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oh god, that would be so hot.
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this got 250+ views in four hours, damn. well, since you seem to like hwasa that much, here is a very revealing picture of her.
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^ In the absence of future pregnancies I can’t wait for her to hit 40 so her metabolism starts to slow — anything to grow that incredible booty again!
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“this pic is from 2 years ago, I was a little trimmer”
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ValleyRose changed their profile photo
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My newest curvy girl... Her legs and butt are so big and soft.. Her underwear cuts in her big jiggly booty..
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SpicyStack joined the community
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None of my past ones ever knew nore did I ever tell them though. The only one i was able to ever actually tell is my then girlfriend now wife, she definitely liked it after I told her and has gotten more and more in to it as the years have gone by I gotta say. Not to mention it sure has helped her waistline grow which nether me or her are complaining about at all -
What is happening with DeviantArt
maltesefalcon replied to maltesefalcon's topic in Other Arts-Related Discussion
No this is recent but I will update. It seems to work fine on desktop or laptop. But I only get a single page of content in both gallery or favorites if I'm using my IPad. Until ten days ago everything worked fine no matter what device i was on. -
bbcmommy joined the community
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Unfortunately those gossip columnists cannot even comprehend that someone A) Enjoys there food B) has gained weight and enjoys it C) or has gained weight but not pregnant. God forbid someone just had a decent week of eating, seems Alien to these people. She looks fantastic in this last picture , more food in the green room in-between songs.
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Recent photo posts via Twitter. Cos-playing as "Zatanna Zatara" at Wizard World Chicago: -
God, has she started to wear her grand-mother's clothes?
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BigBunny is such a beauty, very hot vid, u will love it! 🥰 -
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Beautiful! Did you wear the top outfit or those white jeans out?
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Jesis....
also, the decorations in your place are really dope. I always noticed in your pics and vids
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You look huge here, and I bet you only look bigger in person
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Stuffing my face at hibachi!
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ILoveChocolate joined the community
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I hope she is just developing a soft, succulent belly
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What are some of your favorite fat celebrities?
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This chapter was supposed to be the exhale after the previous one's inhale. Slower pace, more introspective, and hopefully filling out the character and the world a bit more. WARNING though, it's dark in themes. Inspired by The Road, it is bleak and cruel. *-*-*-*-*-*-* Chapter 2 – Family kills 4 months ago “I’d love to help out dad, but I can’t. I’ve got to revise, sorry. I’ve got my final exams coming up” Alisha said to her father, not looking from the scraggles of notes that she was adding to, as she began her painstaking method of re-writing every textbook into her own words to help her remember the contents. She never read books to revise. Always, always, always her own hand-written notes. It was her golden rule. It was her system. And she had to have faith in the system. “Tell me again, Ali, why did I pay to put you through university to study accountancy if, three years later you’re still doing exams to become an accountant?” her dad chuckled, considering himself to be funny. “Oh come on, you know you only wind her up when you say that” Alisha’s mother scolded the father for his tired jokes. “But she’s still working for an accountancy firm, she’s got the degree, I don’t see what’s so important about these exams?” her dad stood his ground, feigning ignorance to get under his daughter’s skin for his amusement. “Because, if I pass this, I am an officially qualified accountant. Not a part-qualified accountant, not an accountant-in-waiting, not a trainee accountant, but an actual ACCA accredited accountant. It’s a big deal dad” Alisha stressed, not looking up but scrambling yet more notes down to reiterate ideas in her head. Accountancy standards and regulations, over and over again. “Oh relax girl, you’ll be fine. My daughter will kick butt in this exam, like she always does. I’m proud of you girl, I’ll always be proud of you.” her dad said, his face softening as he told her. “Hey, have all of you seen what’s happening on the telly? The news? It looks well sick” Alisha’s younger brother said whilst leaning on the bannister from the stairs, clearly having just scrambled down. Back to the current day I stayed still. As the stampede of grotesquerie left me alone and safe, I stayed still. Afraid to move. Breath still ragged. Hey. Focus. Remember your breathing. And in. And out. You know this. Stay focused. Stay with it. You’re safe now. You’re safe. And in. And out. Relax girl, you’ll be fine. I looked