Chapter Text
Weight tracker - Day 1
• Current weight: 64 kg (141 lbs)
• Gained this month: 0 kg (0 lbs)
• Total gained since day 1: 0 kg (0 lbs)
The penthouse was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning and the distant sound of traffic eleven floors below. Los Angeles stretched out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a sea of lights fading into the hazy purple of early evening. Harry stood in the kitchen, leaning against the marble island, watching Louis scroll through his phone on the oversized sectional couch.
They had been married for four years. Together for eight. Harry still caught himself staring.
Louis was fit. Not gym-obsessed, not a bodybuilder, but lean in the way that came naturally to someone who moved well and ate reasonably. His arms had definition. His jaw was sharp. His stomach — when he stretched or when his shirt rode up — was flat with the faintest suggestion of abdominal lines. He looked good. He knew it. Harry knew it.
But something had changed in the last few weeks. Harry had noticed it in small ways. Louis lingering a little longer over dessert. Louis glancing at his own reflection with something that wasn't dissatisfaction but wasn't quite contentment either. Louis saying things like, "I wonder what it would be like" and trailing off before finishing the thought.
Tonight, Louis put his phone down and looked at Harry with an expression that meant he had been thinking about something for a while.
"Can I ask you something?" Louis said.
Harry set down the knife he had been using to slice vegetables. "You just did. But go ahead."
Louis smiled — a small, almost nervous smile. He patted the couch cushion next to him. Harry crossed the room and sat down, close enough that their thighs touched. Louis looked at the windows, then at his own hands, then at Harry.
"What would you say," Louis started slowly, "if I told you I wanted to gain weight?"
Harry blinked. He had expected many things — a vacation request, a conversation about work, maybe something about the neighbors. Not this.
"Gain weight?" Harry repeated.
"Just for a while," Louis said quickly. "Not forever. I just... I don't know. I've been thinking about it. About what it would feel like to not be so... controlled all the time. With food. With my body."
Harry was quiet. His mind was racing, but his face stayed calm. That was one of the things Louis loved about him — the steadiness.
"You're fit," Harry said. "You've always been fit. Why would you want to change that?"
Louis shrugged. "That's exactly why. I've always been fit. I've never not been fit. I've never known what it feels like to have a soft belly. To not care about how many calories are in something. To just... eat. Without thinking."
Harry turned so he was facing Louis fully. "You want to eat without thinking?"
"I want to try it," Louis said. "I want to see what happens. Just for a month or two. I can always lose it later. You know I can. I've done it before."
Harry did know. Louis had fluctuated within a ten-pound range for their entire relationship. He had discipline. If he wanted to lose weight, he would.
But that wasn't what made Harry's chest tighten. It was something else. Something he didn't have a name for yet.
"Okay," Harry said.
Louis's eyebrows went up. "Okay? Just okay?"
"You asked me what I would say. I'm saying okay. If you want to gain weight, I'll help you. I'll cook for you. I'll buy the groceries. I'll be here."
Louis leaned over and kissed Harry's cheek. "I love you."
"I love you too," Harry said. And he meant it. But underneath the words, something stirred. Something he didn't understand.
The first week was slow.
Louis didn't want to jump into anything drastic. He was still thinking of this as an experiment — something to try, not something to commit to. Harry respected that. He made Louis's usual meals, just slightly larger portions. An extra spoonful of rice. An extra drizzle of olive oil. A handful of nuts between meals that Louis wouldn't have reached for before.
They didn't talk about it constantly. That was part of the agreement. This was normal life, just with a little more food.
On the third day, Louis stepped on the bathroom scale. He had gained half a pound. He looked at the number, then at Harry, and smiled.
"It's working," Louis said.
"It's barely anything," Harry said.
"It's something. It's a start."
Harry kissed his forehead. "We'll get you there. Slow."
The first real meal — the one that would become a turning point — happened on a Saturday night.
Harry had spent the afternoon shopping. He came back with bags full of ingredients he didn't usually buy: heavy cream, full-fat cheese, butter in blocks, pasta that wasn't whole wheat, cuts of meat with more marbling. He arranged everything on the marble counter, took a breath, and started cooking.
Louis came into the kitchen around seven, drawn by the smell. He was wearing soft sweatpants and an old t-shirt. His hair was messy. He looked comfortable in a way that made Harry's chest ache.
"What are you making?" Louis asked, peering over Harry's shoulder.
"Pasta carbonara. The real kind. With pancetta, eggs, pecorino, and more black pepper than is probably reasonable."
Louis raised an eyebrow. "That sounds heavy."
"That's the point."
Louis didn't argue. He sat at the small breakfast bar and watched Harry work. The kitchen was warm. The windows were dark now, reflecting their own images back at them. Harry moved with the ease of someone who had cooked a thousand meals — because he had.
When the pasta was ready, Harry plated it. Two plates. One with a normal portion for himself. One with significantly more for Louis.
Louis looked at his plate, then at Harry's. "That's a lot."
