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The start of something else sprawling and with too many characters from me, written because I'm bored due to work being cancelled due to pandemic. Again, DC because I'm totally unoriginal and derivative even of myself. There'll be several plot lines spanning through this, most of them focusing on characters/relationships I didn't touch on last time I wrote on of these here. I've been rough drafting this for a while on writing.com and have a good idea of where I want to go with it, but it will still probably go a little differently than it did there. DC Universe Overweight. Chapter 1: The Former(ly Fit) Villains In the pitch black pit of Gotham’s criminal underworld, the greatest venom was aimed not at crime fighters (be they bat themed vigilantes or the police). It wasn’t aimed at rival criminals, be they old fashioned crooks, pushers and gangsters or costumed lunatics out for massive paydays and massive body counts. It wasn’t even aimed for snitches and back stabbers, for everyone knew that if a Bat dangled you off a skyscraper you’d eventually have to give in. No, the worst bile was reserved for those who went straight. Criminals who put crime behind them, who abandoned thievery and graft in exchange for disgustingly honest work. Insults were heaped upon them, that they’d lost their edge, lost their nerve and worst of all, gone soft. “Oof, who’da thought how accurate that last insult is,” Dr. Harleen Quinzel said to herself one morning, wincing as she examined her rump in the mirror, “it's like I’m smuggling waffle batter back there already and the story’s just started!” Quinzel, or Harley as she liked to be called or Harley Quinn as she’d been called as a criminal, was a pale blonde woman of medium height and on the edge of thirty. Tortured semi-voluntarily into insanity by the super criminal known as the Joker, Harley had been one of the most dangerous criminals in the crime benighted burg. Olympic champion skills at gymnastics had been combined with an unhinged mental state to fight, steal, scam and on occasion kill her way across Gotham’s underworld, first as Joker’s moll and then on her own once she’d started breaking free. “Hey, stop with the backstory, that’s not what people came to see!” the accented ex-criminal suggested. Even now, with her mind trending towards’ sanish Harley retained a detached view of her reality. Inanimate objects still talked to her, her internal dialogue often argued with her and she would often swear that her life was being described to an unseen audience by an omniscient narrator. “Omniscient my overfed tuchus! I know you had to google that!” Quinn returned, then went back to looking at her backside, “Oof, hey Mr. Omniscient, you know a way to get this back to normal?” A gymnastics scholarship had put Quinn through college. It had been a routine she’d kept up as a Psych and as a criminal, keeping the young woman toned, fast and surprisingly strong. Her relatively long legs had been defined and muscular, with strong calves and powerful thighs. She’d had a six pack when training hard and just a defined abdomen otherwise. Although her breasts had been small, Harley’s pride had been her rear end: a creamy 38 inch badonkadonk that turned any underwear into a thong and made any pants she wore scandalous. It was tight enough to bounce a coin off of and begged to be slapped. “Fuck right it was perfect, a real muscle butt,” Quinn replied to the narrator, “why’d you bury it under all this flubber!” Once Harley had, mostly, put crime in her rear-view mirror, she’d had to drop most of her exercises to try and keep her head above financial water. Those hard forged gymnast muscles had started softening, while Harley’s always fierce appetite had continued unabated. Her high caloric needs meant she’d never developed healthy eating habits, usually feasting until over full on junk like pizza, hot dogs and cheap Chinese food. Coupled with no exercise, it meant she’d gained forty pounds in half a year and gotten up to a once unthinkable 170lbs. “Okay, me eating like a pig is a bit canonical but don’t lay me being a chubster on anyone but you perv!” Harley defended, double chin really showing as she looked up at where she thought the narrator’s voice was coming from. An antipsychotic drug that reduced most violent impulses making her lethargic and hungrier didn’t help. Its extra influence having accelerated her weight gain to the point that Harley was now fifty pounds over her old 130lb standard. “You’re a regular comedian,” the 180lb woman grumbled, feeling herself get a bit squishier than she’d been somehow. Six months post retirement had done a number on the once fit clown princess of crime. Her face was mostly untouched, save for a floppy fat roll dangling beneath her chin at most angles. Harley’s firm abdominals had gotten soft and soggy, if she sucked in her belly as hard as she could the pale flesh was just a little untoned but when fully relaxed, Quinn’s midriff was now half way between a starter belly and a beer gut. It was thick enough she could place three fingers beneath its lower slope and bounce it up and down or grab it with both hands. Growing love handles flanked the milky buddha belly, big