Here for the chunky bois.

Yes I'm 18+, no I won't tell you my main.

[hugezuki-yukari]

Reblog if you’re into XWG (extreme weight gain)

[m0ttif-cool-deactivated20260510]

yes!

[perit0neum]

new vore tag is vorate, the second person plural imperative form of the latin verb "Vorare" (to eat)

the form vorate translates to "ya'll MUST devour"

thank you for coming to my ted talk.

- Sincerely, a Latin 101 student

minors dni

[lucifersaidno]

please my loyal followers, you must spread the word

[aropride]

had a really good apple last night and pictured this in the bottom left corner of my brain as i was eating it

[fetish-fiction]

Something different again... funnel feeding leads to rapid wg.

You hop on to the bed wearing the oversized clothes I had made you put on. They were about 6 sizes too big, even your podgy body didn't come close to filling them out. The shirt was like one giant sheet of material hanging off you and the shorts were so large you needed to bunch them up at the sides and hold them to keep them from falling down. You could barely imagine the size someone would need to be to fit these things.

I had put some pillows down at the head of the bed to make you comfortable for what was to come. Lay down, I tell you, and you relax into the soft cushioning. Your lips are soon parted by the funnel I had ready and waiting. As soon as the first drops of smooth, creamy, fatty, chocolatey liquid passes your lips and slides down your throat you feel a gurgling and a pressure in your stomach.

As you continue to swallow your limbs start to feel all tingly. From where you're laying you can see past the funnel to notice the oversize shirt starting to shift a little where your belly is. You think it might be sticking up a little more there, but how? You've only had a few mouthfuls. By the time the funnel is empty your belly has definitely expanded significantly, and you arms and legs both feel more hefty too.

Just as soon as you catch your breath, more of that incredible liquid is being forced down your throat. Your weight gain seems to be progressing even faster now. The loose folds of the shirt are shifting, beginning to be taken up by your rapidly growing belly. And the shorts are quickly loosing what looseness they once had, your waistline becoming enormous.. you can feel your ass thickening and widening with fat underneath you, feel your hips ballooning outwards just as fast as your belly is. You feel so incredibly large and soft and only becoming more so. The feeling is ambrosial, you never want to stop sucking down this fattening elixer.

The next batch of slop is poured into the funnel straight away, your expansion unrelenting. You look down to see the clothes you once thought gigantic starting to be completely filled by your ever growing blimp of a body. Soon your fat is starting to strain against the fabric. The arms of the shirt are restricting your now fat flabby upper arms, the buttons almost ripping apart by your mountainous belly and massive tits. The waistband of the shorts has disappeared beneath your overflowing gut but you can feel it constricting your middle, and feel an enlarged fupa squished up against the crotch of the fabric, teasing you. The short legs can barely contain the huge thunderous rolls of cellulite that are now your thighs. The next glup sends you over the edge.

All at once the clothes give way. Buttons fly across the room as your corpulence floods out of its fabric container. Seams rip on the shorts, your lard is only covered now by tattered rags, barely hiding any of your massive mounds of flesh. You are now almost as wide as the bed and must weight at least 700lbs. A few slurps left and you've finally finished it. It's morphed you utterly.

The shirt that once was comically large is now ripped apart and dwarfed by your obesity, covering none of you. Your tits are now splayed as sacks of fat across and out to the sides, pushed apart by your belly that you have no chance of seeing over. If you could, you would see that it spreads over the bed like a pillow, drooping jiggly and soft over your body to the edges of the bed and over your massive fupa, between which is lodged the remnants of your shorts. In your morbidly obese state you have no hope of dislodging them by yourself....

[obsessivelypositive1]

Every time you reblog this post, you'll gain 15 pounds.

[obsessivelypositive1]

Every time you reblog this post, you'll gain 15 pounds.

[obsessivelypositive1]

Every time you reblog this post, you'll gain 15 pounds.

[obsessivelypositive1]

Every time you reblog this post, you'll gain 15 pounds.

[obsessivelypositive1]

Every time you reblog this post, you'll gain 15 pounds.

[obsessivelypositive1]

Every time you reblog this post, you'll gain 15 pounds.

[depsidase]

[bogleech]

Usually south park's relevancy feels very fake and surface level to me, but it's really something how trump and his base are actually, visibly much more enraged by this than they've been about any other criticism, any other show, any other enemy I've seen in the entire near-decade of his political career. Fucking South Park got to them more than the combined effort of a million other comedians, journalists, parodies, academic criticisms or protest efforts. Like it's BAD. Like they want the creators in prison and want to consider this a hate crime.

[unfavorableinstigation]

Growing up, my brother and I deeply dreaded going shoe shopping. It took hours, especially if it was for winter boots. My dad would examine the stitching, the brand reliability, the temperature recommendations, every piece of information he could get his hands on, and then when he'd finally found the right brand, it was on to making absolutely dead sure they fit properly - he had a particular way of poking the toe of the boot to ensure our foot was where it was supposed to be that always drove me nuts. This was always on a weekend, and it was about the worst punishment we could imagine.

Years later, I found out that he'd spent his entire childhood on the Canadian prairies with cold feet. My grandmother just bought whatever boots looked like the best value, regardless of whether they'd keep anyone warm. They'd kept him from frostbite, probably, but never, ever comfortable.

The reason my grandmother never had a thought about this was because she was buying her kids real boots. There was a sort of magical quality about real, purpose-made boots that meant that of course they'd work, because when she was growing up on the Canadian prairies, they had the kind of no money that meant you just stuffed some newspaper into your shoes and soldiered on.

The last pair of winter boots my dad bought for me was 15 years ago, in preparation for a three-month stint living in northern Quebec in midwinter. They cost $200 then, or something like it. I've worn them every year since, driving out to the remotest locations on the Canadian prairies and never once thinking about my feet.

When I read the Vimes Boots Theory for the first time, it rang a bell that reverberated back three generations.

[runefish]

[hoofpeet]

(In the cuck chair)(starts booing)

[hoofpeet]

(Wife looks over)(I do a roman emperor thumbs down)(she executes the other guy)

[fagrrot]

starting to think some of yall arent serious bout finding beauty in the grotesque

[tropicalscream]

they cant even find beauty in fat ppl

[sdqubeley]

[pocketss]

laurie 😔