"You don't have to finish it," Harry said. "Just eat until you're comfortable."
Louis picked up his fork. Twirled the pasta. Took a bite.
The carbonara was rich. Creamy. Salty from the pancetta, sharp from the cheese. The pepper hit the back of his throat in a way that made him want another bite immediately. He took another. Then another.
Harry ate his own meal slowly, watching Louis over the rim of his water glass. He wasn't staring — not obviously. But he was noticing. The way Louis's cheeks moved when he chewed. The way his throat worked when he swallowed. The way he paused after the fifth bite, looked at the remaining pasta, and kept going.
Halfway through the plate, Louis slowed down.
"I'm getting full," he said.
"That's fine. Stop whenever."
Louis pushed the pasta around his plate. Took another bite. Then another.
"I said you don't have to finish it," Harry said gently.
"I want to," Louis said. "It's good."
He finished the plate. Every bite. When he set his fork down, he leaned back in his chair and put a hand on his stomach. His t-shirt, which had been loose when he sat down, was now visibly tighter across his midsection.
"Wow," Louis said. "I'm bloated."
"Carbonara will do that."
"No, I mean... really bloated. Feel this."
Louis took Harry's hand and placed it on his stomach. Under the fabric, his belly was firm — not soft, not fat, but distended from the volume of food. It pushed out slightly against Harry's palm.
Harry's breath caught.
He couldn't explain why. It was just a stomach full of pasta. It happened to everyone after a big meal. But something about the way Louis looked — comfortable, satisfied, unguarded — made Harry's heart beat faster.
"See?" Louis said. "I'm like a balloon."
Harry laughed, but it came out breathier than he intended. "You're not a balloon."
"I feel like one. I don't think I've ever been this full."
Louis stood up. The movement was slow, careful. His hand stayed on his stomach. He walked to the couch and sat down heavily, his posture different than usual — leaning back, letting his belly relax instead of holding it in.
Harry cleared the plates. His hands were steady, but his mind was not.
He kept replaying the feeling of Louis's stomach under his palm. The warmth. The slight resistance. The way Louis had guided Harry's hand there without hesitation, as if it were natural.
Maybe it was natural. Maybe Harry was overthinking this.
He put the dishes in the dishwasher and joined Louis on the couch. Louis had his head tipped back, eyes half-closed, one hand still resting on his belly. His breathing was slow. Deep.
"Are you okay?" Harry asked.
"I'm so full," Louis murmured. "It's kind of uncomfortable. But also... not bad? I don't know how to explain it."
"You don't have to explain it."
"No, I want to." Louis opened his eyes. "It's like... I can feel the food inside me. Every bite. And it's heavy, but it's also... proof? Proof that I ate. Proof that I'm doing what I said I would do."
Harry reached out and touched Louis's cheek. His skin was warm. Flushed.
"One meal," Harry said. "That's all this is."
"I know. But it's the first one. The first real one."
Louis turned his head and kissed Harry's palm. Then he closed his eyes again and let his breath even out.
Harry sat beside him, watching the rise and fall of Louis's chest. The gentle curve of his stuffed belly under the t-shirt. The way his lips were slightly parted, soft and relaxed.
Something was changing. Harry didn't know what yet. But he felt it — a pull, a curiosity, a heat low in his stomach that had nothing to do with the food he had eaten.
He pushed it down.
This was about Louis. About helping Louis try something new. His own feelings didn't matter.
That night, they went to bed early. Louis was still full, still moving slowly. He lay on his back with one hand on his stomach and the other reaching for Harry.
"I liked that," Louis said quietly in the dark. "The meal. Feeling full. I want to do it again."
"Okay," Harry said. "We'll do it again."
"Maybe tomorrow?"
"If that's what you want."
Louis was quiet for a moment. Then: "I want to get bigger. Not just full. Actually bigger. Is that crazy?"
Harry stared at the ceiling. His heart was pounding.
"No," he said. "It's not crazy."
"Good." Louis squeezed his hand. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
Harry didn't sleep for a long time. He lay there listening to Louis breathe — slow, deep, peaceful — and tried to understand the feeling that had settled into his bones.
It wasn't concern. It wasn't reluctance. It was something closer to anticipation.
He wanted to see Louis eat like that again. He wanted to see Louis full again. He wanted to press his palm against that tight, warm belly and feel how much Louis had taken.
The thought should have scared him. Instead, it made him smile in the dark.
Whatever this was, they would figure it out together.
The second week was different.
Louis was more relaxed about food. He stopped checking labels. He stopped turning down the bread basket at restaurants. He ate what he wanted, when he wanted, and Harry was there to make sure there was always enough.
Harry cooked every night. Nothing extreme — just bigger portions, richer ingredients. Roast chicken with extra butter under the skin. Mashed potatoes with cream instead of milk. Vegetables roasted in olive oil and topped with shaved cheese.
Louis ate it all. Not quickly. Not greedily. Just steadily, consistently, bite after bite.
