why don't you have some more bacon? You must still be so hungry."

And despite his shock, Stiles found himself nodding and accepting another loaded plate from Emily's waiting hands. As he began eating again, the unease faded back into a pleasant fog.

A couple days after Stiles had seen his reflection, Stiles' memory surfaced through the haze—his dad's shockingly swollen form, Emily's constant platters of rich food, their uncontrollable hunger since she arrived.

Stiles swallowed hard, the taste of bacon turning bitter. Emily had done this to them.

Stiles shuffled into the kitchen, each step an immense effort. Emily stood at the counter, whipping up another rich breakfast feast. The smell made Stiles' empty stomach rumble despite himself.
Taking a deep breath, he bellowed, "Emily!"

She turned, surprise flashing across her face before her expression smoothed back into a polite smile.

"Why, good morning, dear. Did you sleep alright?" Her tone was light and sweet, but her eyes were cold and calculating.

Stiles scowled, glaring at her. "Cut the act. I know what you're doing to us."
Emily blinked innocently. "Whatever do you mean?"

Stiles stepped closer, his bulk swaying. "The food. The weight gain. It's all you, isn't it?"

Emily's facade cracked, her eyes flashing dangerously. Her tone turned icy. "My my. Aren't we clever?"

Stiles' hands curled into fists, anger boiling up. "Turn us back. Now."
Emily laughed, the sound sharp and cold. "I'm afraid it's far too late for that."

She turned back to the sizzling pans on the stove, dismissing him. Stiles trembled with frustration. He had to get through to his dad and make him see reason.

His father lay sprawled on the bed, mounds of flab engulfing him. Empty plates and food containers were scattered around him.

"Dad," Stiles wheezed, breathless from the short walk.

His dad looked up, eyes bleary. "Hey, kiddo," he mumbled through a mouthful of pancakes. Syrup dribbled down his chin.

"Dad, listen. Emily...she's doing something to us. The food..." Stiles gasped for air. "It's making us fat."

His dad blinked slowly, and then his face creased into a smile. "Don't be silly. We've always been this big. Now come on, help me finish breakfast." He patted his enormous belly.

Stiles staggered closer. "No, Dad, that's not true! Emily cast some kind of spell..."

His dad wasn't listening, already stuffing more food in his mouth. Stiles groaned in frustration. He had to keep trying, had to make his dad understand.

Just then, Emily appeared, carrying two heaping plates. "There you are, darling! I've made your favourites - blueberry pancakes and bacon."

She set the plates down, and Stiles' resolve wavered at the sight of the delicious feast. His stomach growled loudly.

Emily smirked, grabbing a strip of bacon and waving it enticingly under Stiles' nose. "Go on, sweetie, have a bite. You must be starving after such a long walk down the hall."

Despite himself, Stiles opened his mouth. Emily popped the bacon inside, her cold eyes glinting with triumph.

Stiles chewed slowly, the smoky bacon flavour exploding on his tongue. He couldn't resist letting out a small moan of pleasure.

Emily's smirk widened. "That's my boy. Here, have some more." She scooped up a forkful of pancakes dripping with syrup and brought it to Stiles' mouth.

He obediently opened up and accepted the bite. The fluffy cakes melted in his mouth, the sweet syrup coating his tongue. Stiles closed his eyes, losing himself in the taste.

Emily watched him indulgently, continuing to hand-feed him bite after delicious bite. With each mouthful, Stiles could feel his worries slipping away. Nothing mattered except sating his endless hunger.

After he had finished the entire plate, Emily gently patted his bulging belly. "There now, doesn't that feel better?"

Stiles nodded dazedly. He did feel better - warm, content, and pleasantly full.

"I think it's time we make a few changes around here," Emily continued, her voice syrupy-sweet. "You've gotten so big, my dear. Much too large for your old clothes."

She trailed a finger down Stiles' straining shirt buttons. "Let me take care of everything. I'll make sure you and your father have everything you need. All you have to do is relax and, of course, keep eating."

Stiles knew he should protest, should try to resist, but he found himself nodding in agreement. "Okay," he mumbled.

Emily's smile turned predatory. She leaned in close, whispering arcane words that fogged Stiles' mind. Reality warped around him.

When the haze finally lifted, nothing seemed amiss. Stiles glanced down at his mountainous body without alarm. Of course, he had always been this size. Emily was right - he deserved to relax and enjoy her cooking.

With a contented sigh, he reached for another strip of bacon.

Emily watched in satisfaction as Stiles happily continued eating, the memory spell fully taking hold. His eyes were glazed over in contentment, no trace of his previous wariness remaining.

Meanwhile, John was focused intently on demolishing an entire tray of brownies, oblivious to what transpired. Crumbs spilt down his massive apron of a belly as he shovelled the treats into his mouth.

Emily sauntered over and gave John's belly a firm pat. "My, you've grown into quite the big boy, haven't you?" she purred.

John chuckled, bits of brownie spewing from his full mouth. "You betcha. Can't get enough of your cooking."

Soon, the table was laden with plates of pancakes, waffles, eggs, bacon, sausages, muffins, and fruit. Without a word, they began shovelling food onto their plates and scarfing it down. 

Satisfied with their progress, her thoughts drifted to the next stage of her plan. She would fatten them up as much as possible before finally devouring their life force.

Emily licked her lips in anticipation. The more immense they grew, the more power she would gain from consuming them. She would make them so fat that the house itself would barely contain their bulk.

"Good boys," Emily purred, patting their strained bellies. Soon, so soon, they would be perfectly ripe for her true purpose. She just needed them a little bigger first.

With a small cackle, Emily returned to the kitchen to prepare more food for her captives. 

Soon, she thought gleefully, soon enough, the feasting would begin.

Chapter Text

Derek Hale's eyes rolled in exasperation as he heard the persistent doorbell ring. Oh, for God's sake, not another damn elf with another petition or some shit, he thought, walking over to the door in a huff. But when he saw the small tin sitting on his porch, wrapped in silver foil with a red bow on top, he stopped dead in his tracks, curiosity getting the better of him. The scent of freshly baked goods wafted through the air, making Derek's mouth water with anticipation. He could also detect a hint of vanilla and cinnamon as he leaned closer to the tin. The cookies looked...extraordinary. The cookies inside looked huge, almost as big as bricks, with a generous powdered sugar coating. The intricate and mysterious runes drawn on top only added to their unique appearance.

A small slip of paper caught his eye, tucked underneath the cookie. His initial dismissal turned to curiosity as he read the words scrawled in an elegant script: "Consume for a holiday surprise." With a shrug and a devil-may-care attitude, he grabbed the cookie and took a bite.

Instantly, a warmth spread through him, but it wasn't from the usual sugar rush. It was something deeper, primal, almost intoxicating. A key seemed to turn in a lock buried deep within him, unlocking something wild and untamed. The taste was unlike anything he had ever experienced - rich, creamy, and addictively delicious. He could hear bells ringing in his ears and feel his heart race with excitement. Closing his eyes, he indulged in another bite, relishing the flavour explosion in his mouth.

"Fuck me," he murmured with unabashed pleasure.

Calories and consequences be damned, he devoured bite after bite, savouring each moment of pure bliss. The cookie melted on his tongue like liquid gold, filling him with an overwhelming sense of happiness and contentment. As if under a spell, he couldn't help but let out a delighted moan with every mouthful. This was more than just a cookie - it was an experience that left him feeling giddy and euphoric.

Derek's eyes bulged with desire as he greedily devoured the cookie in record time, his body trembling with pleasure at each bite. He couldn't control himself, couldn't resist the overwhelming urge to consume more and more. The cookies were like a drug, fueling an insatiable hunger within him that grew stronger with every morsel.

He reached for another, then another, losing all sense of time and control as he descended deeper into a state of hedonistic pleasure. Each cookie only heightened his desire and need for more until he practically drowned in its sweet taste.

