a pile of bread

verwandeln-characterblog  asked:

📷 - Caitriona Balfe for Shaeliora!

Adalea had not yet gotten the chance to meet Shaeliora face to face, she heard whispers of the woman. Mentions of her among the other snakes in the compound but she never seemed to be where Adalea was. So of course….the moment they finally got to meet. Ada was in an…interesting position.

Rushing out of her room in the residence of the compound-her scarlet locks a frizzed mess being hastily piled atop her head-a piece of bread hanging from her mouth and a smudge of ink on her cheek; she slid to a stop in front of the other woman just outside and blinked. Her freckled cheeks aflame.

“Uhmph” She muttered but took the bread out and released her hair-that ever present curl on the front falling back into place in the middle of her forehead. “I…might have slept late.” She managed, once composing herself.

What a first impression, Adalea was sure the other elf was looking at her like she’d grown another head. She pushes a smile and wipes ink off her cheek.

Just another day of not enough sleep.

anonymous asked:

Have you ever ran to school with toast in your mouth?

I actually ran in panic to school holding a plate of spicy tarkari and a bowl of haleem mom made with a pile of fresh pita bread on the side while saying, “Ya Allah, I’m late for school” 

Noble Reign

Ch.1 Mytic Messenger Middle Ages AU

|Ch. 2| |Ch. 3|

Author’s Note: It finally happened. I’m so sorry it took me such a long time to finish it, but I’m so proud to present you the Mystic Messenger Middle Ages AU! ^^ I have absolutely no idea if anyone will read this but I had so much fun writing it and I will definitely continue updating it. Keep in mind that English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance for any grammar mistakes. Nevertheless, I hope y’all enjoy it. Please feel free to leave any sort of comments or message me; I would love to write some headcanons for this AU and I like to integrate your ideas as well.

I also want to give special thanks to @promiscuous-jalapeno for giving me advice and encouraging me in my writing. If you should ever read this, I hope you’ll enjoy it as well. <3

Wordcount: 3,247


“A long time ago, there existed a great kingdom that was ruled by two brothers. Their names were Jaehyun and Jaekwang.

The brothers were loved by their people and everyone lived together in harmony. But one day, Jaekwang desired the sole control over the kingdom and rebelled against his brother.

With soldiers at his command, he imprisoned his brother and spread misery across the kingdom. For a long time the kingdom was ruled by bitterness and people were living in fear.

But then, when all hope had died and the hour of doom seemed at hand, a girl appeared as if from nowhere. With fire burning in her soul and magic running through her veins, she defeated Jaekwang and freed his brother.

In anger, she divided the kingdom in half by forcing water and earth between the villages. A grand river and high mountains were now separating Jaekwang and Jaehyun.

Pleased with her work, the girl vanished and was never seen again. Over time, the two brothers created different kingdoms, one ruled by fear and one ruled by strength.

Generations passed and so did the girl’s tale. The kingdoms became enemies and the tale became legend. They say that someday, the girl will come back to reunite the kingdoms in peace and harmony again but until then the kingdoms remain in discord.”

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Heart’s Rhapsody (Akira Kurusu x Reader)

Word Count: 3,935

A musician reader requested by @galaxia0u0​ and @blissfullydiabolik​ ! If you haven’t played the game yet then this just touches on the first boss / chapter. This is the first request I’ve done, I’m sorry if this wasn’t written to your satisfaction!

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Sleeping With the Enemy

A/N:  Ok, so what had happened was, @archangel-with-a-shotgun shared a story about being invited to a ball by Crowley, and then the most recent installment of @icecream-and-gadreel’s smutacular series involved a Crowley scene, and I really should not be held accountable for my actions, after that.

Summary: The reader and the Winchesters infiltrate Crowley’s Halloween masquerade ball, in order to steal a powerful talisman.  Crowley offers the reader a deal.

Word Count: 5,080ish.  Sorry, not sorry.  I, much like my beloved sinnamon roll, enjoy a little torture before the grand finale. 

Menu I mean Warnings:  THE MOST BLAZINGLY FILTHY SMUTTY SMUT I HAVE EVER WRITTEN!  YE WERE WARNED!  Power struggle, demon power!kink, oral sex (female receiving), semi-public sex, Crowley’s magical thundercock, ALL the dirty talk, Dom!Crowley, unprotected sex (do it right or pay the price, kids).

Soundtrack: http://8tracks.com/forestspirit/harbingers-of-the-dead

“I can’t believe you made me wear this thing.” You tugged lightly at the crimson velvet of your gown, trying to hike the neckline up.

“Shut up, you look awesome.” Dean teased.  “Besides, it’s a costume party.  Not like you could show up in your usual duds.”

The colonial-style gown was undeniably beautiful.  (Dean had looked so proud of himself when he brought it home from the costume shop.)  It was the kind of thing any princess wannabe would give her left arm to wear.  The problem was you.  You didn’t belong in a getup like this- you were a hunter for fuck’s sake.  The tight, low cut bodice restricted your movements, and while the wide skirts were perfect for concealing weaponry, they were heavy and swished around when you moved, getting caught on doorways and furniture.  It made you feel confined and clumsy.  Not like yourself at all. 

Then again, that was the point of a masquerade, wasn’t it?  You huffed and yanked on your neckline, again.

“Screw you, Winchester.  I look like a Hamilton reject.   How come you’re not in costume, huh?”

“Believe me, sweetheart.  This monkey suit is plenty.”  He adjusted the jacket of his tux, as if the black wool were strangling him.  “Plus, we’ve got the whole mask thing going on.”  He indicated the black velvet domino mask covering half his face.  “Now that’s above and beyond.”