By the end of the second week, the scale showed a gain of just over two pounds. His body looked the same to anyone else. But Louis noticed something when he was in the shower, running his hands over his stomach. The skin felt different. Softer. Not fat — not yet — but less tight than it used to be.
He mentioned it to Harry that night while they were getting ready for bed.
"I think I'm getting softer," Louis said, poking his own belly.
Harry looked up from brushing his teeth. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know. It just feels... less firm. Here." Louis took Harry's hand and placed it on his lower stomach. "Feel."
Harry pressed lightly. Under his palm, the skin was warm and yes — softer than he remembered. Not a lot. Just a little. A tiny give that hadn't been there a week ago.
"I feel it," Harry said.
"It's not fat," Louis said quickly. "It can't be fat yet. It's only been two weeks."
"It's just softer," Harry agreed. "That's all."
But both of them knew what softer meant. It meant the beginning. The first small step toward something else.
Louis let go of Harry's hand. "I like it," he said quietly.
"Good," Harry said. "Because there's more coming."
Louis smiled. "I hope so."
The third week brought the first real discomfort.
Louis wasn't used to eating more than his body wanted. For years, he had stopped when he was satisfied. Now he was pushing past that — not to extremes, not to pain, but to a place where he could feel the food sitting in his stomach.
After a dinner of lasagna, garlic bread, and a second helping of tiramisu, Louis lay on the couch with his knees bent and his hands pressed to his middle.
"I overdid it," he said.
Harry sat on the floor beside the couch, his back against the cushions. "You don't have to finish everything I make."
"If you make it, I want to eat it. It's too good to leave."
"Then we'll make smaller portions."
"No." Louis shook his head. "I want the portions. I just need to get used to them."
He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. His belly — still soft, still only a few pounds heavier than before — pressed against his waistband. He unbuttoned his jeans and sighed with relief.
"That's better," he said.
Harry looked at the strip of pale skin exposed by the open button. The gentle curve of Louis's lower belly. The way the waistband of his boxer briefs cut into the softness.
"Do you want some water?" Harry asked.
"Yeah. Thanks."
Harry went to the kitchen. He stood at the sink for a moment, filling a glass, and let himself feel what he was feeling.
He wanted to touch Louis's belly again. Not just a casual brush. He wanted to hold it. Palms flat. Feel the warmth. Feel the fullness.
The thought made him hard.
He adjusted himself before returning to the couch. Louis took the water, drank half, and set the glass on the floor.
"Come here," Louis said, reaching for Harry.
Harry lay down next to Louis on the couch. It was a tight fit — their bodies pressed together, Harry's chest against Louis's side. Louis took Harry's hand and placed it on his own belly.
"Keep me company," Louis said. "I'm going to be here for a while."
Harry's palm rested on the soft curve. Under the skin, he could feel the slow churn of digestion. The warmth. The weight.
He didn't move his hand for twenty minutes.
Louis fell asleep. Harry stayed awake, feeling Louis breathe, feeling his belly rise and fall, feeling the strange and undeniable want building inside him.
This was not nothing.
This was something.
He just didn't know what to call it yet.
The next morning, Louis stood in front of the bathroom mirror. He turned sideways. Looked at his profile.
There was no visible change. Not really. His stomach was still flat when he was empty. His jaw was still sharp. His arms still had definition.
But he knew something was different. He could feel it when he sat down — a slight pressure, a new softness against his waistband. He could feel it when he touched his own side — a tiny bit of give that hadn't been there three weeks ago.
It wasn't fat. Not yet. It was just... less firm. A beginning.
Harry appeared in the doorway. "What are you looking at?"
"Nothing," Louis said. "Just checking."
"Checking what?"
Louis turned away from the mirror. "Checking if anything has changed."
"Has it?"
Louis thought about it. Three weeks of eating more. Three weeks of not working out. Three weeks of letting himself relax.
"A little," he said. "Not enough for anyone else to see. But I can feel it."
Harry stepped closer. He put his hands on Louis's waist. His thumbs pressed gently into the soft flesh above Louis's hipbones.
"I can feel it too," Harry said.
Louis leaned into the touch. "Does that bother you?"
Harry shook his head. "No."
"Good." Louis kissed Harry's forehead. "Because I'm not stopping."
"Then we keep going."
"Then we keep going."
Harry put his arm around Louis's waist. His hand found the soft curve of Louis's hip. It rested there, heavy and warm.
In the mirror, Louis smiled.
Harry smiled back.
But under the smile, Harry's mind was racing. He had a name for the feeling now. He had found it late at night, alone, scrolling through his phone while Louis slept.
The name was feederism.
And it scared him.
Not because it was wrong. Not because he was ashamed. Because he hadn't known it about himself. Because he had spent thirty-two years thinking he knew who he was, and now here was this new thing, this desire, this hunger that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with watching Louis eat.
He wasn't ready to say it out loud.
But he was ready to cook another meal.