Chapter 8: The Unstoppable Blob
The world had narrowed to a tunnel of sensation. Sight was a blur of greasy cardboard and the cracked plaster of the ceiling. Sound was the wet, rhythmic squelch from between his legs and his own labored breathing, a desperate wheeze that whistled past the bits of fried chicken coating his teeth. Touch was everything. The aching, glorious weight of himself, a continent of soft, warm fat that pinned him to the couch. The deep, internal grind of the silicone shaft buried in his ass. The constant, prickling heat under his skin, the Adiposine-X singing its siren song of more.
He was a prisoner in a palace of his own making. He could no longer stand. The attempt two days prior had ended in a terrifying, slow-motion collapse, his tree-trunk legs buckling, his mountainous gut leading the plunge into a nest of wrappers that had cracked like gunshots under his impact. He’d lain there for an hour, humiliated and gasping, before managing a pathetic, seal-like crawl back to his crater on the couch.
Now, he ruled his kingdom from his side. His belly was a true apron now, a slab of doughy, pale flesh that spilled over his thighs and pooled onto the cushion beside him, its underside damp with sweat. His moobs hung like swollen sacks, their dark nipples brushing against the shelf of his gut with every shallow breath. He fumbled a cold, greasy drumstick from the bucket balanced on his hip. He didn’t taste it. He just needed the mass, the act of chewing and swallowing, to feed the furnace inside him that burned hotter the fatter he got.
His hips rocked. A minute, tectonic shift. The dildo—thicker, longer than the first, a brutal black thing he’d ordered online—moved inside him. It wasn’t pleasure. It was necessity. The chemical itch had localized there, a screaming need for pressure, for fullness, that only the relentless stretch could temporarily soothe.
“C’mon… fuck…” he slurred, grease shining on his chin. He shoved the last of the drumstick into his mouth, crunched the bone, and swallowed. His free hand, fingers swollen like sausages, groped across the landscape of his belly and found the half-full pitcher of “Extreme Mass Gainer,” now lukewarm and congealing. He lifted it, drinking in thick, gagging gulps, the vanilla-chalk sludge a familiar cement in his throat. As he drank, he rocked harder.
The rhythm built. A clumsy, jolting cadence. Squelch-thud. Squelch-thud. Each inward thrust drove the air from his lungs in a soft oof. Each withdrawal brought a lewd, sucking pop. His neglected cock, trapped under the heavy overhang of his gut, was a distant, throbbing ache, leaking a constant stream of clear fluid that soaked into the matted feathers and greasy fabric beneath him.
He was close. He could feel the tight, electric coil in his base, the promise of release that now felt as necessary as breathing. He dropped the empty pitcher, his hand scrambling between the vast plain of his stomach and the couch, searching, fumbling, until his fingers closed around the sticky, neglected flesh of his cock. He gave a few rough, slick tugs.
The orgasm, when it crashed over him, was a seismic event. His entire massive frame seized, a tidal wave of fat quaking in a violent paroxysm. A broken, guttural roar tore from his throat, more animal than bird. His ass clamped viscously around the invading dildo, his cock pulsed weakly, adding another layer of stickiness to the ruin underneath him. For a full minute, he trembled, blind and deaf, lost in the raw, shuddering aftershocks.
When awareness seeped back, it brought only the itch. The emptiness. The need.
“More,” he whimpered, his voice hoarse and small. His bleary eyes scanned the debris field. Empty. All empty. The shakes were gone. The chicken was bones. The pizza boxes held only crusts.
Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the chemical haze. He patted the cushion around him, his movements frantic. His phone. Where was his phone? He needed to order. He needed to fill the void, now, before the need ate him alive from the inside. He started to heave himself, trying to shift his weight, to look. The couch groaned a wooden protest.
The front door clicked open.
Mordecai froze. The world, which had shrunk to the size of his stained couch, exploded violently outward. Light from the late afternoon sun sliced into the foul dimness of the room.
