#fatbat

With great power came great responsibility or something like that. It was the catchphrase for the big fancy superheroes flying high in the sky and them alone, because down here in the dirt and dark, Bane didn’t play like that.

To Bane, great power was just great power. It was a tool. It was an asset. It was an advantage… and damn, it was addictive.

He could still feel the adrenaline pulsing through his veins as he sat his ass back down onto his old, beat up couch with a big sigh before dropping the boatload of goodies held in his arms all over the small, small spaces in between his massive self and the armrests on either side of him. His stomach rumbled nearly as loudly as him as he grunted and groaned his way through making himself comfortable on the couch’s dented cushions.

His weight settled into the grooves that he had begun to leave behind once he had found the best spot, and the back on the couch sunk under the arm he slung over it as he reached across his lap with his free hand and rummaged through the pile of snacks he’d managed to snag after his latest run (or walk, more like) through town.

Damn, his old man and forgotten henchman would have had a fucking fit if they saw him right now. His big old pot belly all but spilled out onto his lap, forcing his thighs apart in a dramatic man spread just to make room for the extra weight hanging off of his gut. His massive chest—previously built like an iron wall of muscle and holding up as hard as a rock under the force and pressure of thousands of fists that had attempted and failed to punch through him before—had softened all over under the weight of empty calories and cheap, shitty fast food.

It made quite the sight, his new soft, fat physique, but damn, if he didn’t love the new changes. The serum had changed him in recent months, and in Bane’s opinion, it had changed him for the better.

He was still big, of course, though nowhere near the walking, talking impenetrable fortress he used to be. If anything, he was practically the opposite now—all fat and just enough muscle to help him bust down walls and shove his fists through glass windows to get to the snacks he so desperately wanted inside.

Chinese takeout, cheap city pizza, pop-up food stands and the best all-you-can-eat buffets around… you name it, and Bane had become obsessed with it. Gotham wasn’t just facing an all new era of crime anymore; it was practically facing a food crisis on top of the disaster Bane left in his wake, and it all pointed straight back to him every time.

Him, the living muscle machine. Him, one of the best and strongest monsters around. Him, the death of the streets and Batman’s worst nightmare.

He wasn’t into petty crime or usurping his unnatural strength on the city of Gotham anymore. Now, he had found something else to devote his time and attention to… and god, if he wasn’t absolutely disappointed in the fact that he hadn’t moved onto it sooner.

The couch creaked under his weight as he leaned back, its cushions sinking even further into a straining frame that only had a few more days left to spend trapped under him as he stuffed himself full before it gave out completely. Bane gave no attention to the pitiful sounds as he propped the first bag of snacks he’d snagged from the corner store onto his belly and tore it open with a giddy grumble of laughter and glee.

“Oh yeah, there we go,” he mumbled as he shoved his hand inside and grabbed out a fistful of chips, the corners of the bag tearing along the sides as he pulled himself free. “It’s been a damn shame seeing you off of the shelves. About time I got to make up for the bags I never got to eat…”

Bane’s words trailed off as he shoveled the entire handful into his mouth. He moaned aloud as he chewed, his dusty hand already snaking its way back into the bag and tearing the edges even further as he rummaged around for the biggest fistful he could get in one go.

He had gathered enough food on his quick dash through town to feed an entire family of four for the day, but he knew that by the time he was finished with this, he would still be hungry for more. His appetite was endless, his inhuman strength seemingly turned into a bottomless hunger that left him growing bigger and fatter with every new night he spent lounging on the couch and shoveling his face full of whatever he could find. It was, however, the best start to his villain legacy, as far as he was concerned.

The more he ate, the bigger he got. The bigger he got, the hungrier he became. It was a constant vicious cycle that had taken hold of him, and so far, Bane was more than happy to give in.