“You look beautiful, Y/N.”  Sam chimed in from behind his golden sun mask.  “If anything, Dean and I are underdressed.”

Sighing, you turned to take in the sight before you.

When Crowley hosted a Halloween masquerade, he didn’t half-ass it.  The huge black marble ballroom was swirling with intricate costumes.  There was a man (demon, you corrected yourself) in a top hat and tails covered with feathers, giving him the look of a rather stately raven.  A giggling woman passed by wearing a tight gown covered in red and yellow sequins (or were they embers?), with what looked like real flames dancing through her hair.

Sam was right.  Even in your tight, swishing velvet, you were so plainly out of place.  So very human. You tightened the strap on your red fox mask, trying to disappear.

“Ok, let’s get what we came for and go.  I don’t want to be here a second longer than we have to.” You grumbled.

“10-4.” Replied Dean.

“We’ll split up, meet back here in an hour?” Said Sam.

You all nodded and went your separate ways.  The boys headed in opposite directions, toward twin hallways on either side of the ballroom.  That meant you got to weave through the crowd.  Joy.

You passed by a buffet table, piled high with fruit, bread, cheese, and what you chose to believe was beef.  You didn’t take anything.  You did, however, take a flute of champagne from a silver tray as it passed, carried by a hunched form in a goblin mask.  Wait, was that a mask?  By the time you looked again, the server was gone.  

You looked more closely at the figures around you.  They weren’t all demons.  There was a faerie queen in a dress of autumn leaves, a crown of willow branches on her head.  She was attended by a knight in orange mail armor, and -yes!- the knight did have a fluffy tail that swished in and out of view as she pivoted, guarding her queen.  In an alcove, sitting on leather couches and sipping blood from crystal stemware, were some vampires who apparently never got the memo about goth fashion being cliche for their kind.  

The more you looked, the more variation you saw in the guests.  Witches, werewolves, faeires, vampires, djin… This wasn’t just a Halloween party for Crowley’s court, it was a fucking state sumit.  

“Now, what is a beautiful creature like you doing hanging about in the shadows?” said a smooth cockney voice in your ear.  You whirled around to face the speaker, praying your disguise was good enough.  

Crowley was dressed in an impeccable black suit and blood red tie, as usual.  His “costume”, it seemed, was a long burgundy cape with a high collar and a matching leather mask shaped like a skull.  Four demonic horns protruded from the top of his mask, giving the appearance of a crown.  Subtle.  With a flourish of his cape, he bowed and offered his hand, looking through his lashes as he said with a grin, “What do you say, love?  Care to dance with the devil?”

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The Arrangement

Originally posted by teninchherogifs

Summary: Chapter 4 of Trope-Tastic ~ Priestly + 2. Fake Dating turns into real dating


“You want me to do what?” You demanded, incredulous. Priestly stood before you, a determined look in his eye.

“Pretend to be my girlfriend for a little while? Please, Y/N?” He pleaded, giving his very best puppy face.

You crossed your arms defensively, raising an eyebrow in suspicion. “Why?” You asked.

He looked sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Well…you see…”

“Oh my god Priestly we’ve known each other for years there’s nothing you can say that will scare me away.” You said, throwing your hands up in the air.

“You know that my breakup with Tish was mutual and I know it’s over…” He began.

“But?” You prompted, scared that he’d say he wants to get her back.

“But I’m not fine. I will be, but she’s moved on so fast and that hurts. I…want to show her I’m not as hurt as I actually am.”

“Oh…” You said, an ironic sort of sympathy growing in your heart. You’d felt the same way when he had originally started dating Tish. He had no idea you liked him of course, so you’d put on a brave face.

“I promise it won’t be a big thing. We just have to act like a couple when she’s around and we can ‘break up’ in like a week.” He explains.

“Alright, fine, but if I decide I don’t want to do it anymore we stop, ok? Tish is my friend too, I don’t like deceiving her.” You add.

“Deal.” He agrees with one of his mega watt smiles.

With that, you shook hands and one of the weirdest weeks of your life began.

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6

Robron Wedding Aesthetic. 

I can imagine Robert Sugden piling in the bread in crates to pay homage to his failed proposal. After Rob’s comments about Aaron and Liv at the Mill, I imagine he’s already thought of accommodating Aaron’s minimal needs with haystacks, crates, and obviously a beer barrel. He’ll hold off on the burnt out shell of a car though. A short&sweet ceremony where the Dingles and Sugdens don’t pick sides, but seats. Intimate and heartbreakingly beautiful.

My Brother’s Wedding

by mrs momona © 2017

This is the first weight gain related story written by the author whose pseudonym is “mrs momona”. It was written in 2003.

A month ago, my brother got married. It was a happy event for our entire family. For me, it was a lot more. Because of my brother’s wedding, I became aware of certain things about myself.

It all started five years ago when I was a senior in high school. I had been interested in sports since I was a little kid, and in high school, I had gone out for football and baseball. At the beginning of football practice in August of my senior year I remember I was measured at 5'9" and 180 lbs.

That November, my life changed dramatically. My father was killed in a traffic accident–head-onned by a drunk driver, leaving my mom, me, and my kid brother, four years younger than me. I dropped football to get a part-time job after school. Although we weren’t poor, I knew some extra money would help out my mom as well as pay for my car expenses.

There’s a deli in town that I used to stop at sometimes after practice to buy a snack to eat on the way home. The first day I was job hunting after school, I stopped by the deli and noticed a sign in the window: “Part-Time Help Wanted”. I asked one of the employees about the sign, and I was told to talk to the owner, Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones turned out to be a big heavy guy, a little shorter than me but with a huge belly. To make a long story short, we talked for a while and he told me he’d hire me. I was told to report to work the next day after school. I’d be working afternoons, some evenings, and weekends.