“Oh my god.” The voice was Rigby’s. But it wasn’t the scheming, greedy Rigby. It was thin. Hollow. Horrified.
Mordecai blinked, trying to focus on the silhouette in the doorway. It was Rigby, but a Rigby he barely recognized. He was slim. He was normal. He wore clean clothes. His eyes were wide with a disgust so profound it looked like physical pain.
“Mordecai?” The name was a whisper, a question for the unrecognizable thing on the couch.
“Rigby?” Mordecai croaked. A shame he hadn’t felt in weeks, a cold, drowning wave, rushed over him. He tried to pull the deflated pizza box beside him over his nakedness, but his arms were too heavy, too slow. The movement only made his fat jiggle obscenely. He became acutely aware of the dildo still lodged inside him, of the stench of sweat, spoiled milk, sex, and rotting food that hung in the air like a fog.
Rigby took a step inside, then stopped, his hand flying to his nose and mouth. “What… what did you do?” His eyes traveled over the mountain of Mordecai’s body, the ocean of trash, the empty canisters piled like skeletal trophies. “I was clean. I was at Eileen’s for a week. I’m clean.” He said it like a mantra, like he was trying to convince himself the vision before him wasn’t real.
“I… I just…” Mordecai began, but he had no words. The itch under his skin flared, screaming for a shake, for anything. His hand twitched, longing for his phone.
“You’re a fucking monster,” Rigby breathed, the words not angry, but awestruck with horror. “Look at you! You can’t even move!” His gaze caught the thick, black base of the dildo, barely visible between Mordecai’s colossal ass and the cushion. Rigby’s face contorted in revulsion. “Jesus Christ. Are you fucking yourself while you eat?”
“It’s the itch,” Mordecai mumbled, his eyes glazing over, drifting toward the kitchen. “It helps the itch. I need… Rigby, I need a shake. Order me some. Please.”
Rigby just stared. The friend he’d schemed with, the partner in crime, was gone. In his place was a bloated, helpless, desperate animal. The moral high ground Rigby had been carefully cultivating at Eileen’s crumbled into something far darker: a sick, fascinated pity.
“No,” Rigby said, but the word lacked force. He was still staring. “Eileen said… she said we were better. That we had to quit.”
“Just one,” Mordecai begged, a string of drool connecting his beak to his moob. “One protein shake. The new one. ‘Maximum Bloat.’ It’s got extra… extra stuff in it. For the ache.” He rubbed a trembling hand over the vast curve of his stomach, his eyes pleading.
Rigby took another step into the room. The disgust on his face was mingling with something else—a morbid curiosity, the same impulse that had made them try the first shake. He looked from Mordecai’s ruined body to the kitchen, where a single, unopened canister of “Maximum Bloat” sat on the counter, a final, forgotten temptation.
The silence stretched, thick and toxic.
In Mordecai’s glassy eyes, a desperate hope flickered.
In Mordecai’s glassy eyes, a desperate hope flickered.
“No,” Rigby said again, this time the word solidifying. He tore his gaze from the unopened canister. He looked instead at the sea of garbage, at the monumental ruin of his friend. A different energy seized him, brittle and frantic. “No shakes. No more. Look at this place. Look at you, dude. This ends now.”
He moved past the couch, his steps quick and angry. He snatched a black trash bag from under the sink, the plastic snapping open with a sound like a gunshot. He began to sweep armfuls of wrappers and empty cans into it, the crinkling and clattering violently loud in the stagnant room. “We’re cleaning this up. Tomorrow, we start a plan. Water. Vegetables. Walking, or… or rolling, or whatever the fuck we can manage. Eileen knows a guy.”
Mordecai watched him, the hope in his eyes dying, replaced by a slow-boiling panic. The movement, the noise, the denial—it all grated against the constant, subcutaneous scream for satiation. Every crinkle of a wrapper being stolen away felt like a personal violation. “Rigby, stop,” he whined, his voice a wet rasp. “You don’t understand the itch. It’s in my bones.”