around to see the mess that They left behind. The work surfaces were obliterated as if by hand grenade by Their terrifying entrance, the linoleum that they had stampeded upon were sticky wet, but also dented beneath the bulk of each lumbering step. The hanging light fitting had been ripped from the ceiling as the indistinguishable crest of their mulched mass grazed the ceiling and took the light with it. Smashed crockery littered the floor like a wasteland of fallen soldiers. And even the sink behind me, where I had huddled into a ball fearing the worst, had been crushed as if by wrecking ball. If there was still water in the pipe, it would have been spurting over me. Whatever They were, all I knew is that They were unstoppable. And it smelled so bad. Reeked. That was Their calling card. The distinctive aroma of Beelzebub’s arsehole after curry night. Over the months, you get inured to it, to a degree. It must burn off the hairs in your nose or something. But, fuck, it was so bad right now. With three of them in such tight confines, with one of them little encasing me, the putrid fumes made me want to heave as much as my first encounter. Of course, I couldn’t puke. That would make my stomach empty. And that would be the end of me. I looked at my watch, now visible in the daylight without the parasol of Their mouth drowning out light. 1.32pm. Shit. They’ll be back soon at this rate. Those Oreos won’t spare me for long. I pulled myself up, each joint aching from the tightly tensed position that I had held for so long. For nearly three hours. No wonder I ached. I looked around, immediately on the prowl for more food. If they left behind the Oreos, then what else might they have left behind. There were very few doors on cupboards now, given how the lack of deftness that They possessed when they crashed into here, and I could see fairly quickly that this wasn’t to be a treasure trove of food. There was a pack of fig rolls though, in one of the top cupboards, so I grabbed that as I looked around the place. I opened the packet and started eating them as I walked around to see if I could work out what happened here. Before everything went Pete Tong. I stepped into the living area, hoping, I dunno, maybe for another stash of food. Maybe some indication of where they might have some. It was a long shot, but I needed to calm down after what just happened. And I needed to show my respects to the household that saved my life. That was a rule. That was the system by which I lived. Show respect to those that save your life. And whoever it was that lived here, by leaving some stray packs of biscuits in the kitchen, saved my fucking life. So I show respect. I trust my system. I follow my rules. Looking around, chewing on another fig roll as I did, I can see that the house is not as cluttered as most abandoned properties. There’s a show home feel about the sparsity around the place. No photos on tables, no paintings on walls, no half-completed jigsaws or loads of washing mid-cycle. It didn’t look like life just stopped here, like it did in so many places. It looked neatly put away. Tidied up. Like the people that lived here had moved out. Back when it first went to shit, loads did. Too much 28 Days Later, too much The Walking Dead, people left the cities and built-up areas and headed for the countryside. Figuring it was safer out there. Live that off-the-grid life, I guess. Hunt your own food, catch your own fish. And stay away from populous areas. And maybe it worked. I dunno. Maybe there are loads of people out there camping out in cottages and bothies, and pretending their living their cabin-in-the-woods fantasy. But my guess is that they’re as dead as everyone else. Sure, there would be fewer of Them, since They tended to congregate where They thought They were most likely to sense hunger. But there were just so many of Them. Nowhere was safe. Nowhere was removed. Nowhere was off Their grid. No matter where you were, no matter how remotely you resided, your hunger was a dinner bell and They would travel any distance to answer it. Which is why I stayed in the city, where at least there was food. I went from the living room to the dining room. It was a nice property for somewhere so central to the city. A three or four bedroom detached place. Decent sized rooms. External garage. Must have been a comfortably off family. Not so well off as to do something about the wallpaper though. Wallpaper that stopped being fashionable in the 70’s. I mean, who has wallpaper any more, anyway? I pop another fig roll in my mouth as I wonder. And it’s looking at the walls, that I notice it. The weathered wallpaper, faded with decades of sunlight, had square marks on the wall. Square marks where the sun hadn’t eroded and stained the brown wallpaper. Something must have been on these walls, and for a long time too. But not any more. Paintings perhaps. But pictures more likely. Looking at the décor, an old couple must have lived here. Presumably they’ll have had kids. Maybe grandkids too. And hung pictures of them on the wall, bless them. Proudly. You can almost imagine them pointing to them every time a guest came into their place, and saying how it was their son or daughter. I pictured photos of their wedding day, or maybe photos with their kids. The grandkids. First day at school. That kind of thing. And now they had been taken down. And now I’m beginning to get an idea what happened here. You see, there was more than one reason for leaving your property. Beyond eloping to the countryside and praying that They were allergic to rural air. Others left to meet up with the rest of their family. Parents moved in with their kids, that