Riker Fatfic

Bashirfaggot.
"Commander tell me about your sexual organs."

As he processed the request of the alien next to him, a sly grin came over the first officers face. His eyes sesnually glinted in time with the outside dots of light littering the space around the shuttlecraft.

"How about instead I show you?"

With nimble sausage like fingers Riker began to briskly unzip the top of his uniform giving way to a broad hair covered chest that trailed it's way down to a soft stomach that hung over the waistband of his uniform pants. His fingers then made quick work of his fly, and from it emerged a smooth member that reminded Soren of a pillar of polished marble.
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Bashirfaggot.
"But Commander, there is only one more piece left!"

You hold the last piece of rich cheesecake up to his mouth trying not to notice the way he tugs on the bottom of his uniform shirt. His face flushes red as he struggles to cover the bulge of pale flesh creeping over his waistline that the stretched hem of his uniform can no longer cover. Feigning ignorance of his embarrassment you slip the last decadent piece of desert between his lips. As the chocolate sauce topping hits his tongue you can hear a moan of contentment.

"Oh Commander, I'm so happy you liked my recipie!" you exclaim happily as you reach across the table to wipe away stray crumbs caught in his beard.
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Bashirfaggot.
"Run the bioscan again."

He managed to hold off on his annual checkup with Dr. Crusher for almost a year. It would have been another year, but a week ago she had cornered him in an elevator on his way to a late night snack at Ten Forward.

"Will, I ran it four times."

Everything came back normal. Heart was pumping, vision was 20/20, hearing was just as sharp as ever. It was just that one thing that had to be wrong.

105kg?

Looking down at his body, he runs his hands over his sides, feeling the tight fabric of his uniform tugging around newly discovered love handles. Sure he had gained a little bit of weight recently, nothing wrong with that a commanding officer should have some presence after all, but that much? He feels his cheeks flush as he remembers dinner last night in his cabin, and readily accepting the second piece of peanut butter cheesecake Ensign Aiko offered him.

"I already contacted engineering to have them change what you can access in your replicator. We're putting you on a diet."
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Anon.
"Ensign, I've got a job for you!"

You followed Commander Riker to his quarters. "You want me to... feed you dinner while you go over some data on your computer?"

He looked serious. "That's an order, ensign!" he said sternly before relaxing into that familiar warm smile of his.

Was it just you, or did he look... uh, heftier than usual? You examined his body from bottom to top. His pants looked tight on his thick thighs and big womanish ass. His plump gut, which had absorbed most of the extra weight, hung over his waistband and threatened to burst out of his shirt at any moment. His face looked fuller and you were pretty sure his beard hid a double chin. You thought the weight didn't look bad on him, proportioned well over his already bulky frame.

You sat down next to him at his desk and began popping chicken nuggets into his mouth one by one. He was too engrossed in his work to look at you, but he let out an occasional moan of pleasure. After having devoured the entire 50 piece nugget meal, including a large fry, he opened his mouth expectantly before looking at you.

"Oh, is that all? OK, dismissed. Nice work, ensign."
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Anon.
 >First officer's log, Stardate 40352.5. It's been a week since the away team and I began our stay on the alien planet. I woke up in a medical facility with no memory of what happened before. They explained to me that they found me unconscious, with injuries which they healed. Now they recommend I stay and get some rest. The other crew members report similar experiences. I'll admit I don't remember why we came here in the first place, but it will come to me.
>Not much is known about this planet. Their culture seems to emphasize leisure and self indulgence. The women rival those on Risa in their beauty, and seem to enjoy taking on a servile role. Indeed they have catered to my every whim since I got here, massaging and bathing me, tending to my uh... sexual needs, and even hand-feeding me every meal as well as snacks in between. There is scarcely a moment like this one where my mouth is not stuffed with delicious food. At first this was embarrassing, but I've come to find it pleasurable and even... intoxicating.
>Today's check-up showed that the injuries have healed and that my body is in good condition, except for one thing. I'll admit I've put on a bit of extra weight, mainly around my stomach. But it's normal to gain a little weight in recovering from an injury, and I can drop it in no time. The bioscan read 110 kg, but that can't be right.
>Though we aren't in much of a rush to return to the Starship... you know the name, the other crew members and I will be back in no time, doing what we uh, used to do there. I'm drawing a blank right now but it will come to me.
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Bashirfaggot.
"Commander, is there some kind of famine coming?"