The next afternoon I showed up at work and was introduced by Jim, one of the workers, to a cute girl named Amy. At first glance she seemed to be about my age, and, like I said, real attractive. She was kinda chubby, big up front and in the butt. Jim told me that Amy was the boss’s daughter and had helped at the deli since she was a little kid. She would show me the ropes.

My job orientation with Amy went well. She was also a senior in high school, but attended a private school across town from my high school. I had a hard time listening to what Amy was telling me–I kept on admiring her cute face, nice smile, and soft curves in all the right places. I guessed her to be about 5'6" tall and maybe 160 lbs of perfection.

The job responsibilities were simple–stock the shelves in the mini-mart attached to the deli, make sure the tables and chairs were clean in the small dining area, but mostly wait on customers. The deli sold a full range of cold cuts and cheeses; sandwiches made to order; chilled salads and homemade desserts; and hot items like roasted chicken and baked ziti that customers could take home for dinner. The deli was open from 5 a.m. to 10 p.m. and did a lot of business at breakfast and lunchtime with guys coming in from the nearby industrial area. Afternoon, evening, and weekend customers included a lot of people buying take-home items for dinner, snacks, or–hey, whatever, as long as they bought something!

Looking back, it was that first day on the job that really changed my life. Amy showed me how to make the deli sandwiches which were a major part of the business: take the order, slice the meats and cheeses for the filling, lavishly butter the roll or bread, pile on the filling, and add things like lettuce, tomato, onions, or other garnishes. I got the hang of it pretty fast. Jim gave me some tips about waiting on customers: if the customer is a heavy guy or lady, give them some extra filling on the sandwich, or some extra salad or dessert in the container. Don’t say anything, but make sure they know that you’re giving them a little extra–that’s how you get customers to return. When I asked Jim why to do this only with heavy customers, he laughed and said “How do you think they got heavy? They like food!”

When closing time approached, Jim showed me how to close up, lock the doors, clean everything as thoroughly as possible, and make sure everything was secure and ready for opening the next morning. He next said, “Oh, and one benefit of the job is that you can take home leftovers, or make a sandwich to go or something if you want”.

Free food! Like any healthy growing American boy I was interested. Jim explained that for cold items like salads and desserts, everything left over in the display case after two days was to be tossed at the end of the day–the selling point of the deli was freshness. Same thing with cold cuts or cheeses which had been pre-sliced to make sandwiches when there were a lot of customers. Any of these left at closing time had to be thrown out because they’d dry out by the next day and wouldn’t taste right. Same thing with the hot items and roasted chickens left in the rotisserie at closing time. The board of health required that they be thrown out and not be kept for another day.

I was shocked–throwing away all that food–and said so. Jim replied, “well, the boss says it’s all part of doing business. At the end of the day, either toss it or eat it yourself.”

“Eat it?” I replied.

Jim laughed, “Yeah, how do you think I got this ‘deli belly’?” On saying that, he jiggled the flabby pot belly sagging over his belt.

While Jim and I were talking, Amy  was busy–it turns out she was making two overstuffed roast beef and jack cheese sandwiches on rye. She wrapped them and gave them to me saying, “Here, enjoy these on the way home. Like Jim says, if you don’t eat it we’ll just toss it.” As she said this, Amy gave me a big smile. Her hand seemed to linger as she put the sandwiches in my hands–or was it just my imagination? As I munched the sandwiches on the way home–they were delicious–I remember thinking that I had lucked into a great job–pretty good pay, free food, and Amy!

The next few months went by quickly. I fell into the routine on the job, always making sure that at the end of the day there were some things to eat on the way home. I started to nibble on the job, just like I had seen all the other employees doing. I kept up my grades in school, and most importantly, I got to know Amy better. She made sure we both had the same evenings off, so we could go out. Over time, her parents began to invite me for dinner, just like my mom began to invite her over to my house for dinner, too. We got to be real close, and fell in love.

On a Saturday night in March, three months before high school graduation, Amy and I were sitting in my car after I closed up the deli. I was busy finishing off the last of my post-work snack–two overstuffed turkey and cheese deli sandwiches, a quart of potato salad, and a quart of chocolate milk. Amy and I were talking about what late movie to go to when she quietly started to cry. I asked her what was wrong and she said, “I think I’m pregnant.”

The first words out of my mouth were, “OK, let’s get married.” I still wonder why I said that–I knew I loved Amy, and we had vaguely talked about getting married one day, but we never had made any definite plans. I guess I thought of how happy my parents’ marriage had been, and I wanted the same for Amy and me. In any case, I said the right thing–Amy overwhelmed me with kisses while I was trying to finish off my last mouthful of that creamy delicious potato salad.

Much to my relief, Amy’s parents didn’t kill me when we went to talk with them. In fact, her father said to me, “You’re going to be the son I never had”. (Amy is an only child.) Our parents and we agreed that Amy and I would get married right after high school graduation in June, and that I’d start working full time in the deli. In the fall, I’d be going full time to the local junior college, majoring in culinary arts, and keep my hours at the deli while Amy stayed home and cared for our baby.

The next few months of high school kinda went by in a blur—time spent with Amy, trying to be a good son to my mom and a good “big brother” to my kid brother, studying, working 40 hours a week (at least) at the deli to make some extra money, and trying to keep in touch with “the guys” I used to play sports with.