kinda thing. Consolidated their resources. Ganged up. They bordered up their windows, barricaded their doors and intended to withstand the environment like it was a storm. They would congregate together, tightly, desperately. And then they would die. Because everyone did. Everyone died. But, most of all, groups of people died. Families died. Because more mouths meant you needed more food. And eventually that would catch with you. And then They would catch up with you too. Hence the golden rule. More important than all the others. Stay away from other people. Nothing good ever comes from other people. That’s what I reckoned happened here. Granparents moving in with the kids, and maybe the grandchildren too. All under one roof. The son, no, the son-in-law. It was his idea. He thought he could be the man. Protect them. He knew DIY. He could fix up cars. Of course he could single-handedly hold back the personification of an unstoppable force. He was the man. And the grandparents, well, they trusted him. Well, he looked after their daughter so well. So they moved in. Plus they’d be with the grandkids, and they loved to see them. And then, sure enough, food runs out, They come in, and the family gets savaged like vultures at a wilderbeest’s carcass. I dunno why I got so upset, thinking about this. Must be a sore spot I guess. I tried not to think about it. About family. Not a path I want my mind to go down. Family feels a long time ago and a long way away, right now. There’s a mirror in the dining room, a big black-rimmed thing hung up on the wall, about the size a large telly. And I don’t even realise I’m doing it, but I’m looking at myself in it. Staring at the face of a girl who had devoted her life to trying to becoming something that would make her parents proud. An accountant, of all things. Oh, they loved the idea of me being an accountant. A profession. It seemed venerable. Something they could show off, talk to the neighbours about with pride. My dad always said that “robots will wipe out most jobs in the end, but the world will always need accountants”. Truthfully, with accountancy packages these days, that was actually far from true, but I never felt a need to correct him. The eyes of that girl were different to the ones staring at the mirror now. Or maybe they’re not. I dunno. Maybe I’m projecting. Super-imposing my emotions onto what I can see. But they don’t look the same, I swear they don’t. They look… I’m not sure, like heavier maybe? No, that’s not right. Wearier perhaps. Are these the eyes of a girl who’s seen shit? Who’s done shit? Who’s soul has fallen down a well and won’t ever be able to climb back out again? I don’t care if I’m projecting or not, all I know is that it sure feels like they are. Looking at the rest of me, I’m reminded that I used to be such a pretty thing. Again, I probably still am. I mean, it’s still the same face, isn’t it? The same wide eyes, same big and dark eyebrows, same slightly-off-centre nose, but off-centre in an endearing and charming way and not a late-era Picasso way. Cheekbones are still there, though the ridges seem to blend in to the background a little more. My jawline, previously sharp enough to cut diamond, seems a little pointed. I must have still been pretty, I just didn’t feel it. I felt tired. Heavy. Heavy with guilt. Heavy with exhaustion. And heavy with food. I guess that’s the consequence of needing to never feel hungry. Because, before this all happened, I often felt hungry. I would sometimes take a weird pride in being able to soldier on through a day despite being hungry. There’s a point, a point after being hungry where your stomach takes the hint and stops protesting so loudly. And the hunger goes again. That would happen a lot. When I was at work, I would forget I was hungry. I wouldn’t listen to those neurons. To busy scraping away at a never-ending pile of work hoping that one day Sisyphus would get his boulder up that mountain and I would get on top of my work. For a number of reasons, fashion, life, work, I was often hungry. I was thin, and I was thin because I spent most of my time hungry. And now I don’t. Now I can’t. And it’s starting to tell. I don’t look in the mirror to see the rest of me. Looking into my eyes is hard enough, but looking at my body is too much. I don’t mean that in a shallow way. I’m not arguing that it’s a shame I’m not catwalk ready during this post-apocalypse or whatever this is. It’s just another reminder, a very pointed reminder, of how much I have changed these past four months. How I’m not the person I was. And I don’t want to be reminded of that. I block it out of my mind as I put another fig roll in my mouth. So I turn around and figure that it’s time to move on. From this property, from this fictional backstory, from the memories and thoughts and shame and guilt. Just move onto the next thing. That was the system. Trust the system. Follow the rules. And just move onto the next thing. And just as I turned around to leave, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. A piece of paper. And I immediately knew that I was, for the first time since… let’s not go there. But, for the first time since then, I was about to break my own rules. Abuse my own system. And not move on. I felt heaviness at the back of my throat and my face tensed as I picked the paper up to read it. It was a note. But it wasn’t instructions. It wasn’t an if-you-find-this type note. It was the worst type of note in the world. The last type of note you would ever want to come across. I put it down as soon as I realised and began my breathing exercises. And in. And out again. And then in. And then out again. I could