With each bite, Derek could feel himself growing larger and softer, his once-toned muscles giving way to a soft layer of fat. As he devoured cookie after cookie, his clothes groaned and ripped under the strain, unable to contain his expanding figure.

With each passing moment, Derek became increasingly engrossed in his gluttony. The tin of cookies seemed to never end, as did the satisfaction and arousal that came with each bite. He watched in awe as his belly swelled into a round ball of doughy flesh, his hips widening and thighs thickening.

But still, he couldn't stop himself. The last cookie disappeared into his mouth, leaving him feeling heavy and full but also utterly aroused by the weight gain he had brought upon himself. His once chiselled physique was now nothing but soft curves and rolls, glistening with a rosy glow from the sugar rush.

By the time he snapped out of his trance, Derek had consumed far more than half of the cookies and was left feeling heavy, full, and utterly aroused by his own gluttony.

With a manic grin, Derek ran his hands over his new curves, revelling in the newfound weight that brought him such intense satisfaction. "Well, well, look at that." He'd never felt this...good before.

His eyes darted around the room, searching for something - anything - to satisfy his insatiable hunger. And then he saw a tub of fudge sitting innocently next to a pile of cookies. Without a second thought, he lunged towards it with reckless abandon, shoving handfuls of the sticky sweet into his mouth.

As the rich caramel melted on his tongue and coated his throat, he let out a guttural moan of pleasure. He couldn't resist, scooping more and more into his mouth as if possessed. The creamy texture slid down his throat and settled in his stomach, filling him with warmth and satisfaction.

But as he continued to indulge, an unfamiliar sensation began to take over. His body hummed with pleasure but also with a growing feeling of fullness and weight. He could feel himself expanding, his clothes straining against his now bulging belly and thickening thighs.

Unable to resist the urge any longer, he reached down and gave his swollen cock a firm squeeze, relishing in the arousal that pulsed through him at the thought of gaining more weight. With each bite of fudge, he grew bigger and rounder, wholly consumed by the gluttonous pleasure of indulging in his wildest desires.

The room seemed to spin around him, and Derek realized he was in a euphoric haze from all the sugar rush. But he yearned for more. He couldn't resist the temptation and continued to stuff his face with reckless abandon, not caring about the mess he made or how much weight he was gaining.

"Fuck it," he moaned between bites, feeling his clothes grow tighter as his belly expanded.

He daydreamed about being a gluttonous Santa Claus figure in a winter wonderland. His red velvet suit straining at every bulge and curve of his expanding body. He could almost feel the snow crunching beneath his feet as he waddled through the town, unable to control his laughter and jolliness. His belly jiggled and swayed with each step, adding to his arousal from indulging in this sinful fantasy.

Derek's steps were heavy and laboured, each movement causing his thick thighs to chafe and rub together with an audible slapping sound. But for Derek, it was pure bliss. With each step, he could feel his ass spreading wider and rounder, the sensation sending shivers of ecstasy through his body.

A wicked grin stretched across his face as he imagined himself growing larger and more irresistible with every passing moment. He revelled in the thought of men unable to resist the sheer size of his expanding thighs and ass. By the time he reached the end of the room, Derek's pants were straining against his swelling waistline while his shirt clung tightly to his ballooning belly.

But for Derek, this was just the beginning. He couldn't believe the transformation happening before his eyes - he was like a living embodiment of Scott Calvin himself, a Christmas miracle come to life.
Despite the discomfort of his clothes becoming too tight, Derek's arousal only grew stronger. He eagerly grabbed at his plump cheeks, sinking his fingers into the softness and moaning at their increasing size. He felt powerful and unstoppable, confident that he could crush any chimney or rooftop he attempted to climb down now.

Lost in the moment, Derek daydreamed about indulging in endless feasts and being worshipped for his massive size and unapologetic gluttony.

As the last cookie crumb disappeared from the tin, Derek's insatiable hunger for sweets drove him to try on the jaw-dropping red suit with fluffy white fur. With a deep chuckle, he stepped back to admire himself in the mirror, mesmerized by his sheer size and blubbery curves. His heart raced with excitement as he indulged in the thrill of his extreme obesity, revelling in every inch of his mountainous flesh that could put any other Santa Claus to shame.

But even the luxurious costume couldn't hide the massive effects of the Christmas cookies. His colossal belly hung down like an avalanche, threatening to graze the floor if fed more cookies.
His legs, now like massive tree trunks, strained against his red pants, each step a test of the fabric's limits accompanied by a pair of gargantuan buttcheeks, bulbous mounds that jostled and wobbled with every little movement, seemingly ready to burst out of his pants at any moment.

His jacket was almost useless for covering up. The red velvet and white trim clung desperately to his sprawling, pillowy chest. His face, partially hidden by a beard that covered multiple chins, was a round and jovial expanse. His arms, once muscular, were now swaddled in layers of softness, resembling overstuffed sausages. The sleeves of his jacket stretched and split at the seams, struggling to contain his newly acquired girth.

"Ho, ho, ho," he boomed, his voice booming like thunder. "Merry Christmas, one and all!" His belly shook with every laugh, the jingle bells on his waist adding to the symphony of sound.

Chapter Text

The tightness of Stiles' jeans was undeniable, and his reflection seemed to taunt him with an extra layer of fluff around his midsection that hadn't been there just a few weeks ago.
"Ugh," he groaned, tugging at his shirt, but shrugged it off, chalking up the weight gain to the festive season. After all, who could resist the holiday treats? Stiles certainly couldn't.
"Stiles!" His dad's voice echoed through the house, signalling it was time for dinner. "Let's go!"
"Coming, Dad!" he called back, reluctantly tearing his gaze away from the mirror. He knew there would be an abundance of delicious, calorie-laden goodies at the Station's potluck, but surely one more night of indulgence wouldn't hurt.
As the days went by, Stiles couldn't help but notice that his weight continued to increase. Despite cutting down on snacks and running with werewolves, the numbers on the scale kept creeping up.
"Okay, seriously?" he muttered to himself after another unsuccessful morning run. He barely made it half a mile before feeling like he would keel over. He shook his head, exasperated. "This is getting ridiculous."
One evening, while hanging out with Scott, playing video games and munching on snacks, he couldn't help but notice the softness around his middle. He absently rubbed his belly, feeling how his hand easily sank into the extra flesh. A mix of shame and fascination washed over him as he realized just how much weight he had gained.
"Hey, man," Scott said, glancing sideways at Stiles. "Have you noticed you've, uh... put on a few pounds?"
Stiles scoffed, trying to play it off. "Thanks, Captain Obvious," Stiles replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
"No problem," Scott grinned, "just looking out for my best friend."
"I swear, it's like my body decided to go all 'Santa Clause' on me."
Scott chuckled but nodded sympathetically. "Everybody gains a little weight this time of year."
"True, especially if you're not a werewolf," Stiles smirked, trying to push his worries aside. After all, what was the point in stressing over something likely just a temporary setback?
"Pass the popcorn, will ya?" Stiles asked Scott, forcing a lighthearted grin onto his face.

