fattylecrunch

[fattylecrunch]

Should I lend a hand?

[fattylecrunch]

Looking for muscle to feed me into this.

Incubus

Tw: Non-consensual supernatural feeding and gaining

Shadows crawl around the corners of the room in the shifting light of the tv, making the fast food wrappers and empty microwave meal containers appear to dance and flicker on the living room floor. Yet you hardly notice as you relentlessly, rhythmically, joylessly chew your way through the last of several enormous burgers. Your chins and cheeks and tits wobble with every bite, and your belly, spilling out well beyond your knees, rises and falls slowly with every labored breath you take. Finally choking down the last bite of burger, you lean back, letting your ample fat settle back on top of you; and you hear the chair cracking and resettling with the shift in weight. Just as you think you’re finally done with your dinner, having packed away an enormous meal, you clearly hear his voice — though where it comes from, you can’t tell — and you know he has more planned.

“Wouldn’t you like to check and see what’s in the fridge?”

His voice throbs in your ears — closer than close, muffled and distorted, forceful enough to be heard clearly and never disobeyed, yet still with a lover’s soft tenderness. It’s been months since you first heard it, a quiet whisper at first, but one that grew steadily louder until you could no longer discount it as a figment of your imagination. The physical signs grew stronger along with it — at first, a light touch or a quick brush from thin air, but steadily increasing in force to a grasp or a pull, until finally it was a limb and a person you could see and touch. Except, not a person… and more than a person, you remember with a shudder. You remember, too, what you looked like when the voice started. Before you started eating like this. Before all this embarrassing, obscene weight. But the voice insists; it won’t be kept waiting, won’t be denied.

So no sooner do you hear it than you find yourself on your feet, all 700-plus pounds of you, wandering toward the refrigerator. Your body aches under the still-unfamiliar weight, joints screaming, muscles straining at their limit to move your tremendous bulk. You feel them working as the thick fat covering every inch of you now sways and wobbles with your steps — perpetually working its way out of your clothes, bulging out from under shirts and flowing over waistbands, gradually trying to undress you. You have to pull everything back into place, again, as you finally plant yourself in front of the refrigerator, breathing heavily and already beginning to sweat from just these short few steps.

It takes your eyes a moment to adjust from the darkness of the room to the gleaming light of the refrigerator, your engorged and bloated body casting an even larger shadow on the far wall in its harsh glare. As usual, the fridge is stuffed full except for a neat cubby where the beef patties you just finished used to be. Towers of pizzas, piles of wrapped sandwiches, cases of soda, heaps of burger patties and sliced cheese, and countless takeout orders fill the space, waiting for your appetite to turn them into more fuel for your constantly growing blubber. You don’t buy it yourself; you don’t even know where it comes from. But it’s always full now.

“Doesn’t it all look so good? Maybe a pizza would hit the spot…”

You feel a hitch in your side at the thought of eating anything else — your belly is already so full that your breaths are coming short and quick from the pressure. It’s so painfully stuffed that even with your hand pressing into your side, almost buried under your topmost love handle, you can hardly catch your breath. You can’t possibly eat more, you realize; there’s no room.

“No… no, I don’t need a pizza…” you say weakly, wary of the response you’ll get. “I’m already too full…”

A distant rumble pulses through the house, the lights of the tv and fridge dimming and flickering in tandem. The first sign that he’s here. You feel two strong, cold, impossibly muscular arms reach around from behind you, slowly wrapping you in an embrace despite your wide girth. One takes a loving but powerful grip of your blob of an upper arm, overwhelmed by fat and pathetically weak in comparison to his; the other sinks into the thick, flowing rolls at your side, lifting them to make room and squeezing them with evident enjoyment. At the same time, you feel a sensation that’s become all too familiar — a tingling feeling like a limb waking up, part numbness, part stimulation — that spreads throughout your body. This is how it feels, you know, when he begins to take hold. You can see, too, the familiar but no less unsettling shadowy tendrils spreading down your arm, spidering over the hanging curve of your belly and into the folds of your sweeping rolls.