I remember the final week of school–we had to report to the Health Room to be weighed and measured just as we had been at the beginning and end of each school year since kindergarten. I can still hear the health aide say “5'9” and then “217–let’s see, young man, you’ve put on 37 lbs since last August.” “My reaction was "whoa”, followed by “Let’s see, I have to be at work by 4:00–I just have time to stop by McD’s to get a couple of double quarters with cheese, some fries, and a shake to hold me until I can eat during my dinner break.” As you can see, my growing appetite included food from any source–not just the deli. To me, anything eaten in addition to breakfast, lunch, and dinner were “snacks” and just didn’t count as real eating.

Amy and I got married in June–just a small wedding–Amy’s folks, my mom and brother, my best buddy Joe as best man, and Amy’s best friend as bridesmaid. Looking back now, it’s interesting to recall what happened when my buddy Joe and I went to rent two dark suits for the ceremony. Joe stepped up to be measured–42 chest, 32 waist. Next came me–44 chest, 38 waist. The tailor then measured my hips and added, “just a minute, sir, you’re going to need the full-cut trousers.”

Afterwards, Joe and I stopped at BK for a little snack. I was working on my 3 whoppers with cheese, large onion rings, fries, and shake while Joe finished his BK broiler. Joe continued the snickering he had started when we were at the tailor’s. When I asked him what was up, he replied, “You know what 'full cut trousers’ means, don’t you?”

“No, what?” I said with my mouth full.

“It means you’re getting a big fat ass to match that fat belly you’ve been building up the past few months.”

I remember saying “Yeah, so what?” and thinking—yup, I’m a man now–I’m gonna have a wife soon, then we’ll have our kid, I’ve got a full time job–I don’t have time to worry about other stuff. My father had always been a “big guy”–250 or so–Amy’s dad was a real “big guy” and I just expected that men became “big guys”. I was a man now, and my weight of 217 proved it. Besides, from the time I was a little kid playing Little League baseball, I had always been kidded about the size of my butt. I was just naturally bigger back there and in my thighs than a lot of guys were–so what? That’s what helped make me a good catcher, right?

I was real busy the next two years. Amy gave birth to our son Johnny–named for my father–in October. Meanwhile, I was up at 4 a.m., at the deli from 5 to 7 a.m., at school from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., back at the deli from 5 to 8 p.m. That was weekdays. On Saturdays, I was at the deli all day (5 a.m. to 10 p.m.) I liked my classes, liked learning about food, and liked my job. Most of all, I loved Amy and our son. When days were really stressful, I knew I could look forward to going home to one of Amy’s delicious home-cooked meals (her lasagna with butter-soaked garlic bread was and is my favorite), spending some time with her and Johnny, and then enjoying one of Amy’s home baked treats with a quart of milk as a bedtime snack before collapsing into bed and getting some rest before I had to wake up at 4 a.m. the next morning. I came to rely on those dinners and bedtime snacks as stress relievers. The richer the food and the more of it I ate, the more relaxed it made me feel.

Sundays were my day off. Catching up on my nap time, spending time with my son, and helping Amy around the house were usual. Once in a while we’d get together with my buddy Joe and his girlfriend or some of our other friends from high school. Every week, we’d go to either Amy’s folks’ or to my mom’s house for Sunday dinner. Always great food which I couldn’t get enough of, even though Amy’s mom and my mom always made sure my plate was piled high with food–as soon as my plate was clean, they’d pile on the seconds, thirds, or fourths before I could say anything. Can’t let good food go to waste, right?

After two years, I graduated from junior college and went to work full time at the deli. The week after I graduated, my father-in-law invited me to lunch at this great Italian buffet in town. After we both stuffed ourselves, he broke the news to me–he wanted to retire, and in return for a monthly payment to him, the deli would belong to me and Amy. He told me that I had “proved myself” to him by my hard work and getting my degree in culinary arts while handling all my other responsibilities. I was so happy–I celebrated by stuffing myself with Italian goodies from the dessert bar, for the first time actually eating more than my father-in-law. I was so proud–proud of his faith in me and proud of myself for the man I had become.

Today, it’s been three years since I took over management of the deli. It’s hard work, but I love it. 72 hour workweeks are common, but I’ve got a great bunch of employees. I’ve got a great family, too. Amy gave birth to our second son Robbie two years ago, and that pregnancy also left her with some additional luscious pounds in all the right places. She’s so beautiful and sweet–I wouldn’t be where I am today without her.

Looking back over the past five years, I see now what was happening to me–I was just too busy to realize it or acknowledge it. From the time I got married, things would happen that should have been signals of the changes that were happening to me. I’d have a hard time pulling jeans over my thighs and ass, and finally reached the point last year where I just couldn’t squeeze into even the fullest cut jeans. Shorts and pants became difficult to fasten at the waist. If I was able to fasten them, quite often I couldn’t pull the zipper up–if I was able to, often the zipper would burst open unexpectedly. Bending over to pick something up from the floor or just going to sit down in a chair often led to seam failure from the crotch back to the waistband. Tying my shoes became a struggle. T-shirts shrank over my chest, rode up over my stomach, and the sleeves became tight over my upper arms.

Long time customers would sometimes make comments like, “Looks like business is good” or “You’re really a good advertisement for the deli”. I would just laugh and fill their order, always giving them a little extra. Once in a while, an old high school buddy would stop by and call me “big guy”. Joe, my best man, would often take a pinch at my side, stomach, chest, or rear end and say “Wow, prime grade beef”.

“Yeah”, I would sometimes think, “I’ve picked up a few pounds since high school, but heck, what do you expect? I’ve got a family and a business here. I’ve got other things to worry about.” Besides, every split seam or popped zipper would result in a new (and bigger) pair of pants or shorts for me to wear the next day. I can always count on Amy to take care of me. I guess I just felt good–solid, substantial, happy, content

My moment of truth came about three months ago. My kid brother, by now 20, was getting ready to be married and asked me to be his best man. Of course I agreed. We made arrangements to go to the tailors to be fitted for our rental tuxedos. The night he, I, and his ushers were supposed to go, I had to back out because one of my employees had called in sick that day.