Stiles gazed hopelessly at his reflection in the mirror, struggling to fit into his once-beloved flannel shirt. The fabric strained and stretched over his plump frame, highlighting every inch of his now-rounded stomach and love handles. Despite his strict diet and intense workouts, Stiles could feel the weight creeping on and laughed bitterly at the irony of hitting "wolfycamp" with Derek only to turn into a human version of a Pillsbury Doughboy. Frustrated and self-conscious, he threw on an oversized hoodie to mask his growing belly as he descended the stairs. But with each step, he was painfully aware of how his body jiggled and bounced, a constant reminder of his failed attempts at weight loss.
Scott's worried gaze roamed over Stiles' bulging form as they squeezed into the cramped Jeep. "Are you sure you're okay, dude?" he asked tentatively. "Dude, you sure you're okay? You've been acting kinda... off lately."
"Me? Off? Psh, I'm totally fine," Stiles lied through gritted teeth, forcing a strained smile. His mind was plagued with thoughts of his expanding waistline and how impossible it seemed to stop it from growing. He didn't want to burden Scott with his insecurities, so he brushed off his friend's concerns with a dismissive excuse. But deep down, Stiles knew that something was very wrong with him. "Just, you know, feeling extra festive this year."
"Right..." Scott trailed off, clearly not buying it, but he let the subject drop for now.
As they drove through the streets of Beacon Hills, Stiles couldn't ignore the heavy feeling in his gut.
"Scott," Stiles started hesitantly, "what if this is some kind of curse? Like, a werewolf thing?"
"Stiles, you're not a werewolf," Scott reminded him with a chuckle. "But seriously, maybe we should talk to Deaton. He might have some answers."
"Great," Stiles groaned, slumping further into his seat. "Another cryptic explanation from our resident supernatural expert."
"Come on, man. It's worth a shot," Scott reasoned. "Besides, it's better than sitting around watching your belt buckle snap under the pressure."
Stiles laughed half-heartedly at the joke, but inside, he felt a surge of panic. How did he let himself get to this point? He knew he needed help, and if Deaton could offer any solutions, he had to try.
"Fine," Stiles finally agreed with a defeated sigh. "But if I start sprouting antlers and a red nose, I'm blaming you."
"Deal," Scott said with a grin, but his eyes held a hint of concern.

"Dr. Deaton?" Stiles called out. He shifted uncomfortably, acutely aware of how his shirt strained against his newly acquired girth.
"Ah, Stiles, Scott," Dr. Deaton's voice echoed from somewhere in the back of the clinic. Moments later, the vet emerged from behind a towering stack of leather-bound volumes, his glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. "I see you've caught me amid some... reorganization."
"Nice collection you got here," Stiles quipped, trying to distract from his discomfort as he glanced around at the chaos with an amused grin. But as Deaton's piercing gaze landed on his bloated figure, Stiles' humour faded. "We, uh, actually came here to talk to you about something important."
"Of course," Deaton replied, eyeing Stiles knowingly. "This is about your recent... expansion, I presume?"
"Uh, yeah," Stiles admitted, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "I can't figure out why it keeps happening. It's like someone's stuffing me full of Christmas cookies while I sleep or something."
"Interesting analogy," Deaton mused. "Have a seat, both of you."
Stiles and Scott plopped down on the creaky chairs in Deaton's cluttered office, surrounded by towering stacks of dusty books. The veterinarian rummaged through a pile of ancient tomes until he finally plucked one out delicately. The pages were yellowed and dog-eared, filled with arcane symbols and ancient diagrams.
"Based on your symptoms, it seems that your holiday weight gain is tied to someone's emotional state," Deaton explained, his voice grave as he flipped through the book. "Someone close to you is drowning in loneliness this Christmas."
Stiles furrowed his brow, feeling the extra pounds gathered around his middle, jiggling uncomfortably.
"Lonely? But...who?" Stiles echoed, furrowing his brow in confusion. "But who? And how does their loneliness translate into me gaining weight?"
Deaton's lips quirked into a small smile. "Magic is not always logical, Stiles. It seems that you have become a vessel for others' emotions, absorbing their loneliness and expressing it as physical weight."
"Great." Stiles slumped back on his chair, feeling the extra padding around his middle squishing comically beneath him. "So what do I do?" he asked, desperation creeping into his voice as he grasped for any solution.
"Unfortunately, there is no quick fix," Deaton admitted, closing the book with a thud. "You must find the person responsible and help them overcome their loneliness. Only then will the magic release its hold on you."
"Great," Stiles muttered sarcastically, resisting the urge to poke at his newly acquired stomach rolls. "Another mystery to solve."
"But remember," Deaton said kindly, placing a hand on Stiles's shoulder. "Trust in your instincts. You have a kind heart and can help whoever is causing this."
Stiles nodded, but as he looked over at Scott's concerned expression and felt the weight of Deaton's words sink in, Stiles knew it would be long and hard.

"Come on, Stiles, think," he muttered to himself, raking a hand through his hair. "Who could it be? Who's lonely enough to cause me to gain so much weight?"
His dad? No, ever since he started dating Melissa McCall, he'd been downright jolly. Scott? No way, not with his picture-perfect romance with Kira. Lydia? She was probably hosting three-holiday parties a night.
Then it hit him - Derek. The guy was a textbook case of holiday blues. Ever since losing his family, he'd been a total loner. Stiles imagined Derek sitting alone in his depressing loft on Christmas morning, not a single gift under the tree and felt a pang of sorrow for the guy.
"Of course," Stiles murmured, shaking his head at his own obliviousness. "It's Derek."
"Did you say something?" Scott asked, looking up from his phone where he had been scrolling through potential gifts for his girlfriend.
"It's Derek," Stiles repeated, his eyes wide with realization. "His loneliness is causing my weight gain."
"Are you sure?" Scott asked skeptically.
"Positive," Stiles said firmly. "Now we just need to come up with a plan to lift his spirits and spread some holiday cheer."
"Alright…" Scott drawled, his eyebrows raised in doubt but willing to follow Stiles' lead. "What do you have in mind?"
"Operation Cheer Up Sourwolf," Stiles declared, grinning excitedly. "We're going to include him in all our holiday plans and show him he's not alone. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to fit into my old clothes again."
Scott chuckled but nodded in agreement. "Sounds like a plan."
"First things first, though," Stiles muttered, eyeing his protruding belly with disdain. "I need to find some bigger pants."
As he rummaged through his closet for more forgiving attire, a sense of eagerness bubbled up within him.
"Alright, Operation Cheer Up Sourwolf officially begins!" Stiles announced triumphantly, stepping out of his closet in a pair of not-so-oversized sweatpants. "Let's do this!"

Derek's eyes widened in surprise as Stiles waddled into the room, his belly straining against a tight, festive sweater. It wasn't every day that someone showed up at his door with an armful of invitations and an earnest expression, but Derek couldn't help but be distracted by the way Stiles' clothes seemed to struggle to contain him.
"Stiles, what are you doing here?" Derek asked, trying not to let his gaze linger too long on the human's newfound curves.
"Operation Cheer Up Sourwolf," Stiles huffed, barely managing to catch his breath after the short walk from his car. "I'm on a mission to lift your spirits this holiday season and, well, make sure you don't spend it alone."
Derek couldn't help but feel a spark of arousal at Stiles' determination, the sight of him so flushed and sweaty from exertion only adding fuel to the fire. He couldn't believe how much he wanted to run his hands over every inch of Stiles' expanding body.
"Uh-huh," Derek tried to reply sceptically, trying to ignore the way his gaze kept drifting down to Stiles' bulging midsection. "And how exactly do you plan on doing that?"
"Easy!" Stiles grinned, his cheeks flushed from excitement and exertion. "We're going to hit up all the best holiday events in town. Treelightings, carolling, ugly sweater parties—you name it, we're there!"
"Is this really necessary?" Derek frowned, trying to ignore the soft curves of Stiles' body that seemed to call out to him.
"Absolutely!" Stiles insisted, the twinkle in his eye making it impossible for Derek to resist. "Trust me, you're gonna have the time of your life. Now, let's get started on our festive adventure!"