The first few times, you tried to resist — tear yourself away from him, run from the fridge, do anything to try and stop more food from going down your throat. Nothing worked. He always found you and always found a way, usually a much less pleasant one than just submitting would have been. That’s usually what you do, now that you know better, but he still likes to see you wrapped in those shadows. Maybe just to be careful — maybe just because he likes to see you bound.

“You can’t be full. You’ve hardly eaten anything. And you’re so thin, like you’re wasting away. You have to have something…”

The hand releases its grip of your arm and slowly, fingers trailing over the blubbery bulges of your dimpled elbow and puffy forearm, cups the back of your hand, gently guiding it toward one of the takeout containers. The package is dense and heavy as you take it from its place, and as you open it, you see why: it’s filled with what must be at least five pounds of pulled pork, about half gobbets of fat mixed in with the shredded meat, all swimming in a pool of thick barbecue sauce. A fork slides gently into your other hand as the first brings the pile of food closer to your lips, close enough that you can smell the sweet, smoky sauce. The tendrils tighten around your blubber, your fat squeezing between them in plump bulges; and a buzzing thrill runs through your body.

Without even bothering to warm the food up, and now unmindful of the pressure in your stomach, you begin shoveling forkfuls of meat and sauce into your mouth. Nothing in you wants this food, but you feel something compelling, driving you to have more, using the aroma of the sweet, spiced sauce and the sensation of the unctuous meat sliding over your tongue to simulate a convincing-enough facsimile of an appetite for you to keep eating. You’re dimly aware of your fat bulging more and more insistently beneath the shadowy, veiny grip; of growing bulkier and heavier with each bite; and of the tendrils spreading under your belly and up your thighs, sending waves of the tingling numbness rumbling through your very core. A gasp bubbles through a mouthful of sauce. Your heart races even faster.

You feel your body go limp but stay upright, your sense of time and place abandoning you. All you’re aware of is the dimness filling your eyes, the ringing in your ears, the muscular embrace from behind you pressing ever more insistently against your yielding flab, and of course the food passing through the hasty chewing in your mouth. It feels constant, endless, but kaleidoscopic, the taste of the barbecue blurring into greasy cheesiness, into the creamy sweetness of chocolate, into buttery pillows of potato, into the sweet rush of bubbly soda, into syrupy fruit and crispy crust, and on, and on, and on…

“That’s more like it. That’s how you should be eating. You’re going to feel so much better after you finally start eating right…”

Amidst the meandering flow of flavors, you gradually become aware of a feeling of your surroundings closing in on you. The dimness feels that much more oppressive, the ringing that much more insistent, the heat that much more stifling as it seems to wrap you, envelop you, smother the breath out of you and sap you of what little energy you still have. You try to struggle up from the darkness, focus on something other than the flavors, catch your breath at last; and for the longest time, you feel muscular hands reaching out from the dark, trying to draw you back in, feeling and grabbing for you until you finally, somehow, dodge the last of them and break free.

When you come to, the dimness clearing and the ringing subsiding, you find yourself leaning against the frame of the open refrigerator, a labored wheezing rumbling in your chest. Rivulets of sweat trickle over your rolls… trickle, you notice, for a strangely long time. Only then do you realize that the refrigerator is totally empty, save for a few crumpled takeout containers that look as if they were savaged by a wild animal. Only then do you feel the changes: the unfathomable weight crushing the frame of your body, the heft of the inhumanly large belly now pressing against your shins, the rolls of gelatinous lard flowing over your ankles and wrists, the thick fat smothering you in all directions, and the sheer volume of blubber keeping you from bending hardly at all. You didn’t break free — not even close.

However long you were made to eat, you can tell you must have eaten yourself most of the way to a ton by now. Your body is unrecognizable — as you, as human, as anything other than a literal pile of lard. You are easily more fat than person by now. Everywhere you touch, you’re met with rolls of heavy, jiggling blubber. Every time you try to move, a wall of fat feels like it’s in the way, the slightest movement taking the effort of a full workout. The enormous bags of fat hanging off your body everywhere continuously crush the air out of you, leaving you lightheaded, gasping, hardly able to stand. Each step is agony under this much weight, the hundreds of excess pounds not only taxing your frame to its limit but making you fight their wobbling inertia with every movement. In this sad state, you’re barely able to waddle backward a few inches from the refrigerator, heart pounding, stomach dropping at the blurred sight, reflected in dim stainless steel, of what you’ve done and what you’ve become.