I arranged to go the next night. I left work at 6 p.m., bringing  along a snack of two overstuffed roast beef sandwiches, a quart of potato salad, and a quart container of our extra creamy chocolate tapioca pudding to tide me over until I could get home and have dinner with Amy and the boys. Right before I got to the tailor shop, I realized I had dribbled chocolate pudding on my T-shirt. I took it off and pulled on an old sweatshirt that was in the backseat. Didn’t want to look like a slob.

Going inside the shop, I told the tailor who I was. There were no other customers. He took me into the fitting room. I noticed him eyeing me up and down as he brought me into the room. He told me to strip down to my underwear saying, “Sir, we’re going to have to specially alter your tux, so I’m going to need to take a complete set of measurements.” He directed me to stand on a small riser in the middle of the room. At that point, the front door chime sounded, indicating that another customer had come in. The tailor excused himself, saying he would be back in a few minutes.

I kicked off my shoes and took off my pants, folding them on a chair. I next pulled off with some effort the sweatshirt I had put on in the car. Must’ve shrunk in the wash, I guess. That left me standing in my jockey shorts. On three sides of me, the walls were all mirrors, angled so that I could see my front, both sides, and back.

My first thought when I saw myself head-to-toe in the mirrors was “WHOA!” I looked at my face. The curly brown hair on top of my head was the same as it always had been. I was amazed at what I saw from there on down. All I could see were bulges, rolls, ripples, and curves. It was like I was seeing myself for the first time, and in a way, I guess I was.

My face was round and fleshy, with chubby cheeks and a wide double chin. My neck, what I could see of it, was wide and blended into my shoulders. I was kind of comforted to see the width of my shoulders–I still had my football players build–but then  I realized that my wide shoulders merged into the flab on my plump upper arms, making me look wider.

What I saw on my chest is kind of hard to describe. From my shoulders downwards, there were two big cushions of fat, separated in the middle by a deep valley. Mounted on each of these cushions were two oval, overstuffed sacks of flab, each tipped by a stretched puffy pink nipple which pointed downwards and off to the side. These big sacks of flab started in the upper middle of my chest and then spread downwards and outwards, ending up diving under each arm as a roll of fat. “Wow”, I thought, “I have tits!” Separating my plump round upper arms from my chest on each side was a bulging triangle of flab, divided from each arm and each tit by deep creases.

Each tit sagged downwards and rested on my huge, oval pot belly. A little below the middle of the belly was a saucer-like depression in the flesh–in the middle of the saucer was my bellybutton, so deep it looked like a dark cave. I lightly pushed my index finger into this cavern, setting off ripples and quivers of my belly flab. I was surprised to see that my index finger went in all the way–at least 3 inches. As I shifted and moved to get a better look at myself, my bellybutton puckered into a slit in my flab, and then opened into a wide cave with each movement then puckered again as the flab wobbled.

The sheer mass of the fat on my belly caused it to sag and hang over the waistband of my jockeys, covering my crotch. No wonder I had become accustomed to spreading my heavy thighs wide when I sat down—it was more comfortable in that position to let the mass of my bellyfat hang downwards between my legs.

Off to each side of my pot belly were two wide round lovehandles–each so big they reminded me of truck tires. On each side, the lovehandles bulged out from below where my tit rolls pushed my upper arms outwards, separated from the tit rolls by two smaller rolls of flab on each side. The bulge of each lovehandle was pulled back in by the overstretched elastic waistband of my jockey shorts. My bulging pot belly sagged over and covered the waistband at the front of my jockeys.

Below the crotch of my jockeys I saw that my upper body was supported by two round, plump, tree-trunk-like thighs. My thighs came together between my crotch and my knees. I instantly realized why the inside upper legs of my pants and shorts were so worn out—my plump thighs rubbing together as I walked had done it.

I could still hear the tailor and the customer engaged in a lengthy discussion in the salesroom, so I continued my survey of what I had packed onto myself over the past five years.

Turning my head slightly, I looked in the mirror which was angled so I could look full on at my  back. I wasn’t surprised to see my thick neck forming a couple of rolls of fat at the top of my wide plump shoulders and upper arms. Below them were my wide fleshy deltoids, which merged into the round fat tit rolls which had started on my chest. Two fat rolls on each side creased my sides and back. Beneath them, where I once had lats, were the amazingly wide bulges of my lovehandles, almost as wide as my shoulders. So much for what used to be my “V” shaped back. There was a deep dimple in my back fat exactly in the center of my lower back.

Below the lovehandles, my jockey shorts were unable to cover the full area of my broad hips and glutes–or what used to be my glutes. What used to be my well developed muschlebutt had turned into two watermelon sized buttocks, so big and full and plump that, above the elastic of my jockeys, they bulged upwards to merge with each lovehandle. At the bottom of my jockeys, each plump cheek bulged outward and downward, forming rolls of flab where they finally merged into my thighs. My deep buttcrack was visible from above the waistband of my jockeys  and continued below the bottom of the jockeys, separating the two bulging lower buttcheeks.

At that point, I kind of lost my balance–I think I craned my head too far trying to take in the full immensity of my enormous ass–and I had to step off the riser briefly and then back on again. I was amazed by the reaction of my buttocks to this. Each buttock bobbled up and down with a life of its own, while wobbling from side to side at the same time. Beneath my jockeys, and over the wide area of my ass my jockeys couldn’t stretch to cover, I noticed the flab covering these huge melons jiggling and quivering while the bobbling and wobbling was going on. I suddenly realized why my kid brother had been calling me “Assquake” for the past couple of years. I thought he was just being a typical pesty kid brother–now I saw he was describing reality. I could imagine the show my buttcheeks put on everytime I walked (or as I now realized, waddled).