feel my face scrunching up. I could feel my bottom lip wavering. I could my heavy, dark eyebrows angling. And I could feel my eyes moistening. And in. And out again. It was a suicide note. There was a third reason why buildings were vacant. And that was that the inhabitants were dead. Most of them were killed by Them. They rarely left a trace when they did. No carcass remains, no blood even. Just the cumbersome clumsiness of Their size bashing into walls and knocking down shelving. Sometimes though, people were killed by other people. I know, I know, that all seems a bit Lord of the Flies, but it’s true. First year at university, we learnt about Thomas Hobbes in a module about business management. Apparently, Thomas Hobbes argued that, in the state of nature, a world without government, that would lead the life of a man to be “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short”. I remember writing up that passage of his Leviathan, figuring a direct quote would look good in my essay. And “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short” seems to describe life after Them pretty well. Turns out, maybe he was right after all. So most of them were killed by Them, some of them were killed us. And occasionally, they were killed by themselves. They couldn’t stand the horror of it all. They felt suffocated by this smog of darkness that They seemed to summon in all of us. Others couldn’t stand the fear. It sounds strange, given that what they feared was death, but they hated that dread so much that they decided to opt out early. And the worst thing of all was that it was a good thing. I remember not wanting to feel grateful, but deep down feeling grateful. Because it was one less mouth to feed. One less person for resources to be allocated to. It seemed so cold when put into words, I mean this isn’t accounting. And yet, I remember trying to repress feelings of relief that my survival chances were marginally increased because of their entire universes being taken. The note was short. And heartfelt. It was all apologies and gratitude. Sorry for leaving, but so grateful for the time that they had. Instructions to look after the grandchildren “no matter what”, so I guess I was right about that. And “no matter what” felt loaded. Like they were saying, if you need one less mouth to feed, make it your own. And then the explanation of why. Because they didn’t want one to die and one to be left behind. They were a married couple it seems, and they wanted to go together. Not what I guessed at all. And yet, I got it. I understood that. Seeing a family member die like that is the sort of thing that stains your insides and scars the tissue on the underside of your brain. It’s a cancer metastasising in your soul. Watching someone you love die is a pain far worse than death. That’s why you would always give anything to swap places. Or, at least most people do. And as painful as that is to read, worse still is the hand prints in the corner of the paper. And the tears that blotched the ink that had written. The poor person writing it, pouring the soul out onto this scratty piece of paper, crying as they did. Or not. Or wait. Hang on. What if those tears were from the person who had read it? The person it was intended for? I mean, it would explain why all the paintings had been taken down. The son had come back, seen the note, cried, and then taken the photos as mementos. Maybe the pictures on the wall were family photos, of them all together and he took them down to remind him of his parents. Took them with him. After their suicide. God, it doesn’t bear thinking about. Fuck, the smell. Those gasping fumes that I blamed on Them. Shit, shit, shit. It wasn’t Them at all. It was them. Those wafts of dead air, maggoted and festering, weren’t just the acrid aromas of Them, but the long deceased grandparents who had hunkered down here and couldn’t bear the worst of it happening in a world that’s just toppled over into shit and asked us to wade in it forevermore. I wonder if the son realised that too. I wonder if he walked up the stairs in horror and trepidation like I am, his stomach curdling at the smell and his chest braying at the trauma like mine is. He would have known straight away which room to enter. I just had to guess from the smell. This way. The air smells more foul here. A person always trusts their nose. Their bedroom door creaks open and I look in, and the rancid fumes hit me like a fireball as I open the door. And my eyes immediately spy, silhouetted in the sharp mid-afternoon light, the kind of image that you never shake. Nooses. Two nooses gently swaying in the light breeze of an opened window. And below them, a collapsed pile of black porridge hanging onto the skeletal remains of an old couple who couldn’t cope with the darkness outside. I closed the door immediately. And suddenly my chest felt suffocated, and oxygen felt sparse. It felt like their just wasn’t a wide enough airway down my throat. My lungs expanding and contracting heavily and often as I wheeze for a breath I cannot seem to catch. My eyes are slaloming in their socket, oiled up and unable to grip. No. You know the drill Alisha. Remember your breathing exercises. Focus on your breathing. Control your breathing. And in and out and in and out. And slow it down. And in. And hold it. And out. Deep breaths. Not shallow and fast. And in. And out. There we go. Come on. And in. And out. I walk down, my hand still trembling as it rests on the bannister. And in. And out. And then I sit back down at the bottom of the stairs and just cry. Crying with the image scratched into my brain of what were once people so terrified of the world