Despite his initial hesitation, Derek couldn't help but give in to Stiles' ambitious plan. The glint in his friend's eyes and the eager smile on his face were hard to resist. Truth be told, Derek was becoming increasingly fascinated by how each event they attended seemed to add more weight to Stiles' once-slender frame.
"God, these gingerbread cookies are amazing," Stiles groaned through a mouthful of crumbs, his belly now stretching against the tight fabric of his sweater. Derek couldn't take his eyes off of it, marvelling at how much bigger it had grown since the last time he saw it. Despite Stiles' attempts at restraint, the pounds just kept piling on.
"Maybe you should slow down there," Derek suggested, trying to voice his concern for Stiles while also fighting the inexplicable attraction he felt towards the younger man's expanding waistline.
"I can't help it," Stiles replied with a sheepish grin, patting his round stomach with a mix of pride and resignation. "I guess I'm just really getting into the holiday spirit."
"Or something like that," Derek muttered under his breath, unable to ignore the building tension between them as they continued their festivities. He couldn't help but wonder if there would be even more weight gain for Stiles and if he could resist its alluring pull.

Stiles' reflection in the ice skating rink's windowpane revealed a plumper version of himself, his cheeks rosy and round from both the cold and his ever-growing appetite. He gave a soft sigh, watching as it fogged up the glass.
"Come on, Stiles!" Derek called from the ice, his hand outstretched to help Stiles onto the slippery surface. The carefree smile that graced Derek's face was a rare sight, one that urged Stiles to forget about his own expanding waistline for the moment.
"Alright, alright," Stiles replied with a grin, waddling over to take Derek's hand. As he stepped onto the ice, he couldn't help but feel like a beached whale trying to navigate the frozen terrain. His once-lean figure now jiggled with every step, his pants snug against his plump thighs.
"Whoa, easy there, big guy." Derek chuckled, steadying Stiles as he nearly lost his balance.
"Very funny," Stiles huffed, cheeks warming not only from the embarrassment but also from the exertion of hauling around his newfound heft. He tried to focus on the joyful atmosphere around them, the scent of hot chocolate wafting through the air and children's laughter ringing in his ears.
"Look at you go, Stiles!" Derek teased as they began to glide across the ice, albeit somewhat clumsily. Despite the playful jab, there was genuine warmth in Derek's eyes, which seemed to sparkle brighter than the twinkling fairy lights strung above them.
"Hey, I'm doing my best here," Stiles panted between breaths, his belly brushing against the cold barrier as they skated around the rink. He couldn't deny that something about how Derek looked at him now, with equal parts amusement and adoration, made his heart swell almost as much as his waistline.
Derek just squeezed Stiles' hand just a little tighter. It was enough to make Stiles feel lighter, even if only for a moment.
As their holiday festivities continued, Stiles couldn't help but notice the change in Derek's demeanour. The usually brooding and stoic werewolf was now warm and affectionate in a Sourwolf-way towards him, thanks to Stiles' persistence and endless attempts at bringing joy to their holiday season. And while Stiles could feel his own body growing heavier with each passing day, he found himself relishing in it as he saw the delight on Derek's face.
One evening, as they sipped on mulled wine at the bustling Christmas Market, Stiles struggled to hold onto his delicate glass, knowing full well that his fingers had become plump and round. But the weight gain didn't bother him that much anymore, not when he could see the glimmer of happiness in Derek's eyes.
"Y'know, Derek," Stiles mused, taking another sip of his drink and feeling the warmth spread through him like a comforting blanket. "I think I finally understand the appeal of this whole 'holiday cheer' thing."
Derek raised an eyebrow in amusement, his lips curving into a small smile. "I thought you were already a fan."
"Well, maybe," Stiles conceded with a chuckle, patting his burgeoning stomach with a resigned acceptance. "But seeing how happy it makes you make all of this worth it."
"Stiles," Derek said softly, his gaze flicking between Stiles' eyes and his lips before settling on the gentle curve of his second chin. "You really don't have to go through all this trouble for me."
"It's not trouble," Stiles reassured him, taking another sip and feeling a wave of pleasure wash over him at the taste of the sweet wine on his tongue while Derek's eyes lingered on his growing figure with hunger and desire.

"Hey, big guy," Scott said with a grin, sidling up next to Stiles and bumping his shoulder playfully. "Looks like Operation: Cheer Up Sourwolf is a success."
"Seems so, doesn't it?" Stiles replied as he observed the subtle changes in Derek's demeanour. He appeared more at ease, even cracking a genuine smile every now and then. And for a fleeting moment, Stiles' weight gain seemed to have paused, allowing him to bask in the glow of his victory.
"Man, I thought you were gonna burst trying to pull this off," Scott chuckled, gesturing toward the array of festive decorations and food that adorned their gathering place. "But look at you, Stiles—you did it!"
"Yep," Stiles agreed, patting his rotund midsection with a knowing smirk. "It wasn't easy, but I managed to stuff enough holiday spirit into Derek and myself to make a difference."
"Let's just hope it sticks, huh?" Scott clapped Stiles on the back, sending him stumbling forward slightly. "We don't need you turning into the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man before New Year's."
"Ha-ha, very funny," Stiles huffed, straightening himself out and adjusting the waistband of his pants, which had once again begun to dig uncomfortably into his plump flesh. The brief reprieve he'd experienced earlier had vanished as quickly as it came, and Stiles could feel the familiar weight settling back onto him with a vengeance.
"Seriously though," Scott continued, concern etching his brow. "You okay, man?"
"Never better," Stiles lied, forcing a grin that felt more like a grimace. "Just gotta keep Derek's spirits up, right? Then this whole...situation will sort itself out."
"Sure, Stiles," Scott said slowly, clearly not convinced. "Just remember that we're all here for you too, okay?"
"Thanks, Scotty," Stiles replied, offering his best friend a weak smile before turning back to the festivities.

Stiles flopped back on the couch when most of the guests, who were, in fact, his packmates he bossed around so that he wouldn't have to clean his house by himself, left. The old furniture creaked dangerously under his weight, as Stiles was pretty sure he had packed on at least ten pounds this evening. He lifted up his shirt with some effort, watching his belly swell and gurgle with each laboured breath.
"There's something we're not seeing here," he huffed.
Just then, Lydia breezed into the room, wrinkling her nose at Stile's patting his pale belly.
"Hate to break it to you, Stiles, but you're not exactly a lightweight anymore," she said bluntly, eyeing his bulging gut spilling over his dress pants.
Stiles rolled his eyes. "Gee, thanks, Lyds, I hadn't noticed."
Lydia perched delicately on the edge of an armchair. "Look, clearly, Derek's loneliness isn't the whole picture. There's something else going on."
"Really?" Stiles' eyebrows shot up, his brown eyes widening in surprise. "What else could it be?"
Lydia gave him a pointed look. "Like you having a massive crush on Derek. And Derek has had a massive crush on you this whole time. Your weight gain is tied to his growing romantic feelings."
"Feelings?" Stiles snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. "For me? Lydia, come on. You're talking about Derek Hale here. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding? The guy who practically lives in a perpetual state of emotional constipation? Yeah, no way he's got a thing for me."
"Stiles, hear me out," Lydia insisted, folding her arms over her chest. "You've been putting on weight since you started helping Derek, right? And it only seems to get worse when he's around or when you're doing something that makes him happy. That can't be a coincidence."
Before he could add anything, the banshee kept on exposing her theory. "Think about it, Stiles," Lydia pressed, her red curls bouncing with each emphatic gesture. "The more you try to help Derek, the more you're both indulging in your own feelings for one another. And maybe... just maybe... that indulgence manifests itself physically in your weight gain. By not addressing those feelings, you're only adding fuel to the fire. You need to confront them head-on, and maybe then, your weight gain will stop."
"Alright, fine, good theory, Lyds. But just a Hallmark movie theory," Stiles scoffed, trying to ignore how his heart raced at the thought.
"Keep telling yourself that, but if I were you, I'd face your star-crossed werewolf," Lydia said with a knowing smirk. She sauntered out, leaving Stiles alone with his increasingly snug clothes and troubled thoughts.
"Ridiculous," he muttered under his breath, trying to dismiss the idea as quickly as it had formed. "Absolutely ridiculous."