“It’s the drugs, Mordecai! It’s the fucking powder!” Rigby yelled, not looking at him, stuffing a wad of pizza boxes into the bag. He was sweating now, the clean clothes feeling like a costume. “You’re not hungry. You’re addicted. We both were. I got out. You can too.” He said it like a prayer, bending to gather a cluster of empty pitchers near the couch’s edge.
He was within reach.
Mordecai’s breath hitched. The scent of Rigby—clean cotton, fresh air, normalcy—cut through the park-house stench. It was an affront. A taunt. That scent, that proximity, twisted the chemical need inside him into something new, something possessive and dark. Rigby had the power to bring him a shake. Rigby was choosing not to. Rigby was taking the garbage that Mordecai needed, that he’d earned.
His mind, swimming in syrup and hunger, made a single, brutal calculation.
Rigby reached for the final pitcher, his back turned.
Mordecai moved. It wasn’t the sluggish heave of before. It was a sudden, shocking lunge of mass, powered by adrenalized need. His arm, a thick pillar of mottled fat, shot out. His swollen hand clamped around Rigby’s forearm with a strength that shouldn’t have existed in that bloated body.
“Hey!” Rigby yelped, trying to pull back.
It was too late. Mordecai pulled. He used his own immense weight as an anchor, yanking Rigby off-balance. Rigby stumbled forward with a cry, knees hitting the couch edge, and then he was falling into the trench of cushions, into the hot, suffocating universe of Mordecai’s flesh.
Before Rigby could even draw breath to scream, Mordecai curled around him. It was a grotesque, enveloping motion. The massive apron of his belly flopped over Rigby’s legs, pinning them. His doughy arm wrapped around Rigby’s chest, squeezing. He pulled Rigby’s face into the swollen, sweating expanse of his left moob.
The heat was unbearable. The smell was a physical slap—salt, sour milk, and the cloying sweet chemical tang of the supplement leaching from every pore. Rigby thrashed, his muffled screams vibrating against the soft, heavy flesh.
“You wanna help?” Mordecai grunted, his voice thick and strange, right by Rigby’s ear. “You wanna fix me? Then take it. Take what I got.”
He shoved Rigby’s face harder against the pale, veined skin. Rigby’s lips mashed against the puffy, dark nipple. He gasped, inhaling a lungful of rancid body odor.
A drop of moisture beaded on the tip of Mordecai’s nipple. Not sweat. It was thicker, opalescent. It glistened. The scent of vanilla and artificial chocolate, unmistakably the “Extreme Mass Gainer,” bloomed in the intimate, horrible space between Mordecai’s flesh and Rigby’s face.
“Suck it,” Mordecai commanded, his hips giving a weak, involuntary grind, the forgotten dildo shifting inside him. “You took it all away. Now you drink it from the tap.”
He tightened his enfolding grip, a smothering, fleshy prison. Terrified, choking, and utterly trapped, Rigby’s mouth opened in a desperate gasp for air. The engorged nipple pressed past his lips. The moment his tongue touched it, a warm, bitter-sweet trickle hit his throat. It was the shake. It was coming out of Mordecai.
Rigby gagged, trying to twist his head away. Mordecai’s hand came up behind his head, fingers tangling in his fur, holding him fast. “Drink,” Mordecai moaned, a shudder of perverse relief racking his frame as the pressure on his swollen breast released slightly. Another thicker stream of the milky secretion welled out, coating Rigby’s tongue.
It was viscous, warmer than blood, and carried the exact synthetic vanilla-chocolate punch of the "Maximum Bloat" formula, concentrated into something deeply wrong. Rigby choked, his throat working reflexively. The liquid went down. A terrible, glowing warmth immediately kindled in his empty stomach.
“No,” he whimpered, the word muffled by flesh.
“Yes,” Mordecai sighed, his grip relaxing from a vise into a possessive hug. The relief on his face was beatific. The constant, maddening pressure in his swollen ducts was easing, transferring. “See? It helps. It fixes the itch. Just drink.”