The back view of my wide hips, awesome ass, and plump thighs was fascinating, but then I glanced down at the backs of my lower legs. Being an athlete in high school, I was always proud of my big calves. Now I saw that each calf was the size of a honeydew melon, pumped up by having to support my lard. As I shifted my stance I could see the quivering of the flab covering each calf.

I still heard voices from the outer salesroom, so I next took in the view from the mirrors angled to show my sides. At this point, I shouldn’t have been surprised by anything I saw, but I was. I was shocked and at the same time thrilled to see how much I stuck out in front and in back. My belly rounded out in a bulging semicircle  more than a foot and a half before it began to curve back in to meet the waistband of my jockeys just above my crotch. Supported by the upper roundness of my pot, my searchlight-sized tits bulged roundly outwards for what seemed like six inches or so.

A glance downwards was the most impressive. Not only did my watermelon-sized buttocks sit high on my backside, starting from where my lovehandles merged into them, they ballooned much farther outwards toward the back–at least a foot and a half, I figured–before curving back in to meet my jiggling fat thighs in a series of flab rolls.

I was amazed to realize that I stuck out farther from the front of my belly bulge to the farthest back bulge of my ballooning buttocks than I did across the width of my shoulders, lovehandles, or hips. I was proud and thrilled to realize what a monument to the results of sustained overeating I had become.

At that point, the tailor came back into the fitting room. He proceeded to quickly take my measurements–neck, shoulders, arm length, chest, upper arms, belly, waist, hips/butt, thighs, and inseam. He then said he had to check stock, and would be back in a minute. I must admit I entertained myself while he was away by stepping up and down off the riser and watching my watermelons–err, buttcheeks–bobble, wobble, jiggle and quiver. What a show!

The tailor came in after a few minutes and gave me the news about my tux order: “Sir, the tuxedo shirt will be no problem–we have a 23 neck 37 arm length in stock. We also have a size 62 portly jacket in stock in the style your brother wants you to wear. For the pants, I have to ask you–do you wear your pants at your waistline or underneath your–umm, err—stomach?”


“It’s more comfortable underneath my stomach.”

“OK, in that case, we’ll take a size 66/32 pants we have in stock and start from there. You actually have a size 60 waistline, but we need the bigger size to fit your–umm, err—seat and thighs. We’ll take in the waist and they’ll fit fine. Also, we’ll triple stitch the seams of the trousers just to make sure there are no—ummm—accidents if you have to bend over.”

Stunned by the numbers the tailor was telling me, I managed to ask a few questions. “What does portly mean?”

He replied, “Sir, portly means that the jacket is cut fuller in the waist area for gentlemen who are bigger there.”

“Why can’t you just take size 60 pants and let them out rather taking such a bigger size and taking in the waist. Wouldn’t that be cheaper?” My business sense was affecting my thoughts.

The tailor blushed and paused. He seemed to be searching for the right words before he replied. “Well, sir, there wouldn’t be enough room in the size 60 pants if we let them out to the maximum in the seat and thighs. You’re just so much—err, ummm–more well-developed in those areas.” In other words, my impression from looking in the mirror was correct–my ass WAS enormous!

“Fine”, I finally said, still stunned by the numbers he gave me. I hadn’t bought clothes for myself since we were married—didn’t have time, and besides Amy took care of all that. Plus, for the past year, Amy’s mom had been making drawstring waist shorts for me to wear to work–so much more comfortable than whatever Amy could find in the store.

The tailor then told me to get dressed and come out to the cash register to sign the agreement and make a payment. I waddled over to the chair where I had placed my pants, sweatshirt, and shoes, and got dressed, slipping on the shoes last. I suddenly realized that Amy had bought me slip-on shoes two years ago when she saw me struggling to bend over to tie my lace-ups. At the time, I thought nothing of it–just Amy taking more care of me.

I took one last look in the mirrors as I walked out–I was fascinated by what I saw with my clothes on, too. Every bulge of my huge tits, upper arms, pot belly and lovehandles was emphasized by the tight sweatshirt, which, by the way, failed to cover the bottom part of my truck-tire lovehandles and bulging pot belly. I was distracted from watching the show put on by my watermelon buttocks when I noticed the wobbling, bouncing, and swaying of my pot belly and tits as I walked.

My thought as I left the tailor shop and waddled to me car, conscious that the different parts of my body all moved  with a life of their own, was “Wow, I must have put on 40 or 50 lbs or so since I got married.”

I got in the car and headed for home. My first thought was dinner—I remembered, tonight was lasagna and garlic bread. Amy always made me my own pan, with another pan to be shared by her and our sons. If I was lucky, there would be leftovers from that pan and I could have some extra lasagna to go with my bedtime snack. I was thinking that Amy had said she was going to bake some apple pies that day.

Suddenly, panic gripped me. Once Amy sees how fat I am, she’s going to put me on a diet for sure. Bye bye lasagna with  buttery garlic bread, and  a whole apple pie smeared with softened butter and washed down with a quart of whole milk as a bedtime snack.

Then it hit me! Amy knows I’m fat! She’s seen me get this big, and she didn’t say anything about it. I suddenly thought of all the special treats Amy had lovingly prepared for me, and how she always filled my plate with seconds and thirds before I even had a chance to ask for more. Of course, I had always eaten everything she put in front of me. I was excited to realize, “AMY LIKES ME FAT!” Then it hit me, too. What I had always seen as Amy’s luscious curvy body, which had grown bigger and bigger every year we were married, meant that she was fat, also. And, I loved it!