Stiles' lumbering steps echoed through his house as he made his way towards his room, the floorboards protesting under his immense weight. The mere mention of Derek's supposed feelings for him by Lydia had sent him spiralling into a dangerous cycle of binge eating and weight gain. He avoided mirrors at all costs, but the tightness of his clothes and the constant creaking of furniture under his weight were constant reminders of his situation. He was too scared to even attempt to weigh himself, knowing that it would only confirm what he already knew - he was well over 280 pounds now, maybe even pushing 300.
Collapsing onto his bed, Stiles groaned as the springs protested under his added bulk. Thoughts of Derek filled his mind, both arousing and saddening him, as he thought about how their dynamic had changed since he started gaining. Avoiding Derek only fueled Stiles' insatiable appetite, resulting in more weight piling onto his already engorged frame. Each day, it seemed like there was more and more of him to jiggle and squeeze. Each day, his belly grew larger and rounder, pushing against the waistband of his brand-new XXXL sweatpants until they were practically bursting at the seams. Even simple tasks like getting into his Jeep became a struggle as his immense girth made it challenging to fit behind the wheel. Stiles couldn't bear to look at what he had become, but he couldn't resist indulging in food, caught in a never-ending cycle. The only way to shatter the cycle was to confront Derek head-on.
Surrendering was not an option, for if he did, he knew he would balloon into a behemoth unable to even fit through his bedroom door.

Stiles wobbled towards the door, his heart struggling to pump blood through his massive body. His swollen feet barely fit into his shoes as he huffed and puffed with each step, sweat cascading down his fat rolls. His once lean figure was stretched and bloated with layers of excess flab, causing his skin-tight clothes to burst at the seams.
"Hey, Derek," Stiles panted after knocking on the door, his voice high-pitched and wheezy. The door creaked open, revealing Derek's perfectly toned muscles that Stiles could only dream of having. His own body was round and bloated, each step causing his flesh to jiggle and ripple like waves in a grotesque sea.
"Hey...huff...Derek," Stiles panted, trying to catch his breath and appear somewhat composed in front of the object of his desire. Derek's eyes widened in shock at the sight of Stiles' gargantuan size; how much weight had he gained since they last saw each other?
"What...huff...are you doing here?" Derek asked, struggling to contain his arousal as he took in the sight of his once-lean friend, now ballooned with excess fat.
"I just...puff...wanted to see you," Stiles gasped, beads of sweat pouring down his face from the exertion of standing and trying to hold up his massive belly. Derek couldn't help but be turned on by the sheer size and softness of Stiles' bloated body; it starkly contrasted with his sculpted physique.
"Uh...sure...come in," Derek stuttered, stepping aside to let Stiles squeeze through the doorway. As he waddled into the room, Stiles felt self-conscious about how much space he was taking up and how obese and out-of-shape he looked compared to Derek's sculpted body. His breathing laboured, and Stiles could barely make it to the couch before collapsing onto it with a loud groan.
"Look, Derek, we need to talk... about us," Stiles somehow managed to breathe out the words, his stomach heaving with each gasp. But Derek's eyes were transfixed on the round bulges of Stiles' overflowing belly, barely contained by his too-tight shirt. All Derek could think about was how much he wanted to run his hands over every curve, every stretch mark, every inch of Stiles' blossoming body. His fingers twitched with the urge to worship and explore.
"Us?" Derek's voice cracked as he tried to regain composure, but Stiles could see the desire burning in his eyes.
"Yes, us," Stiles said boldly, letting out a breathy sigh as his body visibly swayed with his movements. "I can feel it between us, the tension, the connection. And I think it's time we embraced it."
"Stiles..."Derek trailed off, unable to tear his gaze away from the sight of Stiles' soft curves spilling out of his clothes.
"No, hear me out," Stiles pleaded, "I've been gaining so much weight lately, my body ballooning with each passing day. Deaton says it's because someone close to me felt lonely during the holidays. And that person is you."
"Me?" Derek's voice cracked with disbelief, his gaze fixated on Stiles' bulging stomach and swollen thighs.
"Yes, you," Stiles said breathlessly, his heart racing. "Lydia believes that my growing size is linked to your loneliness and... maybe even your desires for me."
"My desires for you?" Derek's eyes hungrily devoured Stiles' massive form, his breath quickening and pulse racing as he took in every inch of his plump body. Stiles moaned, his hands roaming over his round belly and thick thighs, feeling a sense of power and arousal at the sight of Derek's desire for him.
"I can't ignore it anymore," Stiles gasped, his voice heavy with need. "I want you, Derek. I've always wanted you." He leaned closer, pressing his soft body against Derek's stiff muscles.
Their breathing was heavy and laboured, their bodies practically vibrating with tension and lust. The room felt pulsating with the weight of their unspoken desires.
Finally, Derek couldn't take it any longer. With a growl, he grasped Stiles' hand and pulled him onto his lap, feeling the weight of Stiles' body on top of him, sending shivers down his spine. He couldn't resist running his hands over Stiles' ample curves, feeling a primal urge to worship and possess every inch of him.
"You've become so big," Derek growled, his voice thick with desire.
Stiles blushed, feeling a surge of pleasure at Derek's words. He had always been self-conscious about his weight gain, but hearing Derek's praise was like a drug. "Kinda your fault, Der," he admitted coyly, shifting his weight as Derek's hungry gaze bore into him. "And I just can't stop eating."
"Good," Derek purred, leaning in closer to Stiles. "I want you big and stuffed, all for me."
Stiles moaned as Derek's hand slid down to cup his plump buttcheek, squeezing it tightly. He could feel himself getting harder by the second, craving more of Derek's touch and attention.
"I love how your body feels under my hands," Derek whispered, his fingers trailing up to the button of Stiles' sweatpants. "So soft and jiggly."
Stiles gasped as Derek popped open the button and slowly pulled down the zipper. He couldn't believe this was happening—Derek Hale, the epitome of perfection in Stiles' eyes, was lusting after his fat body.
"Please," Stiles pleaded, spreading his legs as Derek's hand slipped inside his underwear and grasped his hardening member. "I want you."
Derek grinned wickedly. "You're mine now," he declared possessively before crashing their lips together in a heated kiss.

Chapter Text

Stiles leaned back in his office chair at the FBI HQ, eyes closed, phone pressed to his ear. "So, everything’s good back in Beacon Hills?" he asked.

"Yeah, kid, everything’sh ...hhnnghh... g-great," his father’s voice slurred through the line, broken by heavy breathing.

"You sure? You sound... weird," Stiles said, frowning.

"Nah, jusht... brrrUUUURP... ate too much..." There was a pause, then another low groan and a wet, sloppy noise like a deep, guttural rumble.

Stiles sighed. "Dad, are you—"

GuuuurRRRRPPP—another massive burp erupted from the line, so loud it caused Stiles to jerk the phone away from his ear.

"Jesus, Dad! What the hell was that?"

"Nothin’, jusht indigestion," the Sheriff wheezed. "Missh you, son."

"Miss you too..." Stiles mumbled, his voice trailing off as his father ended the call. Something was very not right in Beacon Hills.

Beacon Hills had become a prison for those Stiles had left behind. No longer men but overgrown, gluttonous monstrosities unable to move from where they had collapsed.

At first, the transformation was slow. They would overeat once, then overeat again. And again. The sensation of being too full began as discomfort, but it soon became something they craved. And the creature behind it—dark, shadowy, something from another realm—had found them, fed them, kept them docile and obedient.They didn’t fight it anymore. They couldn’t.

And, now, they couldn't move. They couldn’t stop.

The Sheriff sprawled across a mattress, his belly, an enormous dome of sagging flesh, sprawled across his lap like a massive, overstuffed bean bag, bulging out as if it might burst at any moment. His thick fingers, swollen and slick with grease, clutched handfuls of food, shoving it into his mouth with a mechanical rhythm. His body barely registered the strain anymore, gorging with an insatiable desire.