He patted the curve of his swollen belly after the last of his bag of chips had been devoured with a big, smug smile spread across his face. This was the life for him now, he realized, and it was a damn good one to live. With his reputation established and the fear he already instilled into the city, there was no one to stop him from getting bigger and bigger…

"Riddle me this, Batman...”

Edward lay sprawled across his lavish velvet loveseat with both legs kicked up over the top of the tall armrest on the far end while his head lay squashed into the crook of the shorter armrest on the other end. With his suit jacket tossed to the floor (it no longer closed all the way), his shirt untucked (it threatened to burst open at the seams if he didn’t leave some breathing room), and his pants open at the fly, both the button and the zipper (Christ, did he even have to explain that one?), he glowered down at the pudge that still managed to spill over his loose waistband and pool at the center of his abdomen, a soft, chunky starter belly that was far too big to be contained and far too noticeable to be ignored any longer.

"What probable cause could there be,” he continued, gesturing wildly with one hand swinging through the air as he poked at his chubby middle with his other hand, “in any shape of the word, to possibly even begin to explain to me with logical reasoning why all of my clothes have suddenly become so tight?!"

Of course, there was no one there to answer him. He was alone, thank god, and though he would have killed to have waltzed down to the Iceberg Lounge to drag some poor sucker up here to his apartment so that he could gab their ear off about woes of his life at any other given moment, today, he didn’t dare. He wouldn’t dare. Not like this. Not when he looked so…

So puffy.

Edward pushed himself up a smidge, bracing his weight atop his elbows as he sneered down at himself more properly. He didn’t understand. How in the hell had he gotten so big?

It wasn’t all that noticeable just yet, but was uncomfortable, and if he stretched himself across a bar stool at just the right angle or tried to pull himself through a heavy door sliding shut before it trapped him inside somewhere he didn’t want to be, lately, the results had been much the same.

Oswald would comment on his “new look.”

The doors would nearly close on top of him, and he was left to squirm on his belly and scramble to reach his cane out for something to hook the top of the question mark around so that he could drag himself out the rest of the way to freedom.

It hadn’t always been like this. Edward would have noticed if the men who stared at him in the streets were looking at him in a way that said they wanted to eat him up rather than fill him up. He was always a pretty thing—tall and lithe, striking and smart, skinny as a pole and boasting with clothing that accentuated his appearance. Now, he was getting soft. He was getting fat.

With a pitiful sound, Edward shimmied himself up into a half-sitting position and tried to readjust his slacks. He grabbed both sides of the open waistband and wiggled it up higher until the fabric sat just above his belly button. The worst of his added weight hung low in a dip of his midsection that promised a big old beer belly akin to Oswald’s if he wasn’t careful, so Edward did what he did best while concocting the best schemes in his head to stop this madness from getting any worse—he tried to fix it. More specifically, he tried to hide it.

“Come on,” he said through gritted teeth, his cheeks going pink from embarrassment and exertion as he struggled to tug both sides together and close his pants up again. The zipper wasn’t going to budge, but if he could get them buttoned, he would surely be able to fix that. “Come on, come on… just—dammit, get in there already—!”

With some maneuvering (and some squishing his belly down until it was no longer a visible muffin top over the rim of his waistband), Edward pulled his slacks closed long enough to force the button through the hole and force them shut. He fiddled with the zipper and pulled it shut with shaking, achy fingers, then swung his legs over the edge of the loveseat to stand and reach for his suit coat.

He was going to fit into these clothes, dammit. Whatever disaster had happened earlier when he tried to put it all on and found himself too big to fit properly was over now that he had a new burst of energy. As he sucked his belly in and buttoned the coat up all the way—not missing a single button, even if it made a spectacular statement to leave a few open—he laughed in relief and success at his accomplishment.

Then, the sound of straining fabric followed.

Then, buttons flew. His zipper was pushed down. His suit coat dropped open, his belly forced its way past his slacks, and his feeble attempt at squeezing into his signature outfit was a bust.

“Dammit,” he muttered after the shock had passed, his shoulders slumping in defeat.