"Data what are you talking about?"

"Commander, it is my understanding that the typical human metabolic system will anticipate times when food is scarce and slow down in the process. Seeing as how there has been an increase in your lipid production, resulting in excess adipose settling mainly in your midsection, I had assumed that famine for the crew might be imminent."
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Anon.
 Commander Riker groaned as he changed into his dress uniform. The fabric was skin tight around his broad chest and shoulders. He sucked in his stomach and began to pull the fabric down, managing to reach mid-thigh level. He could feel the tunic squeeze his thick legs together. He let his stomach out and felt the fabric strain itself over his pudgy gut. The full-figured first officer turned sideways and looked himself over in the mirror with a sigh. He never really noticed the full extent of his weight gain, the pajama-like everyday uniforms a bit more forgiving to his thickening waistline. He worried about the kind of impression he would make, his dress tunic looking more like a cocktail dress, emphasizing every roll of plump flesh.
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Bashirfaggot.
You will never wake up next to Riker, arms wrapped around his stomach, face nuzzled into his beard that smells like old 21st century Earth soap, his soft body radiating heat. You will never have to leave him in order to get up and replicate him a French toast and bacon breakfast that you feed to him in bed, kissing his lips laced with the lingering sweet taste of maple syrup between bites, only to have this blissful morning ritual interrupted by the Captian saying that the holodeck malfunctioned for the third time this week and the rogue Moriartiy AI is trying to kill the crew again and all senior officers need to report to the brige.
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Anon.
"Computer, run program... You know the one."

The Holodeck turned into a Denny's, a restaurant from 21st century Earth which specialized in breakfast dishes. There were no people there except Counselor Troi, her face barely visible behind a large stack of pancakes. Riker pulled up a chair in front of her, resting his chin in his palms and smiled. She held a forkful of pancake, covered in butter and syrup to his mouth as he happily devoured it. He savored each and every bite, licking his lips and trying to wipe the sticky sweet syrup from his beard.

As he reached the end of the stack, he began to feel a bit full. As Deanna inserted a strip of bacon into his eager mouth, he looked down and noticed his uniform shirt riding up his stomach. At least an inch of pale, plump flesh could be seen hanging over his waistband. His face felt hot as he tried to pull his overstretched shirt down over his plump gut, and looked up at Deanna and laughed.

"Why am I embarrassed? You're not real!"
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Anon.
When Deanna asked Will if she could romantically pursue his transporter-created clone, he said it was fine. But it wasn't fine. Ever since Thomas came aboard, all Deanna's attention was on him with none left for Will. How come Deanna was no longer interested in him at all? What happened to him in the last eight years to make him pale in comparison to Thomas?

To make matters worse, Will had taken to stress-eating to make himself feel better. It had gone from nightly binges at Ten Forward to nonstop snacking throughout the day. There was hardly a moment where he was not popping food into his mouth in an attempt to satisfy his expanding stomach that required more and more to feel full.

All of this took a toll on Will's body. His stomach protruded a couple inches in front of him, hanging slightly over the waistband of his uniform pants. Love handles padded his sides and his shirt rode up over them whenever he bent down. The once identical Rikers now had a 10-kilo disparity between them. Will knew that any shred of physical attraction Deanna (and any other women in Starfleet, for that matter) had for him must have disappeared. It made his heart sink as he stuffed himself with donuts knowing he would just pile on more weight.
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Bashirfaggot.
"Will you have to take your shirt off. It's how you play strip poker."

You sit there in nothing but your bra and panites, a grin across your face and a royal flush laying before you on the table. The apples of his soft cheeks flush a red one shade lighter than his uniform. So much for that poker face William Riker is famous for.