"God... BRUUUUUUP... " the Sheriff groaned, his voice thick with both shame and satisfaction. His overfed stomach rumbled loudly, struggling to digest the mountain of food he had just consumed. Each massive belch rattled the walls, the noise reverberating through the room as his chins wobbled from the motion, barely containing the next burp.

Scott groaned in response, his bloated form barely capable of speech anymore. "H-hhnngh... S-Stilesh..." he tried to mumble, his voice muffled by the rolls of fat pressing against his throat. His entire body jiggled violently with the force of another belch. "He... urRRPPP... shushpects something," His gut, now so massive it spilled onto the floor, gurgled loudly as he crammed another handful of food into his mouth.

Derek, eyes half-lidded in dazed hunger, managed a low, sluggish grunt. "huff... D-doeshn’t... matter. GNNGGGGHHHUUURRPPP...” a-as long as... gulp... we keep tellin' him we're f-fine... hnnnghh... he won't'sh come back." Derek wheezed. His chins jiggled violently as he spoke and chewed, his face practically disappearing under the folds of his neck and chest.

Hhnnghhh... "I mish him..." the Sheriff groaned, letting out a deep breath as he tried to shift his bulk. "But we can’t let him... shee us like thish."

With a strained grunt, he tried to move but only managed a feeble squirm, his fat sloshing with the effort. He let out a long, satisfied sigh that turned into another monstrous belch, wiping a greasy hand across his chins. "M-more..." he groaned, his voice little more than a wheeze now. "I... uurRRPP... need more..."

The creature obliged, silently conjuring food within his reach. Unseen by the three men, it has always been present, lurking in the shadow, whispering to them and feeding their desire for more. The more they ate, the stronger its hold on them. It no longer needed to force them to eat. They would willingly until their minds would be too clouded with the need to be full, too bloated to remember the lives they once had.

And, soon, their Spark would return, Stiles would come, thinking he could save them.

But it would be too late.

And Stiles would be exactly where it wanted him to be.

The creature smiled in the shadows, already anticipating the next feast.

And far away, Stiles sat in his office, the phone still in his hand, staring at the screen with growing dread, wondering after all he had faced in Beacon Hill, how worse it could be.

Chapter Text

Sheriff Stilinski stared at the strange creature before him, a bizarre being calling itself French Fry. Its grin stretched unnaturally wide, a toothy reminder of just how alien this situation was. French Fry had appeared suddenly, with an offer Stilinski couldn’t refuse—food. He couldn't place why, but each bite did more than satisfy his hunger; it brought comfort, a dulling of his worries about his missing son and the rest of the pack. 

It started simply enough—a slice of apple pie. But it was nothing like he'd tasted before. The flavours seemed to melt in his mouth, and before he even finished, the desire for more overwhelmed him. His self-control weakened as French Fry eagerly served him more.

He should’ve stopped, but he couldn’t. The food, the smell, the hunger—it was all too much.

Time lost meaning. Days, perhaps weeks, blurred together as Stilinski remained confined to the couch, his body swelling. The couch was no longer visible, swallowed beneath the immense, rolling mass of his flesh. His belly spilled over the sides, pooling onto the floor like an avalanche of fat, while his thighs had fused into bulbous pillars that seemed more like overstuffed sacks than human limbs. His arms had become thick and unwieldy, his fingers engorged into fat, useless sausages, barely capable of any movement. But French Fry was always there, gleefully pushing another bite between his lips, chuckling as Stilinski moaned with satisfaction.

Somewhere in the haze of constant eating, he tried to fight, His thoughts grew sluggish, each belch and groan replacing his will to resist, he tried to fight, tried to remember Stiles, to remember why he had to resist. But that memory was drowned, replaced by the overwhelming desire for more. There was no escape. There was no Sheriff Stilinski anymore—only the hunger.

French Fry's grin seemed to widen with every passing day, his tiny hands patting the growing mass encouraging it to swell even more. "Bon appétit," he whispered with a dark, mocking tone, holding up an enormous Black Forest cake that seemed almost comically oversized—large enough to cover Stilinski's entire lap.

And yet, the Sheriff's mouth opened. He didn’t ask for it, didn’t want it—but he needed it. His eyes glazed over as his tongue darted out, desperate. French Fry laughed, shoving the cake forward. Frosting smeared across Stilinski’s lips as he devoured it in greedy gulps, every bite making him swell further, the floor groaning ominously with each new ounce added to his frame.

French Fry danced gleefully atop Stilinski's bloated belly, cackling at the Sheriff’s helplessness. Stilinski had become the feast, ready and perfect for him.

Chapter Text

Derek stood immobile, back pressed against the cold stone wall, his eyes wide with anger as the demon towered above him. The demon's voice slithered from its throat like a venomous whisper, curling into Derek’s mind, insidious and corrupting. Its offer was monstrous—a dark bargain that would grant Derek his freedom, but only if he was willing to forsake Stiles to a fate worse than death.

Derek’s heart hammered, torn between the urge to fight and the knowledge that this was a battle he could never win. His eyes flicked to Stiles, whose expression was contorted with rage, knowing that the human would fight for him.

But Derek couldn’t let him die. He couldn’t let Stiles face the horrors waiting for him here. So, he made his choice. His soul for Stiles’ life. The demon's grin widened as it claimed its prize.

Resistance was futile here. The demon, its eyes glowing with evil glee, approached with a platter of rich, greasy food. Derek's mouth watered against his will as the demon placed the feast before him, and the reality of his situation became clear: he wasn’t here to be physically tortured by claws or flames. The demon had a far darker punishment in mind.

"Eat," it commanded, its voice curling around Derek like smoke, "or Stiles pays the price."

Derek’s resolve faltered. Protect Stiles—no matter the cost. He took the first bite. The moment the savoury, rich morsel hit his tongue, a wave of warmth flooded his body. Grease coated his fingers as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful, feeling the food descend into his belly, which began to swell slightly from the onslaught of food. His wolf instincts should have revolted, but the demon’s curse had taken root.

Time passed in a blur. Derek's once-hard muscles softened as the constant flow of fat-laden food transformed his body. The demon was always there, pushing him further. Every day it presented him with increasingly larger meals, each one more decadent than the last, all prepared to ensure Derek couldn’t resist. His finely honed physique began to change rapidly. His abs disappeared first beneath the softening layers of his belly.

The demon’s presence gnawed at his mind as much as the food filled his body. It whispered cruelly, taunting him, showing him images of Stiles in peril whenever he hesitated. "You eat for him, Derek," the demon would hiss. "And doesn't it feel good? Every pound protects him. Every inch of your swelling belly ensures his safety." And so Derek kept eating. The rational part of his mind was eroding, and now craved nothing but the endless pleasure of eating. With that barrier down, his body began to swell obscenely, the fat spreading like wildfire across his frame.

The demon knew exactly how to play with him. "You look like a pig now, Derek," it whispered, pressing a hand against his swollen stomach, making Derek moan in pleasure. "Do you want to break free? Or do you want to grow larger? Become what you truly are?"

The demon's taunting voice grew softer, yet more intimate, more like Stiles, as it straddled his massive belly, Derek's own fat jiggling beneath its weight. "What are you now, Derek?" it whispered, its lips close to his ear, sending shivers down his spine.

"I'm ... uhnnngh... your ...hmphhh... pig," Derek groaned, his body heaving under its own immense weight. "A ...grrrrRRPPp... f-fat, ...gasp... ...burrRRPP... obedient'sh ...blurrrRPPP... pig."

"And what do pigs do?"

"D-Dey ...groan... eat ...bworrRPPpp... grow ...rrrRPPPphh... and get'sh ...blurRRPPhh... f-fatter,” Derek moaned, lost in his own satisfaction, his belly trembling with the weight of his words.