I arrived home, went inside, and greeted Amy with a big kiss. She returned the kiss, grabbing and caressing my soft lovehandles. I realized that she couldn’t get her arms all the way around me. My two sons grabbed onto my legs to get my attention. “C'mon Dad, let’s eat. We’re hungry!” said Johnny. “Yeah, starving”, said Robbie. I looked down at them and for the first time I really saw that they were two little butterballs, chubby cheeks, bulging bellies, and big butts. No wonder everyone always told me that they “took after” me. They’re fat, too. As Amy led me into the kitchen, I had a big smile on my face. I knew now what I hadn’t realized for past five years: “I’m FAT, and I love it. Plus, I have a beautiful fat wife and two fine fat kids. Life is great!”

I needed one more thing to make my self-realization complete. The next evening, on my way home from the deli, I stopped at the local UPS office where my buddy Joe was the manager. I greeted him and asked, “Hey, Joe, can I use your digital scale?”

“Sure, big guy, what do you need to weigh?” Joe replied.

“Well, actually, I want to check my weight”.

Joe smiled broadly as he led me into the back room and showed me the freight scale. I had to step onto the scale, and could feel everything bounce and wobble as I did so. I quickly thought of the last time I had been weighed, when I graduated from high school. “Let’s see, 217 plus 40, nah, let’s say 45, makes 262."  (Obviously, I was still in denial!)

My thoughts were interrupted when I heard Joe yell out, "WOW!” I quickly looked at the digital readout and did a double take. 419! Joe brought me out of my thoughts by saying “Hey, big guy, way to go” as he poked the front of my massive belly , setting off an earthquake of jiggles in the soft flab.

On the way home, the numbers 4, 1, and 9 went through my mind. I smiled to myself. “Yep”, I thought, “I am one big guy. Great going.” The rumbling of my stomach took my attention and brought me back to the important stuff. It was still about 45 minutes until dinner. I reached over to the passenger’s seat and opened the double-quart container of creamy, mayonnaise- laced potato salad I had brought with me when I left work. (I had already eaten the sandwiches on the way to Joe’s office.) Dinner time with Amy, Johnny, and Robbie was a while yet and I knew I couldn’t last that long without a little snack to tide me over.
























Two open-faced grilled cheese sandwiches smashed together DO NOT make a regular grilled cheese sandwich.

The proportions of cheese to bread are way off, so you end up with a pile of melty cheese and a bit of bread in the middle. Learn from my mistakes.

Musketeers x Reader: Proving Them Wrong

I don’t own the image, and I don’t own The Musketeers.  Other than that, enjoy!

“Ugh,” One of the cadets muttered to his friends as he rubbed his sore arm.

 “The musketeers are too hard.”

“I know,” One of the others replied.  “Why can’t we fight someone easier?” They looked over to where you were sparring with d’Artagnan.  It was obvious neither of you were taking it seriously, because he was cracking jokes and you were all smiles.  

“What about Y/N?” A third asked.  “She’d be easy to take down!”  A hand clamped down on his shoulder and the smile slipped off his face.

Athos was standing behind him.

“Five laps around the garrison.  All of you.”  He said softly.

“Sir?”

“Ten.”

“It was just a jo—”

“Fifteen.”

“FINE!”

“Twenty for talking back.  Now get going.”  The cadets grumbled, but took off nonetheless.  You looked over, having heard the commotion.

“You should’ve let them take me on.  They would’ve learned their lesson.” You chastised Athos.  Porthos slung an arm around your shoulder.

“Yes, but then they’d gang up on you.”  He said.  “They just want to defeat you, fair fighting regardless.”  

“You don’t know that.” You said.  ‘I could probably take them out together too.”

“Well let’s not give them a reason to fight,” d’Artagnan said.”  At that moment, Aramis rode up.

“Time to go.” He said.  The other three mounted their horses, and you went to do the same.  “…What are you doing?” Aramis looked at you.

“You said it’s time to go.” You said, confused.  “I’m just getting ready.”  Aramis looked at you and sighed.

“I meant it’s time for us to go.” He said softly.

“What do you mean? Why am I not going?”

“Well,” Porthos cut in.  “We…decided it would be best if you stayed behind.”  Your put your hands on your hips.

“Really?  On what grounds?” You ground out.  The musketeers looked between each other awkwardly.  Finally d’Artagnan spoke up.

“We think it’s too dangerous.”

“Too dangerous?” You repeated in astonishment.  “I’m a musketeer!  My whole job is dangerous!”  

“Look, we’re leaving now, and Treville knows you’re to stay here.”  Athos said.

“You can’t do this!” You protested.   “I’m not a child!”

“Goodbye Y/N.” They rode out of the garrison, leaving you standing in the centre, seething.


It had been a week and a half since they left, and you were still bitter.  You were furiously hacking at a training dummy when a cloaked stranger rode in, slumped over his saddle.  You wiped the sweat from your forehead as you turned to the commotion.

Aramis fell out of his saddle, dressed as a Spanish guard.  You lunged and managed to catch his head just before it hit the ground.  He groaned in pain.

 “What the hell happened?”  He tried to sit up, and you carefully assisted him.

“Went undercover…” He forced out.  “Found out…I’m the only one.”

“Aramis.  Where are the others?” You asked softly.

“Spanish fort.  Ten miles south of border.”  You gently laid his head down on the ground, and Constance and Treville took your place.  “Y/N…stop…” Aramis protested weakly, but it was too late.

You were on your horse and riding out of the garrison.


After hours of riding in silence, you found the fort.  You stopped just before the forest ended.  You dismounted, and grabbed your weapons, before inspecting the fort.