He looks around the room, a diligent first officer assesting probable threats as though it weren't just the two of you alone in your quarters, and slowly but surely he reaches for the bottom hem of his uniform shirt. The fabric sticks to the curves of his body, and he grunts as he struggles with the garment.

While his head is half way in his shirt you move across the room and quietly slip into his lap, your knees digging into his fleshy sides, and you slip a finger in between his his warm and soft skin and the oppressively tight uniform. I mean you are part of the reason why he can't even fit in his uniform aren't you? The least you could do was help him with the damn thing.
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Bashirfaggot.
Desperate to get out of the restricting formal uniform, he ended up finding his old workout outfit from his days on Starfleet Academy's anbo jyutsu team. A pair of grey sweatpants and a sweat stained t-shirt with the kanji 星 plastered on the front. The sweatpants had fit fine, sure the waistband was digging into him a little bit, but isn't that expected after not wearing them for so long?

It was the shirt that was the real problem. As much as he tugged at the shirts end he couldn't seem to get it down all the way. No matter how hard he tried there was a sliver of flesh that his shirt couldn't hide creeping over the waistband of his ever so slightly. It came down to just below his belly button, where the shirt was pulled so taut it's indentation could be seen through the fabric.

He rubs the hand over the dome of his slightly bloated stomach smearing a greasy stain of leftover wing sauce onto the white cotton fabric. It didn't make sense. He weighed as much now as he did during his anbo jyutsu days.

"Will honey, is everything okay?" you ask leaning against the bedroom door with a plate of buffalo wings in your hands. You do your best to ignore his obvious love handles or the fleck of ranch dressing on his beard. "You didn't finish your dinner."
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Anon.
"Will, you're fat."

The words still burned in his head, hours after they had left Dr Crusher's lips. That wasn't true, he thought as he briskly walked down the hall. She just wanted to hurt him. Sure, his uniform felt a little tighter and was harder to get in and out of, but he was under a lot of stress. It was normal for him to gain a little weight. It wasn't that much, he told himself as he tried to ignore the feeling of his stomach jiggling slightly and the sound of his thighs brushing together.

As soon as he got to his quarters he collapsed onto his bed to catch his breath. With some struggle he removed his restrictive uniform and put on his blue silk pajamas. Having worked up a bit of a sweat, he dragged himself to his replicator.

"Ice cream. Cherry Garcia. Cold."
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Bashirfaggot.
Whenever the commander stayed over in your quarters he packed lightly, just a toothbrush and then you would replicate him a pair of pajamas. That's the way it worked, and normally it worked fine, it was that this time your replicator was recently reset after the latest ship wide malfunction, and the only pattern you had for men's pajamas was slightly inconvenient.

It was a pair of cotton button down pajama's that looked straight from a 21st century history book, only it was a pair three sizes too small for the current occupant. Soft flesh pressed against the center seam of his shirt creating little diamonds of fat that tugged at the buttons barely keeping everything together. The indentation of his belly button could be seen through the fabric pulled taut across his soft stomach that hung over the elastic waistline of the pajama pants currently digging into the rolls above his hips.

"Are your sure your replicator isn't still broken?"

"Pretty sure why? I replicated you a medium like you asked."

Redness creeps across his cheeks as he tries to pull down his shirt to cover his exposed stomach. Grunting he desperately tugs at the fabric. The bottom of his shirt is just about over the belly button when it happens, one of the buttons finally pops off and goes flying across the room causing soft flesh to cascade forward and now cover his waistband entirely.

"I'll call Miles in the morning to fix it," you say pressing up against his soft warm body as you go in for a lingering kiss that tastes a lot like rocky road ice cream.
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Anon.
Commander Riker lay awake in bed. He hasn't gotten a good night's sleep in weeks. He loved his job, but the stress of being first officer on a starship was starting to get to him. He remembered Dr Crusher's advice and got up to replicate a hot milk toddy. It tasted a bit too sweet for him, but it gave him the idea that maybe a midnight snack would help him get to sleep.