"You belong to me," the demon declared, running a hand over Derek’s immense belly. "And you'll never be anything else."

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a chill Halloween night. Scott and Derek had taken on the brave responsibility of babysitting a magically de-aged Stiles—all six years of hyperactive, sugar-fueled cuteness. The Sheriff, with a smug grin, had reminded them that if they could handle dating adult Stiles, they could handle him as a child. They really should have known better.

"You’re so cool," mini-Stiles declared, looking up at Scott with those big doe eyes. "If I could, I’d marry you."

Scott blinked, feeling his face heat up. He wasn’t sure what to say. Stiles’ little face scrunched in concern at Scott’s silence, and before Scott could figure out an appropriate response, he pulled Stiles into a hug—an awkward, blushing hug, while staring off into the distance, hoping Derek didn’t see this.

Derek, unfortunately, was busy facing his own battle. Little Stiles had gotten distracted from the candy-gathering mission, staring up at Derek in awe.

"Wow!" he squealed, his tiny hands tugging on Derek’s Henley. "I can’t believe I found the one person prettier than Lydia Martin!"

Derek’s face went from its usual stoic demeanor to a full-on tomato hue in seconds. He hid his face in his hands, while mini-Stiles continued tugging on his shirt, asking what was wrong. Scott, watching from the sidewalk, looked smug, as if to say, "Now you know what I went through."

As the trio went trick-or-treating, it didn’t take long for de-aged Stiles to come up with a brilliant idea. Halloween was dangerous, after all—ghosts, goblins, and candy bandits were everywhere. Scott and Derek needed protection, and Stiles was determined to provide it.

"Don’t worry, guys! I’ll keep you safe!" Stiles declared, his tiny hands raised to the sky. Before Scott or Derek could question it, a burst of sparkly magic shot out from Stiles’s fingertips, enveloping the two werewolves. Scott barely had time to shout, “Wait, Stiles, no magic—!” before it was too late.

Suddenly, Scott and Derek both felt a strange sensation—like they were being inflated like two giant balloons. Their bodies expanded rapidly, muscles and bones stretching, while fur sprouted from their skin in thick waves. Their fangs elongated, claws extended, and they both let out involuntary howls as they grew. Before they knew it, they were towering fifteen-foot-tall werewolf beasts. Their bellies, comically rounded and stuffed, jiggled slightly with each movement, making them look both intimidating and absurd at the same time. Mini-Stiles was sitting comfortably in Scott's enormous palm, legs swinging as if he was on a carnival ride, his eyes wide with delight.

The tiny trick-or-treater looked between his two enormous protectors, nodding with satisfaction. "There," he said, voice full of authority. "Now no one’s messing with us. Let’s go!"

Scott, puffing slightly from the weight of his massive furry belly, took one block-long stride forward, Derek following behind with a look of resigned exasperation. As they lumbered down the street, other trick-or-treaters screamed, and a few people ran into their houses, slamming the doors. Mini-Stiles just grinned, reaching down to grab another piece of candy from his overflowing bag.

"This," Derek grumbled, "is why I don’t do Halloween."

Scott sighed, carefully cradling Stiles, who giggled and reached over to pat Derek’s squishy side. "Happy Halloween, buddy," Scott muttered, barely holding back a smile.

Chapter Text

The cold mist of the Ghost of Christmas Future had surrounded Stiles while he was finishing his dinner. He blinked, rubbing his eyes, only to find himself staring at... himself? Well, an unrecognizable version of himself: a mountain of flesh overflowing the massive couch beneath him, his soft form undulating with each desperate gasp for air. His gut, enormous and spherical, was propped up on the coffee table, groaning under its own weight. All around him, empty pizza boxes, candy wrappers, and grease-stained paper bags lay scattered.

The Ghost cleared his throat, to regain Stiles' attention. "Consider this a warning, young Stilinski. This is what the future holds
if you continue your gluttonous ways."

Stiles shifted his eyes to the ghost, an odd glimmer in them. His lips parted, and a lazy, almost dopey grin spread across his face. "A warning, huh?" He paused, the grin widening as he looked back at the monstrous version of himself on the couch. "So, uh... is there any way we can speed up the process?"

The ghost blinked, momentarily taken aback. "What?"

Stiles chuckled, his chubby cheeks jiggling as he spoke. "I mean, if I'm gonna end up that huge, why wait, right?" He patted his current, relatively modest belly and sighed dreamily. "I could definitely go for another dinner right now.”

The ghost shook his head, a mix of exasperation and disbelief etched across his ethereal features. "You realize this is supposed to scare you straight, right? Not make you more excited about overeating yourself into oblivion?"

But Stiles was already lost in his thoughts, imagining just how much more he could eat if he really committed. His eyes gleamed with mischief, and he reached out a hand to stroke his distended stomach suggestively.

The ghost just groaned. "You know what? Forget it. Good luck, kid."

And with that, he vanished in a puff of smoke, leaving Stiles grinning in the dark like a madman.

Chapter Text

The holidays at the Stilinski household were always something of a marvelous caloric bacchanalia of pies, cookies, cakes, and mountains of holiday fare that could feed an entire neighborhood. Well more than for the rest of the year. Stiles and the Sheriff, in particular, were in their element. Gluttony was a sport in their household, and this time of year was the playoffs.

Scott had long gotten used to these holiday rituals. Ever since hanging out at the Stilinskis’ during middle school, he’d grown comfortable with their way of life—including their habits of overstuffing themselves to the point of immobility. He couldn’t quite remember when his waistline had expanded from "athletic" to "chubby" to, well, "more than chubby." But here he was now, planted on the Stilinskis’ living room couch, shirt snug around his belly, polishing off yet another slice of pecan pie without a second thought. He didn’t mind the extra weight anymore; honestly, he kind of enjoyed it. It made fitting in with the Stilinskis just that much easier.

Derek, though—Derek was another story entirely.

It had started at Thanksgiving. One lunch at the Stilinski’s turned into an invitation to stay for dinner, which turned into an invitation to stay for dessert, which turned into… well, Stiles' famous pumpkin pie wasn't something anyone with taste buds could resist. After all, Stiles himself reminded Derek that holidays were about enjoying yourself.

And enjoy himself, Derek did. For Thanksgiving, and for Christmas. And for every meal in between, it seemed, as he got wrapped up in the season and the overwhelming cheer of the Stilinski home. He was practically drowning in pies, casseroles, cookies, and warm drinks filled with cream and sugar. And there was always Scott or Stiles there, pushing just another piece of pie towards him or reminding him that they weren’t stopping anytime soon, so he might as well just enjoy it.

Sixty pounds, that was the tally. He knew, because he’d reluctantly stepped on the bathroom scale that morning, just to confirm what the extra love handles and tightening pants were already telling him. Derek had put on a good sixty pounds of soft, jiggly weight since Thanksgiving. He squeezed his belly in disbelief, feeling the heft of it—a round, protruding bulge where there had once been a solid wall of muscle. His arms and chest had thickened too, muscle turned to soft padding, and his face had filled out, giving him a rounder, almost boyish appearance.

Stiles, of course, only laughed, giving Derek’s midsection a playful poke. “Don't worry about it, dude. Come spring, we’ll all be back to our usual selves,” he said, though Stiles’ own round belly rounder and displayed suggested that "usual" might not mean "lean" anymore.

And Derek believed it, in a way. He’d lose it, sure. He’d just have to wait until all the tempting plates stopped being pushed in front of him… 

Chapter Text

Last day of the year meant one last binge, and the three of them were leaning all the way into it. Stiles had set up the living room: snacks piled high, BBQ wings steaming hot, and plates of loaded nachos. It wasn't just about the feast, though; it was about seeing which one of his boyfriends had managed to pack on the most weight by the end of 2024. Scott and Derek had taken Stiles' challenge way too seriously—and Stiles was loving every second of it.