that they became that. So terrified of the world that they let their son see that they’d become that. Sometimes everything would just get too much. In a previous life, before the sky fall and the locusts came or whatever this bizarre world has now become, this would be the kind of trauma that would need a lifetime of therapy. But in this helter-skelter hellscape, it’s just a Tuesday. Just another day, just another opportunity to have your innards yanked from beneath you. An experience so near-death that I could smell the grim reaper’s breath, followed by walking in on a group suicide. I’m surprised I’m not inured to it, not numb to it. But each body blow bruises like the previous, just another shade of people heaped upon the last. I drag myself back into that dining room. Back in front of that mirror. I want to see the bruises. I want to see cost of this life. Cos it hurts like hell but one day I worry that it won’t. That I will finally numb to the blades of this new world. I stand as tall as I can in front of the mirror, to get as much of me as I can muster in the reflection. This mirror, it’s my Dorian Gray’s Portrait. It carries my sin for me. It carries all the ugliness. Not just in the eyes, incandescent with pain. But all of me. A girl who hasn’t been hungry in four months. I used to be thin. I play it down with false modesty. I pretended I didn’t try to be thin. But I did. I tried so hard. Not through exercise, nothing as flashy as that. I wanted it to seem accidental. Beautiful and attractive, with a figure to die for? Moi? So I just never ate, and pretended I never wanted to. I lied about it so easily, I started believing it. I’d tell people I was “just not a big eater” and believe it. It was, for so long, my darkest secret. Now, I realise it doesn’t even qualify as dark, but for so long I lied to myself and others and swore blind I couldn’t eat another thing when my stomach was convulsing in hunger. People would always tell me I was pretty. It was always in a “I think you need to hear this” way. Like it was preceded by a silent ‘actually’. A low-key pretty, always dressed down so never to be beautiful. People told me I was pretty because they thought it needed saying. Because it wasn’t obvious. In the same way that, at some point, if something is universally underrated, is it still underrated? It had become obvious that I was pretty, but not in an obvious way. Maybe it was a little less obvious now. I was 5ft4 and 103lbs, now I’m still 5ft4, but I’m 129lbs. The clothes I wear were bought for a girl that could get lost in childrenswear, but now I can feel the tightness of my hoodie across my chest and on my arms, and see the shortness of the fabric that leads to my stomach slipping out so slightly beneath. Material taken up by a food baby that never seems to come to term, but merely incubates further instead. My upper body just feels… tarnished I guess. Is that the word for it? Blemished? Damaged? Scarred? Yeah, scarred. This is how I carry my scars. I can’t see lower down on me in the mirror, but my thighs skim the other now too. Another casualty in this battle for survival. And there could be real horror to the realisation that this is never going to end. That I will never be able to diet this away and shift them pounds. That getting hungrier quicker means eating more means getting bigger means getting hungrier quicker means eating more and so on and so on on this nightmarish carousel. This upward spiral. But the weight doesn’t look like horror, it just looks like consequence to me. It bears the brunt of it so I don’t have to. That’s how it has to be. It’s my Dorian Gray’s portrait. It’s my penance. It’s the price for survival. I guess, I want survival to hurt. It should hurt, shouldn’t it? I shouldn’t get away with what I did, should I? I deserve to be haunted by it through crippling pain. I deserve every concoction of agony and strife that life can hurl at me. But, short of that, I guess weight gain will do. I’m still not fat. In another life, in another world, I’m an accountant who’s put on a few but still knows how to work it. My hair’s been straightened, no curled actually, that looks better, and my make-up’s been applied. My skirt’s long enough to be professional and short enough to be alluring. And I work it. And I look good. But this isn’t that world, and looking good requires me to give one more fuck than I have in my locker. My hair’s up in a messy bun, and my clothes haven’t fitted for the past 15lbs. It’s survival. And that’s all anything is now. I turn to leave the place, my breath restored and my pack of fig rolls nearly empty. I put the last two in my mouth and think only of the time it buys me. I chew and even try to enjoy the flavour a little. And then it’s on to the next house, with its story inside. With its tragedy written in the décor and on the walls. And then the next one. Scavenging for food like a raccoon in a bin. Because this is life now. High in calories, low in morale and the only thing worse than it is the absence of it. Haha! Just as I’m about to leave, stashed behind the radiator, obscured by a door that’s clinging on to its hinges as desperately as I’m clinging on to life, is a can of baked beans. A miniature jackpot, that will actually fill for a reasonable period of time. I guess I was right about that guilty thought I had earlier. I’m glad that old couple killed themselves. Fewer mouths to feed, more for the rest of us. More for me. And I’ll let my body pay the toll on that guilty thought. This can of beans should see me to tomorrow hopefully, and I can start this whole fig roll rigmarole again.
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