He replicated a whole pizza with the intention of only eating a few slices. He ate absentmindedly, his exhausted mind wandered as he processed the day's events, thought about the stares he had been getting from the female crewman. They weren't the usual sweet eyes he always got. In little time he had devoured all but one slice of pizza. At this point he began to notice his fullness and felt a bit tired. He went to the sink to splash some water on his face and looked at the embarrassingly out of shape man in the mirror. His once loose fitting blue silk pajamas hugged his bloated stomach, his chubby sides outlined by the snug fabric. He was too busy with work to worry about his thickening waistline. It's not unusual to gain a little weight from stress and lack of sleep, he thought. Eyelids heavy (among other things) he polished off the last slice of pizza and his hot drink and went right to sleep.
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Bashirfaggot.
In the four days you and the Commander have been on Risa he still hasn't taken his shirt off. I mean it's not like you two have actually gone to the beach together yet. Everytime you try and drag him down to the water,he just cocks his head to the side and scratches at an imaginary itch on his face, think fingers sinking into soft and flushed cheeks.

"I'd prefer to just relax here. I'll join you for dinner," he says and places a kiss on your forehead. His beard makes contact with your skin, and it tickles enough to send shivers down your spine.

Dinner is the same all the time. All inclusive all you can eat buffet, and by the time you get back from the beach he's just sitting down from a second trip to the made to order Klingon food station. Four empty plates lay cleaned on the table while four new ones are brought over, one in each hand and one resting on each forearm. He puts the plates down, and wraps an arm around your waist to pull you in for a kiss. You press against him and your entire body goes warm as you sink into the soft mass of flesh hanging just above the waistband of his pants.

The commander tries to pull his leg over the back of the chair, and after two false starts he finally manages to swing over with a huff. He takes a moment to adjust himself, and wipes away the faint perspiration that has gathered on his forehead with a napkin while tugging down his shirt that had this point accidentally rolled up over his bellybutton. After a brilliant struggle worthy of Starfleet Command the shirt finally rests sung across his what was now officially a pot belly.

"Honey, I ordered a plate of racht and said I'd be back for it. Would you be able to get it for me?"
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Anon.
Lately you've taken pleasure from seeing Commander Riker put on weight. Every day growing lusher, fuller, rounder, showing his appreciation for you cooking him a big, hot meal at the end of the day. You wanted to show him your appreciation of his pudgier physique.

You walk up to the first officer and give him a hug from behind, first running your hands down his sides over his love handles and then wrapping your arms around his thick midsection, your hands barely able to meet. It takes a moment to work your hands underneath his tight uniform shirt, your fingers sinking into the warm, soft flesh underneath. He shudders at the touch of your cold hands. You proceed to grab two handfuls of plush stomach fat, causing his shirt to roll up above his belly button. He recoils almost immediately and turns around to face you.

"Ensign! What are you doing?" his face flushes bright red as he struggles to pull his shirt down over his exposed stomach.

"What? I was just warming my hands up," you say pressing up against him and taking his hand in yours.
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Bashirfaggot.
It's 10am and the sun is about to rise over Anchorage, Alaska. He caught you on the turbolift, grabbed you by the waist, insisted that you spend your two weeks of shore leave with him, and whispered 'That's an order Ensign' as the coarse hair of his beard tickled at the nape of your neck. You said yes long before you ever reached Deck 10.

So here you are in a bed on Earth piled with marbled brown fox fur and flannel sheets. It's ten degrees outside and you are wearing nothing but one of his old shirts that he outgrew and a pair of underwear, but right now you've never felt so warm.

Your head is tucked just under his chin, and you can clearly smell the soap he uses for his beard because he insists on grooming it the old fashioned way. He is barechested and you can feel yourself sink into him. Absentmindedly you start lazily running your fingers across a particularly plump little roll that has formed just at the waistband of his pajama pants.

"What time is it?" he asks groggily into your forehead.

Despite everything in your body telling you no, you push away, bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor sending chills straight up your back.

"Go back to bed, Will" you say kissing him on the crown of head making his already disheveled hair more even more unruly in the process. "I have to start making breakfast."