Two guards at the door.  Two on each tower.  One pacing along each wall.  And God knows how many more inside.  If you went right at it, you’d be shot before you made it to the front door.  You sighed as you loaded your gun.

“It’s never easy, is it?”  You grumbled as you lined up your sights, and fired.

 One of the tower guards froze, before toppling over the edge.  You quickly reloaded and took out a guard on another tower, so they wouldn’t know exactly where you were shooting from.  After taking out the guards on the towers, you got on your horse and rode along the tree line.  You stopped a fair distance away, and began firing from that angle, disposing of the men who were pacing the fort walls. The men at the doors had ran back inside the fort, and you cautiously approached the fort from behind.  Circling at the base of the fort, you found a servant’s door. Drawing a dagger and hiding it in your skirts, you knocked, and hid around the corner.  Waiting.

The door swung open, and a guard walked out.  He looked around, and when his back was to you, you struck.  Wrapping your hand over his mouth, you plunged your dagger into his chest.  You gently lowered him to the ground as his struggles grew weaker and weaker, before stopping altogether.  You wiped your dagger on the guard’s vest, before slipping it inside and closing the door behind you.  The kitchen was empty, and you found a dirty maid’s uniform.  You slipped it on over your dress, and cut slashes in the sides for easy access to your weapons.  You found a basket of stale bread, and piled it on a dirty tray.  You took a breath, and stepped out of the kitchen.  The guards paid you no mind, and you wandered around the fort, wondering where they were keeping your friends.  You noticed a door off to the side, with four guards stationed in front of it.  

That had to be it.  You approached the door, but you were stopped.  You kept your eyes to the ground.

“Comida para los presos,” You said softly, showing them your tray.   You noticed a ring of keys hanging on a hook next to the door handle.  The guards examined your tray, and after throwing all but one of the pieces of bread on the dirt, waved you through.  One of the guards took the keys and unlocked the door letting you go first before following behind you.  The door closed, and he led the way down the stairs.  You waited until you were far enough from the door before making your move.  Dumping the bread on the ground, you swung the metal tray at the guard’s head.  He crumpled, and you dragged him into an empty cell.  You stuffed a glove in his mouth, tied his hands around his back using his belt, took his keys and locked him inside. You slowly crept along the halls, looking in the cells.  They were all empty, save for the one at the end of the hall.  Athos was standing in the corner, Porthos was spread eagled on the one cot in the cell, and d’Artagnan was sitting against the wall.  They didn’t notice you, and you unlocked the door.  They tensed up as you opened the door.

“Now what do you want?” Athos demanded.  You sighed, and walked back out of the cell.  You grabbed a torch from the wall and came back in.  Their eyes grew to the size of saucers.

“Y/N?” D’Artagnan asked carefully.

“Hello boys!” You said cheerfully.

“How did you—” You held up a hand.

“I proved you wrong.  Now let’s get out of here!”

Thanks to books-and-cleverness394 for requesting this one!

I gotta get into digital stuff again so have a Barb and a table with piles of many breads and a table that only supports one of those breads for absolutely no reason.

also I’m going to make merch for Barb I just have to think of what to draw to put on T-shirts and mugs. I’ll update when my store is ready.

anonymous asked:

I hope Winston is aware that you can put peanut butter and banana together in a sandwich

I don’t know what you’ve started Anon,
but someone needs to stop me.

Winston:

You sat quietly at the kitchen table, a bead of sweat streaming down your face. You could feel his eyes staring intently at you as you spread the creamy peanut butter over the perfectly square, pale piece of wheat flour bread. You could hear him muttering to himself, something of how it’s impossible. From the corner of your eye you could see his fingers twitching as he watched without blinking. You moved onto the next piece of bread, spreading an even amount on that slice too, however, you were interrupted when he coughed and pushed his spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose silently asking for your attention. “Ar-are you sure this…is going to work?” You nodded your head in certainty to his soft, yet, deep voice. You noticed him nervously licking his large gorilla lips and hoped to God you weren’t wrong about this.You continued spreading the last bit of butter of the peanut on to the slice and gulped a bit when you glazed over the yellow, ripe banana. It was time.

Your shaky hands reached for the yellow boat-like figure and anxiously began peeling away its protective barrier. He watched with anticipation, you noted as you laid the naked banana down bare on the plastic plate. You reached steadily for the plastic knife, and as you angled it to precisely cut a thick slice, you could hear Winston’s breath hitch at the sight of contact between the banana and plastic edge. You quickly sliced and diced your way through the slender fruit to hurry the process, after all, this waiting was clearly making him anxious. With each piece, you gently placed its curvaceous edges side by side on top of the peanutty butter and with a few minutes to spare you finished your master piece by placing the other slice of bread on top of the banana-piled piece. One look at Winston and you could see the desire flooding into his large, blown pupils. You reached for the plastic knife once more and cut the sandwich at a diagonal angle and when you held up the triangular snack in your left hand, Winston looked slightly light headed.

You placed your other hand over his larger, hairier one and shushed him sweetly. “Take it Winston, own it.” Winston nodded silently and took the sandwich into his own hand and brought it to his nose. An intoxicating smell overwhelmed his senses and his entire body went numb to the delicacy that sat so neatly in his overly large hands. You watched him quietly and keenly as he brought the bread barely to the tip of his bottom lip, but you almost missed it due to his impeccable speed, the moment that would change your life forever.


It’s been nine days.
It’s been two hundred and sixteen hours.
It’s been twelve thousand nine hundred and sixty minutes. 

And Winston still cannot be stopped on his rampage for the banana, peanut butter sandwich. 

You’ve made a horrible, horrible mistake.