enough to squeeze tight during sex. “Yeah, that’s what they’re for ya pervert virgin,” Quinn grumbled, patting the side fat where her ribs had once been visible, “like you’d even know what to do with a girl as b-e-a-u-tiful as me.” Harley had never been much upstairs, but packing on fifty pounds had made them worse. They’d grown rather saggy, sloppy and floppy, sagging inside her b-cup bra and drooping like a woman ten years older. “Hey, don’t I at least get fat girl boobs?” she hissed at the omniscient narrator, then reconsidered, “alright, fine. Ya ain’t a virgin and are good with girls. And your narration is real professional and funny.” Quinn adjusted her tight blue bra against her swollen breasts. She’d put on fifty pounds in the last six months, plenty of puppy fat coming with it. Her small gymnast boobs had swelled up like dough in an oven, threatening to pop the band of her blue 34D bra. She considered that she didn’t really need a bra, her chest was just as perky as it ever had been despite Quinn bearing a proud set of fat girl boobs. “Now that’s more like it!” Quinn’s heavily accented voice squealed, jostling her tits against the fabric to test their realness, “if I said you were super smart and buff and gave a girl great cunnilingus would ya make me skinny again?” Unfortunately nothing was going to make Quinn thin again save for brutal exercise and a merciless diet. “Rats,” Harley said, crossing her flabby upper arms over her bust. While Harley’s bust had grown, her always wide hips meant she’d been destined to be a pear. Day by day the muscles of her ass had been replaced bit by bit with squishy fat. Once perfectly round, the overfed cheeks had grown wide and succumbed to gravity, sagging like a fatty housewife. Her ass drooped, hanging out of her red thong panties and starting to merge with her equally thick thighs. Stretchmarks raced across her skin, patterns of cellulite spreading alongside them. If Harley had had the urge to measure them, she’d have found that her backside’s widest point was now 42 inches across. “Hey, I ain’t that fat yet. The story is just starting moron,” Harley snapped, “across is just one face, you mean around.” Harley’s ass was now 43 inches around at its widest point, which was much lower than it had been, the 185lb woman's caboose seeming to grow every time she looked away from it. “Haha, very fucking funny,” the pscyh grumbled, “ya gonna point out how my thick flabby thighs rub whenever I walk now and have got cellulite on em? Or how I’ve got these wobbly linebacker cankles now?” Harley’s examination of herself was stopped by a shout from the living room of her shared apartment. “Harley, are you ready yet? I want to stop and get breakfast before we start the meeting,” her partner in crime/roommate and girlfriend Poison Ivy yelled, "you know how cranky I get when I don't eat enough." “Just gotta get some clothes on, Red!” Harley yelled back, waddling over to her closet and searching for something that would reliably fit. “Well hurry up, I’m hungry!” the plant hybrid and fellow ex-con whined, “someone ate all the doughnuts we’d bought for breakfast last night!” Harley blushed that evidence of her midnight snacking had been found...although she’d only had three of the half dozen donuts meaning that Ivy must have polished off the rest on her own moonlight feast. That idea turned her on to a small degree, her girlfriend’s unrestrained gluttony combined with denial about as sexy as things got to her. “Gotta say there’s worse fetishes to get saddled with for a story’s sake,” Harley admitted, pulling out clothes and struggling her buttery body into them. Abandoning a life of crime had brought severe financial downsides to Harley. Her student loan payments had come back with a vengeance while she lacked any ability to put her psych degree due to losing her license. At first she’d had to work at the skeevy Hooter’s knock off Superbabes as a waitress, portraying a more scantily clad than normal version of herself but the increasing weight brought on by the free food meant she’d eventually been let go. Right now she and Ivy were working on something big but until it paid off, the two had to scrimp where they could. Which meant no new clothes until the old ones were absolutely outgrown. “What a stupid way to try and save money,” Harley grunted, stomach forming into soft rolls as she worked her stockings up her doughy legs. The tights were size tens, four weeks old and dangerously snug. They formed so tight around her jiggly cankles and inflated thighs that she might as well not have worn anything, but they at least covered up the cellulite and stretch marks from easy view. Thin patches wore on Harley’s chafing inner thighs, a warning that the leggings weren’t going to last much longer. “Guess that shows me for getting too thick for any of my pants,” Quinn grumbled, working on buttoning up her skirt. The black fabric was painted on, space showing between all of the buttons and the line of her thong could be seen through the sheer cloth. She bent very carefully to pick up a work shirt, sucking in her flabbiness to get the shirt tails into the skirt. Quinn kept her paunch sucked in as long as she could to get all the buttons done up, feeling a pressure