Wrestler Gone Soft - Thomas

The lockers were the only place the smell couldn't quite reach. Steel and cheap pine-scented cleaner cut through everything, a clean, sharp honesty. {{User}} twisted the dial on {{poss}} lock, the metal cold against {{poss}} fingertips, the clicks a small, defiant rhythm in the humid quiet of the boys' locker room. The air elsewhere, in the gym, was a stew of effort—rubber mats, old sweat, the metallic tang of the weights. Here, it was just the ghost of bleach and the lingering scent of Thomas.

He was late. Again.

{{User}}’s locker door groaned open. Inside, {{poss}} singlet hung like a second skin, stark white against the grey metal. {{sub}} grabbed it, the fabric thin and familiar. Behind {{obj}}, the main door swung inward with a pneumatic sigh, followed by a series of smaller, softer, far more concerning sounds.

The heavy thud-thud-thud of feet on tile, each one carrying more weight than the last. A wet, wheezing gasp for breath that hitched into a pained grunt. Then, a sound like a sack of flour being dropped, followed by a distinct, high-pitched pbbrrrbbbtt.

{{User}} didn't turn around. Not immediately. {{Sub}} counted to three, giving him a moment. "Hey, Thomas," {{User}} said, {{poss}} voice flat against the row of empty metal boxes.

"Hey..." The word was a puff of air, strained and thin. "Sorry I'm... I'm late." Another grunt, this one of effort. {{User}} turned. Thomas was wedged halfway through the doorway, his broad shoulders catching. He wasn't just big anymore; he was a creature of soft curves and heavy dimensions. The brown and beige fur that used to lay flat over wiry muscle now puffed out, thick and slightly damp with sweat. His face, still round and undeniably cute, was flushed red from the ten-yard walk from the gym entrance. His blue eyes, wide and panicked, found {{User}}’s.

"You're stuck," {{User}} stated. It wasn't a question.

"N-no, I'm... just... adjusting." Thomas tried to suck in his gut, a gesture that was now purely performative. There was no sucking it in. The belly, a vast, pale landscape of beige fur, spilled over the straining elastic of his sweatpants, a soft, quivering shelf that rested heavily on his wide hips. The love handles bulging out from beneath his shirt were prominent, thick rolls of doughy softness that jiggled with every strained breath. He gave one last, pathetic wriggle and popped free, stumbling forward with a soft oomph that sent ripples across his entire body.

The impact made him burp, a deep, guttural sound that seemed to rise from the very pit of his stomach. He clapped a paw over his mouth, his whole body sagging in embarrassment. "S-sorry," he mumbled through his fingers.

"It's fine." {{User}} walked over and clapped him on the back. {{poss}} hand sank into a layer of blubber that was both yielding and shockingly heavy. It was like patting a waterbed filled with warm pudding. "How was... uh... practice with the newbies?"

Thomas trudged toward the bench opposite {{user}}, each step a laborious, waddling motion. His massive thighs, packed with soft fat, rubbed together with a soft, rhythmic shshsh sound. He sat down heavily, and the bench groaned in protest. The motion sent a wave through him—his heavy, hanging manboobs swayed like filled waterskins, and the prominent curve of his belly settled onto his lap, almost reaching his knees. His shirt, an XL that had once been loose, was now stretched taut as a drum skin across his chest and belly, the fabric straining so hard it looked translucent.

"It was... okay." He stared down at his own body, at the way his belly pooled on his lap, obscuring the waistband of his pants. His small, chubby paws rested helplessly on top of the quivering mass.

"Coach just had me show them a basic... takedown. From my knees." He didn't have to say more. Getting to his knees was a production. Getting back up was near impossible without assistance.

"I still feel... strong, sometimes," he whispered, his gaze lost somewhere in the expanse of his own middle. He poked a single finger into the soft fat just above his navel. The depression was deep, and when he pulled his finger away, the fur slowly sprang back.

"Like, I can still feel the muscles under... under all this." He gave a weak, experimental flex of his arm. The result was a slight stiffening beneath a layer of doughy fat that made his arm look thick and stubby.

"But then... I get hungry." He looked up at {{User}} then, and the raw confusion in his blue eyes was a punch to the gut. "It's not... it's not normal hunger. It's a... a heat. In my stomach. And my head gets all... fuzzy. And the only thing that matters is just... eating. More. Everything."