Another pull. Rigby’s body fought itself. His mind screamed revulsion, a primal alarm. But his physiology, freshly cleansed of the supplement yet fundamentally altered by it, recognized the compound. His cells sang for it. The warmth in his gut spread, becoming a pulsating, greedy heat. A fuzzy, familiar comfort began to seep into the edges of his panic. The sheer, overwhelming horror of his situation blurred.
His suck became less a struggle and more an instinct.
He drew harder. The flow from Mordecai’s nipple increased, a steady, rich stream. Mordecai groaned, his head lolling back against the cushion. “Yeah. That’s it. Take it all, you skinny fuck. Fill up on me.”
Rigby’s hands, which had been braced and pushing against the blubbery shelf of Mordecai’s side, slackened. The fight drained from his muscles, replaced by a heavy, chemical lassitude. He swallowed gulp after gulp. The taste wasn’t just vanilla now. It was Mordecai—sweat, skin, the peculiar bitterness of his biology—all fused with the super-concentrated formula.
The changes started in his gut.
A soft, taut drumming began deep in his abdomen. It wasn’t gas. It was rapid, aggressive expansion. The flat plane of his stomach, recently toned by anxiety and Eileen’s health food, rounded. It pushed out against the fabric of his clean t-shirt, straining the seams.
“Feel it, don’t you?” Mordecai whispered, his own hand stroking the side of Rigby’s head as he nursed. “It’s going in deep. Making room.”
Rigby made a noise, a helpless, gurgling sound of pleasure-pain. His jaw ached from the sucking, but he couldn’t stop. The heat was everywhere now, a furnace stoking itself. His hips gave an involuntary jerk. He was hard, his cock pressing against his jeans, a traitorous response to the influx of corrupted nutrients.
His thighs thickened. He felt the denim of his pants bite into the suddenly swelling flesh. A ripping sound echoed softly in the nest as the inner seam of his right leg gave way. The fat was spiraling up his torso, inflating his back, softening the sharp lines of his shoulders. His face, still buried, began to fill out. His cheeks puffed, pressing against Mordecai’s soft breast.
Mordecai felt it happening. He felt the body in his arms becoming denser, heavier. A possessive, dizzy joy flooded him. He wasn’t alone in this anymore. “Good,” he slurred. “So good. Getting big for me. Blowing up nice.”
Rigby’s gulps became frantic, desperate. He was ravenous. The initial trickle wasn’t enough. He needed a flood. He clamped down on the nipple with a ferocity that made Mordecai yelp in surprised delight. He suckled like something starving, his hands now clutching at the rolls of Mordecai’s side, not to escape but to anchor himself as his own body warped.
A wave of intense, prickling fullness locked his spine. He tore his mouth free with a wet, popping sound, gasping for air. “What’s… happening?” he panted, his voice already thicker, slurred by his new cheeks.
“You’re coming back,” Mordecai said, grinning a rotten, knowing grin. He guided Rigby’s head to his other nipple. “The real you. The fat, greedy fuck who knows what’s good.”
Rigby latched on without hesitation. The secretion here was richer, mixed with the leaked sweat from their struggle. He drank it down. His t-shirt rode up as his belly ballooned outward, a pale, tight dome rising between them. The hem snapped against his new navel, now stretched and shallow.
The growth accelerated. It was visible. Audible. A faint creaking of overstressed skin. The soft, relentless sigh of fat cells multiplying at a cancerous rate. His ass, pressed against Mordecai’s thigh, spread and softened, swallowing the fabric of his pants. His moobs arrived not as buds but as sudden, pudgy mounds, stretching his shirt collar, their tips rubbing raw against the cotton.
He was passing 250 pounds, a threshold of mere chubbiness obliterated in moments. The couch, burdened by Mordecai’s monumental weight, now groaned under a new, increasing load. Rigby’s breaths came in wheezes. His fingers, dimpling with fat, fumbled at his own belt buckle. He couldn’t stand the constriction. He got it open, shoved his jeans and underwear down over his swelling hips just enough to free his aching cock.