The strobing light of the tv reaches the kitchen, illuminating your stretched, shapeless, impossibly fat body in a series of still images, as racing lines of shadow trace new dark channels over the yielding flesh. You feel your vast weight being pulled back now, tight against a tower of firm muscle — now grasping you not so gently, not so tenderly. An angular face settles into the crease where your double chins melt into a roll of neck fat running around your shoulders, hot breath coming in snorts down your nape. You feel his searching fingers, exploring your vast new bulk, clearly relishing the sight and feeling of your lard-packed body. It’s clear to him, and to you, that you’ve been fattened so completely as to be utterly helpless. And with the realization, you hear that deep, distorted voice, rumbling into a growling chuckle.

“There, doesn’t this feel so much better? Now you’re perfect. Now you’re MINE.”

[fattylecrunch]

This the size I'd like my feeder to force me to grow to, tho without all the "don't you love" and kind encouragement. Am I the only one that can't stand the constant "feel good, life's good" positivity?

I want to be guilted into getting fatter, reminded how useless I'll become in physical situations, and how negatively his friends begin viewing me for "letting go."

[fattylecrunch]

This how much belly I want minimum. Just make me immobile.

Pretty damn incredible, huh?

[fattylecrunch]

Character lineup of the male cast in the Obesity AU

After thinking about it hard, I've decided that this is what most of the male characters individually look like at current time in the AU.

Characters that I didn't think would look any different than how they already look like in canon and were therefore excluded: Sethos, Baizhu, Cyno, Alhaitham, Ayato, Xingqiu, Xiao and Kaeya

Characters that were too massive to comfortably fit into a lineup like this: Capitano, Pierro, Venti, Dainsleif, Zhongli and Neuvillette

I encourage you to ask any questions if you want to know why X character is as heavy as I drew them as :]!! Always happy to answer asks and explain any bit of lore you're curious about.

[fattylecrunch]

Get me like this.

🤭 so hungry

[fattylecrunch]

NSWF

You're unrecognizable. A circus side show freak. Trapped in your bed, unable to roll yourself over, completely dependent on social services to clean you and bring you food.

It was a life that would be miserable for most, but you love it. You couldn't keep your hands off of yourself; lifting the heavy fat of your belly and dropping it back down to feel the fat ripple and jiggle back into place with gravity.

Everything about your life made you hard; the inability to move, the sponge baths by people who were disgusted by you, the food delivered to your bedside... it was all arousing.

The one thing that caused slight disappointment was being unable to reach your dick. You'd always try - rolling as far as you could on your side to get your hand under your belly fat. But the blubber of your groin surrounded your manhood and it was just impossible. The best you could do was jiggle yourself: the moving soft fat of your belly tickling the head of your hidden penis and the fat pad encasing it rubbing the shaft. You could never finish. The effort was too difficult to let your mind wander into orgasm.

You got your pleasure through your immobility. Even the fact that you were too fat to finish yourself was delightful, and the disappointment was just proof of how impossibly fat you have gotten. The ambivalence of disappointment and pleasure caused the two emotions to blur together. And sometimes you couldn't tell if you were annoyed with your immobility or if the life you currently lived was the best thing that had ever happened.

[fattylecrunch]

Push me into this level of chub, then humiliate me daily into getting fatter

[fattylecrunch]

Need ssomeone to push me to this type of immobility without remorse

[fattylecrunch]

Make mme like this.

Epic weight gain!

From 71 kg to 283 kg between 2009 and 2025.

Yes, that's right, he went from 145 lbs to over 620 lbs.

This 34 year old guy has been a swimmer since he was a kid. He stopped and started a party life, gained 200kg and is now swimming again to try to lose weight.

[fattylecrunch]

Yea, speaking as someone who was a bodybuilder and fitness trainer, I felt like a god among men with how people treated me via Pretty Privilege. Nonstop asked to hangout or to fk me/them.

The second I got a pudge and couldn't see my abs very well, The Great Blocking began. People start treating me like I was a stalker or as if I was the one who'd pursued them for years. Once I started to jiggle, people went as far as sending me hate messages or threatening to Baker Act me.