"Alright, boys," Stiles said, lounging on the couch and sipping from his soda. "Time for the final weigh-in of 2024. Who's it gonna be? The Alpha with the belly that just won't quit, or the Sourwolf with hips that need their own zip code?"

Derek huffed, but his smirk betrayed him. He stood up slowly, his heavyset frame jiggling as he moved. He had to adjust his stance to accommodate his thick thighs and the expanding curve of his backside.

Scott, on the other hand, was already wheezing from laughter, his round face flushed. He gave his enormous belly a pat, sending ripples across his protruding gut. "I dunno, Stiles," he said, grinning. "I think Derek's in trouble. I've practically turned into a planet." He leaned back in his chair, the legs groaning under his weight. His belly spread out onto his lap, his legs forced apart by its sheer size. Stiles struggled to even get his arms around it these days—not that he wasn't trying every chance he got.

"Alright, big guys, let's make this official," Stiles announced, pointing dramatically at the scale they'd set up in the middle of the room. Derek took a deep breath and stepped forward, his hips swaying as he walked. He took his time getting onto the scale, making a show of it. The numbers blinked, then settled. Scott leaned over, trying to peek past Derek's shoulder, but all he could do was bumping his belly on the rise of Derek's round butt.

"Three hundred and... seventy-five!" Stiles called out, clapping his hands in delight. Derek's cheeks flushed, but he smiled proudly. He'd started the year at 290, so it was quite an achievement—depending on how you looked at it.

Scott waddled up next, his massive belly bouncing with each step. The numbers blinked again, and Stiles whistled low. "Three hundred and... eighty-two! Scott takes it!"

Scott threw his hands up in triumph, his belly jiggling as he laughed. "Told you, Derek! All those extra midnight heavy cream paid off."

Derek rolled his eyes, though he couldn't hide his smile. Stiles hopped up, wrapping his arms around Scott's middle. "Looks like you're the champ this year, big guy," he said, giving Scott's belly a playful rub. Then he turned to Derek, giving him a mischievous grin. "But don't worry, Sourwolf. There's always next year."

Derek snorted, but his eyes were soft as he looked at Stiles and Scott. "Yeah, yeah. Next year, I'll show you both."

Stiles grinned. "That's the spirit. Now, who wants wings?"

Chapter Text

The morning started with the smell of cinnamon rolls and roasted meat. Just like every October in Beacon Hill. Beacon Hill Annual Fair.

Beacon Hills had always had its fairs, but this year’s Harvest Festival was something else entirely.

When he arrived at the fairgrounds, his jaw went slack. Not because of the number of food stalls. But because of the people already eating.

Not just eating. Shoving. Stuffing. Crams and gulps and grease-slick hands.

“Jesus Christ,” Noah muttered, stepping out of his car.

They weren’t just eating. They were attacking the food like animals, shoving it into their mouths with both hands, face-first when necessary. Suits and dresses were torn, discarded, nothing left but sweat-slick skin bulging with fresh rolls of fat. A man crouched by a cart of corn dogs, so bloated his belly spilt onto the pavement, snorting and grunting as he stuffed them down like a hog at a trough. A woman on all fours slurped melted ice cream directly from the ground, her ass jiggling in massive, pale waves.

Noah’s radio crackled uselessly. Dead static. Great. Of course, it’s dead today of all days.

“Beacon Hills PD! Everyone—” Noah tried, his voice getting swallowed by the guttural symphony of chewing and moaning. His stomach growled, embarrassingly loud.

Noah caught himself staring at a funnel cake stand. The powdered sugar clung to the warm air in visible clouds, sparkling like snowflakes. His throat tightened. His mouth flooded with saliva.

“No,” he muttered. “No, no, no. I’m the Sheriff. I’m here to—”

The next thing he knew, his hands were full of funnel cake.

“Ohhhh, God,” he groaned around the first bite. The dough was hot and soft, dissolving on his tongue. Powdered sugar-coated his lips, his chin, his chest. He didn’t even care. He didn’t stop. He ate another. And another. His fingers were sticky, but the stand never seemed to run out.

By the time he came up for air, his shirt buttons were straining. The bottom two had already popped off. His belly—rounder than it had been this morning—spilt forward over his belt. His thighs rubbed together when he shifted. He wiped his greasy mouth on his sleeve and grabbed another cake.

He needed it.

Noah watched as two men fought over a tray of cheeseburgers. Not with words or fists, but with flabby, clumsy lunges and wordless grunts. When the tray fell to the ground, they dropped to their knees and ate off the asphalt, drool dripping down their chins.

“Foo-~burrRRPP~-ood,” one of them mumbled, his tongue too thick for proper speech.

The other just moaned and kept chewing.

Everywhere Noah looked, there were scenes like that. People stripped to their underwear or completely naked, their swollen bodies slick with sweat and grease. Bellies so big they rested on the ground. Faces slack and stupid, eyes glazed with nothing but hunger.

And he was one of them.

““Thish ishn’t—this'h is-~BBBRRRpp~-hn’t'sh poshsible,” he wheezed, but his eyes locked on a cart stacked with corn dogs, and his mouth watered. He lunged before he could think, grabbing two, three, four at once. His resolve did not even try to stop him.

“Hell with it-~ROOORRPPP~-,” he panted, biting into the dripping, fried meat. ““Jusht… ...*mmpphhff*... hell ~gurrrPP~ with it.”.”

By midday, Noah’s uniform was shredded. His gut was a massive, wobbling dome, hanging so low it brushed the tops of his knees. Each breath came with a wheezing rattle. His arms were thick and heavy, barely able to lift the food he never stopped eating. His jaw ached from chewing, but stopping wasn’t an option. Not when there was so much more.

He rounded a corner—and froze.

“S-~urrrRRPPP~-tiileesh?”

His son lay sprawled on what had once been a table. Except now, it was mostly… Stiles. His gut rose, like a pale, mountainous dome, under him. It rose so high his limbs barely grazed the ground, toes twitching uselessly in the air.

Stiles’ mouth moved constantly. Food disappeared into it as fast as he could shovel it in. His cheeks were so stuffed they barely opened and closed. Grease slicked his chins, drool dripping into the folds of his neck.

“Da-~bworrRRPPp~-ad!!” he belched loudly, voice warped by the food jammed in his mouth. “D’you… you go-~gurrRRPPP~-tta… ...*mmphh*... friieed ...*nff*... cheeshecake, ‘sh—fuuckiin' ~grrrrRRPPp~ unr-~burRRPPpp~-eal—”

Noah stumbled closer, his own gut dragging on the ground now, leaving a wet, greasy trail. He reached for his son, but halfway there, he spotted a toppled tray of pork ribs.

He dropped to his knees and began eating like a beast.

Behind his mountainous son, something massive shifted.

Derek Hale sat like a blob. Sat, because standing was impossible. His ass had grown so wide, so unimaginably massive, it spread out around him in rolls and mounds of pale flesh, pinning him like an anchor. His arms flailed uselessly as he strained to reach a vat of frosting just out of range.

“Guuhh-~blurrRRPPP~-h… ...*hmphh*... fooood…” Derek moaned, spit bubbling at the corners of his slack mouth. His eyes rolled back as someone shoved the tub closer, and he face-planted directly into it.

Stiles giggled, high and manic. “Hee-~gurrrPP~-—hee ~blurrRRPPP~ caa-~gurrRRPPP~-n’t'sh ...*whimper*... eeveen ...*hmphhh*... w-~HRRPPphh~-alk aanymooree!” he crowed, bits of half-chewed pastry flying from his mouth.

Noah should have been horrified. Instead, his own laughter joined his son’s, and he opened his mouth to keep the feast pouring in.

Hmm, ribs