He was massive there too, thick and heavy, lying against his new gut. Precum beaded at the tip in a constant weep. The need was different from Mordecai’s deep, internal itch. His was a swollen, fiery urgency, a demand for friction directly linked to the caloric explosion happening inside him.
“Fuck me,” Rigby grunted, the words mashed against Mordecai’s flesh. “Need it. Need to fucking cum.”
Mordecai laughed, a wet, phlegmy sound. He was spent, but triumphant. “Your show now, big guy.” With a great heave, he managed to roll slightly onto his back, displacing an avalanche of wrappers. The movement forced the dildo deeper inside him, making him gasp, but it created a space between their bodies.
Rigby, now a sloppy, inflating copy of his former self, didn’t need guidance. Instinct took over. He scrambled, his new weight clumsy and uncoordinated, mounting the cushion beside Mordecai’s hip. He didn’t look for lubrication. He spit into his own palm, a measly glob, and slicked his shaft. He positioned himself, one hand spreading the pale, doughy cheek of Mordecai’s ass aside, revealing the stretched, used hole still gripping the black dildo.
“Get that plastic shit out,” Rigby demanded, his voice a guttural rasp.
With a grunt of effort, Mordecai reached between his own legs, tugged, and the slick silicone toy slid free with a vulgar, sucking plop. The open cavity glistened, pulsing weakly.
Rigby didn’t wait. He guided his broad, leaking head to the entrance and pushed.
It was a brutal, dry intrusion. Mordecai shrieked, a sound of raw, tearing violation. Rigby was bigger than the toy, and feverish with chemical need. He shoved inward, his swollen belly mashing against Mordecai’s side fat, a suffocating sandwich of blubber. He bottomed out with a final, forceful grind, burying himself to the hilt.
“Fuck yes,” Rigby roared. “Tight. So fucking tight.”
He set a punishing pace immediately. No rhythm, just frantic, plunging drives. Each thrust jolted both their colossal forms, sending ripples and shockwaves through the interconnected masses of their flesh. The sound was wet flesh slapping against wet flesh, a sick, rhythmic cadence undercut by their combined wheezing.
“You’re so deep,” Mordecai babbled, his eyes rolling back. The fullness was astronomical, scratching the itch in a way the dildo never could. “Gonna make me fat. Pump it in. Make me bigger.”
Rigby fucked like an animal, his new moobs swinging, his face a mask of glazed-over hunger. He leaned down, biting at the loose skin of Mordecai’s neck, not in passion but in a frenzied need for anchorage. His balls, drawn up tight, slapped a steady beat against Mordecai’s taint.
The pressure built, a coil of white-hot wire in Rigby’s engorged groin. His thrusts became shorter, harder, brutal pistons. “Gonna cum,” he snarled, his teeth gritted. “Gonna fill your fucking gut.”
Mordecai wrapped his heavy arms around Rigby’s expanding back, feeling the new fat spread under his fingers. “Do it. Breed me full. Make us both huge.”
With a final, seismic drive, Rigby slammed home and froze. A raw, broken shout was torn from him. Inside Mordecai, he pulsed, jetting hot, thick streams of come deep into the channel already stretched and slick. Each spurt was a violent throb that shook his entire bloating frame.
As he came, the last of the super-concentrated formula in his system seemed to catalyze. A final, explosive surge of growth gripped him. His back widened, slabs of soft fat rolling over Mordecai’s embracing arms. His ass ballooned, splitting the remaining seams of his pants completely. The scale in his mind, broken and metaphorical, clicked past 300. He collapsed forward, a beached, gasping leviathan of fresh fat, his spent cock slipping out, followed by a slow, creamy trickle onto the ruined couch.
They lay there, a single, mountainous heap of overheated, reeking flesh. Two kings in a polluted nest. The park house was silent again, save for the sound of their struggling lungs and the gentle, ongoing creak of their bodies settling into their new, immense dimensions.