spike when she had to at last let her tummy out. A once baggy and now snug blazer went over it, only two of its three buttons fastenable. “Yesh, I’d have to be crazy to go out in this,” the insane woman said to herself, sliding on a pair of high heels by feel, “good thing I am.” Quinn waddled out of her bed room, finding her better half waiting impatiently at the door. The considerably saner Pamela Isley was staring at a wrist watch and tapping her foot, looking up when Quinn arrived and immediately frowning. “You’re really wearing that to our big meeting?” Ivy asked, red eye brow rising in exasperation, “You know how much is riding on us getting this contract, don’t you Harley?” “Would you rather I wear the size eight slacks I can’t get over my thighs? Or maybe the blouse that I can’t button across my stomach?” Quinn returned, jiggling some belly fat to demonstrate, “this is what I’ve got to work with, unless you want to lend me your shape wear, Red.” Quinn wasn’t the only mostly ex-supervillain to let herself go after giving up crime. The former eco-terrorist turned start-up queen Ivy was no longer the waifish dryad who’d had the city in terror. The botanist retained her dark auburn hair, slightly green skin and petite, 5’1 height but unlike Harley she’d never been a serious exercise nut, depending too much on her plant based powers to fight and a diet to stay slim. The same aggression dampening antipsychotics as her girl friend had kicked that diet out the window just as stress cravings and a middle age spread had come knocking, not that Ivy would admit it. “Harley my shapewear is just to deal with little problem areas,” Ivy lied, hand going to her belly, “it wouldn’t hide an issue as large as yours.” Anyone with eyes could see that Ivy had gained just as much weight as Harley. The dryad’s lean face had grown round and puffy, chubby chipmunk cheeks robbing her face of its previous angular beauty. Pillowy shoulders and chunky arms tested Ivy’s grey dress to the limit and she hadn’t even tried to do all of her buttons. If she’d been forced to acknowledge that, Ivy would have said it was all due to her stupendous and all natural bustline. For such a short, slim girl Ivy’s chest had always been large, hovering at the C/D line but her lime tinted tatas had absorbed quite a few of the calories the gluttonous woman took in every day. Eye catching F cup melons surged out of Ivy’s chest, the tear shaped bosoms kept high by some very expensive lingerie that was replaced the instant it got snug, despite the pair’s financial situation. The redhead wasn’t going to let her best assets get droopy. “Yeah, a little problem area,” Harley said with an eye roll, taking her bright blue peepers off Ivy’s assets and looking down at the strangely smooth surface of the green girl’s stomach, “you can lie to everyone else Red, but not the girl who gives you belly rubs when you eat too much. I know just how big your belly is under them girdles.” Ivy’s waistline had once been a tiny 21 inches during her active criminal days, back when she weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet. But that had been seventy pounds ago and big as the apple shaped ex-con’s breasts had grown, most of her fat had gone right to her midsection. The short woman’s gut wouldn’t stop swelling out, going from perfectly flat to pinch ably soft to decadently plump to already sagging beer gut over the last months as she outpaced Harely’s gain by twenty pounds. “I...bloat up when you feed me too much,” Ivy huffed, as if she didn’t beg for the feeding when it happened every night, guzzling chocolate sauce and heavy cream until her belly button popped into an outie, “it's all temporary swelling.” “Yeah, you temporarily grew such a big belly you need two layers of shapewear to fit into a size ten dress,” the taller Harley laughed, poking the clear outline of Ivy’s girdle, “A few more months on funnel feeding and I bet you’ll be wider than you are tall!” Ivy’s greenish cheeks turned beat red in lustful embarrassment, her chubby hand pushing away Harley’s soft finger, “Please, spare me the jokes. I’ve gotten a little bloated but once this sale goes off and we get some free time and better food, I’ll burn this off in no time.” The ex-supervillain might beg and plead to be fed and fondled when it was sexy time with her equally chubby girlfriend, but in any other circumstance Ivy refused to admit having gained more than five pounds. Despite her stomach starting to rest on her thighs when she sat down without a girdle on and her feet being incognito beneath her tummy's fat slopes for a month. “I hope not, you look so cute chubby,” Harley giggled, waddling over to the counter of their shared apartment’s kitchen and picking up a heavy cooler, her weakened arms sagging at the weight, “Hey narrator, how weak do you think I am? I ain’t so bad yet I can't lift up a cooler, save that for chapter eight at least." “Harley, quit talking at the ceiling,” Ivy sighed, her friend's frequent responses to an otherwise inaudible narrator“bring the cupcakes and come along. I don’t want to waste this appointment, it's not every day you get a meeting with an executive at Wayne Enterprises.”
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