I basically went from Hot Shit to Chopped Liver in the world I knew for myself. Thing is that before I was a bodybuilder, I was a chubby guy so I'd watched the world treat me differently going from fat to fit to fat.

Being that fit was a challenge because I never got to be in public anonymously. I hated it. Went to a Folsom Street Fair private party with a mask on to hide my identity, but some asian asshole wanted to make a scene that he could identify me even after I said I wasn't... y'know, like take a fuckin' hint. But instead he wanted to prove he was right. So, I had to leave because it was starting to become a "oh, I've wanted to fk you" thing. I felt pressured to perform when I thought I could escape my reputation.

Soon as I got fat, I could hear whispers. Ironically, a lot of it was people in disbelief "no, that's all muscle" until they saw me jiggle. Then "that can't be him" or "wtf happened."

Not sure if I'm happier fit or fat, but I do enjoy being fed and jiggled. Just wish I could find someone who enjoys cooking for me and working out.

Unfortunately for me, I'm only attracted to contrast so if I'm fat I need a muscular man. If I'm fit, I can accept skinny or chubby.

Something that I don’t think gets talked about enough is the healing that this fetish can provide. I sometimes get asked if I have any before pics, and the fact of the matter is I don’t. I’ve had body image issues my entire life, having been relegated to the husky section at K-Mart in my youth and never recovered emotionally. I always hated pictures of me, even when I was in great shape. I was never thin, or thin enough, to want a picture of myself.

I had to work really hard to be 185 lbs, and even though I was around that weight most of my adult life, I couldn’t bear to look at my body. It wasn’t until giving in to indulgence and seeing the results that I considered myself attractive. Big thanks to all the people who have engaged with my posts on this blog and previous blogs since chucked into tumblr trash heap.

[fattylecrunch]

Yep, make me this fat. So many creases to use, such a deep bellybutton to use while feeding me, and so limiting that I could never even stop you... let alone I'd never be able to run away.

[fattylecrunch]

Push mme to become fatter than this

I feel like a fking god whenever I wake up✨

[fattylecrunch]

The once amateur bodybuilder looked out at the pool, wondering how he got to this point. Unable to turn down their friend's cooking.

What he doesn't know is that his friend had been spiking his protein powder with testosterone blockers, mild sedative, and appetite stimulants. The constant free weed also kept him from realizing how many workouts he'd missed, how many calls from his coach he missed, and losing his sponsorship contract.

No, he just kept snacking... Lately, he's really gotten into games now that he isn't working out all day, or focused on his macros.

He has no idea what's in store for him with a possessive feeder.

The ultimate ex-jock in the making!

[fattylecrunch]

"it's okay"

I understand why you'd want to cry. Hell, I'd be crying too if I was enveloped in that much lard. But I want to make one thing absolutely clear: you're not going to lose the weight, not that that's the only issue you have. You're not just morbidly obese, we both know you can't function without me mentally. It's been so long since you had to do anything by yourself. That's why we go through these little exercises. I like showing you what you could've been. It's shocking what I managed to do to you, no? I just get this certain kick out of showing you how thin you used to be. You are now a person that billions would dread being.

You fear staying like this the most. God knows you don't enjoy being such a gluttonous oaf. Even if you told me you loved it, that you loved stuffing your face for me every day, I wouldn't have believed you. When you look at me I can just see that glint of embarrassment in your eyes. God forbid I catch you looking down at your distended belly, you almost make me sad too.

When you told me that your parents were badgering you about the weight, I knew I was on the right track. They offered their workout routines, diet plans, and self-improvement books to no avail. They wondered why their child would heir such blatant disregard for their liveliness? I didn't. The truth is if you had followed their advice you'd be disobeying me. If you didn't scarf down my recommended calorie count, you might not hit the target weight for this week. Your family wouldn't understand the lengths you would go to just to please me. They don't understand that your mobility, career, self image, and personal interests are secondary to my pleasure. You'll still be sloppily devouring the next plate I slide in front of you, wailing for the meal to end.

It's okay to cry, so long as your stomach and mouth are full.

[fattylecrunch]