#deathfeedist
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it finally started snowing here so i had to go purchase the coziest sweater i could find x3 its a turtleneck too, so it’ll keep me extra warm during these winter months :3
i hope you all are having a wonderful day!
#nonbinary feedee#deathfeedist#feeding kink#getting softer#death feedee#death feederism#dark feederism
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Look how much he's belly jiggels! 🐷
#feed me#death feederism#obese belly#obese piggy#extremely obese#death feedee#glorify obesity#feeder wanted#gaining kink#deathfeedist#help me grow#feedee encouragement
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Navel gauges to stretch out a belly-button are an underutilized idea.
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anyone out there fancy a chat about any and all things ? craving someone to chat with
#object swallowing#object vore#death feeder#deathfeedist#female expansion#immobile#gaining weight on purpose#extremely obese#mtf trans#transgender
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what's your darkest feedee fantasy? i've seen you post some pretty steamyd deathfeedist stuff so i'm curious how far your fantasies go
emotional manipulation… make me so dependent and helpless that even if i wanted to lose weight, im so steeped in these horrible habits that it’s not possible. train me to turn to food at every disappointment
and even when you come home and i’m teary eyed, unable to get up by myself and weighed down by my unmanageable tits and belly—finally realizing that i need to stop—coo and tell me it’s okay, keep handing me snacks. make sure i eat my feelings. everything is fine as long as i keep doing what you say. mix edibles and whatever other meds i need into my shakes every night… my anxiety is obviously out of control if i keep eating this way and you know what will fix that
every time i get close to asking you to stop, make sure im too full to voice that. you know what’s best, even if i cry and beg to stop eating you know what i need.
it’s so fucked up honestly but god. the idea of not being able to turn back, wedging myself into a lifestyle i can never escape, is too good
#fantasies…. fantasies#dark feedism#death feedism#making sure this is tagged every way so it won’t reach y’all that are bothered by it#talk#ask#evil feedism#anyways fr. need an evil feeder
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feeling spherical lately 😮💨
#death feederism#feedee encouragement#feeder wanted#feeding kink#nonbinary feedee#deathfeedist#feedee belly#getting softer#dark feederism#death feedee#death feedism#death feeder#death feedist#extreme feederism#looking for a feeder#feedee piggy
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Look at how he's belly hangs!
#death feedee#death feederism#deathfeedist#extremely obese#feed me#feedee encouragement#feeder wanted#gaining kink#glorify obesity#help me grow
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How did you learn to accept that you’re a death feedee? I’m constantly thinking about how I want to gain with no limits, but every once in a while I think about the implications. I want to be able to ignore that and just grow.
im not sure it's possible to ignore the consequences of being a deathfeedist, and personally, i wouldnt want to either, the consequences are a large part of the appeal for me. i think fetishes are highly personal, and especially so when they can actually effect your life and health like this, so what i feel and how i deal with it may not be particuarlly helpful. that said, when i do come up against the struggles of my choices, if negative emotions come up, theres really nothing to do besides feel them imo. its very natural to have a reaction to discomfort and pain. the choice to push through regardless is what gives the experience depth and meaning. not only that but the act of comforting and caretaking is an opportunity for connection and love that is very important to me. i guess what im getting at is that eventually, i realized that deathfeedism is what makes the experience complete for me, it's what fulfills me. so essentially if i had to choose between being happy and being healthy, i just choose happy
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You guys should send me more asks :3 mean teasing, deathfeedist stuff, questions about whatever. Send me stuff 🖤
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Real horny deathfeedist hour, enter at your own risk
CW: death, corpse, cremation, extreme size
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When I inevitably die, I hope they have to take down a wall to get my enormous, overfed body out of the house. I hope I'm so big they have to lift me with machines to get this soft, heavy pile of rolls on a trailer, because not even the whole fire department was able to take me off the ground, and the transport van is too small for me to fit. I hope they struggle to find a cremation unit big enough for me and when they do, I hope it takes forever to burn all the fat I forced my body to pile on ❤️💕
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Big belly…eaten well tonight #fat #feedee #feedist #pig #fattenme #feedme #porker #obese #deathfeedee #deathfeedist #strechmarks #fatgut
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DeathFeedist clip? Can you film one?
I have never done one but I am open for customs, yes. Shoot me a DM and we can talk through the details! 🥵😈
#feeding kink#fat#fat girls#feedee encouragement#feederist#get me fatter#looking for a feeder#feed me#feedee girl#feeder wanted#ssbbwonlyfans#ssbbwmodel#death feederism
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another good ol’ before & after
summer 2023- fall 2024
#death feedism#death feederism#feedee encouragement#feeder wanted#feeding kink#nonbinary feedee#deathfeedist#feedee belly#getting softer#dark feederism#death feedee#extreme feederism#death feedist
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Look how big he is getting!
#death feederism#obese belly#obese piggy#extremely obese#feed me#death feedee#glorify obesity#feeder wanted#gaining kink#deathfeedist#help me grow#feedee encouragement
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The Weight Clinic
A fat man who's unsure about losing weight signs up for a very unusual treatment program led by a dominant doctor with an agenda of her own. (SSBHM feedee, SSBBW feeder, implicit XWG. CW: Dubious consent, drugs, medical and deathfeedist elements.)
This story was written swiftly in response to an ask on my old blog: "A man signs up for a blind study of a weight loss drug (he doesn't want to lose weight, but you know how society is.) Unfortunately for him, it's run by a less than honest BBW scientist who decides to fatten him up instead." When I read that, I had to immediately sit down and transcribe the thunderbolt of inspiration before it passed. This could easily turn into a much longer story, and now that I've created this little fictional universe, I might come back to it some day. The dubcon is because I wanted to write a dommy mad scientist feeder, but if the story continued, our protagonist would definitely come to enjoy it and realize that she was right all along.
(April 2024: This is by far the most popular story I've written, and I'm moving it here so I can centralize likes/reblogs and deactivate my defunct account. I'm slowly working on a sequel as the inspiration strikes me.)
Please read the content warnings. If dubcon and medical/deathfeedist themes upset you, please don't click.
If you like it, on the other hand, please reblog.
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He sighed inwardly as the receptionist led him past the double doors and into the medical suite of the clinic.
He didn't want to be doing this. Being fat had never bothered him. He had been fat since childhood, and as an adult he embraced the freedom of eating whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. In fact, there were times when he secretly enjoyed being fat. There was something profoundly satisfying about the way his belly was soft and heavy in his lap when he sat, the way his double chin was like a cushion when he tilted his head. Lately it seemed like he was inching closer and closer to 400 pounds whenever he stepped on the scale, and sometimes a part of him even looked forward to it.
But he was getting sick of how the rest of the world treated him. At Thanksgiving dinner, after he had gone back to the side table for a fourth helping of mashed potatoes, his parents had given him a fierce tag-team lecture about how his weight was out of control and he was overdue for a diet. Buying new clothes was getting expensive. And while the thought of 400 seemed strangely intriguing sometimes -- that's only a hundred pounds away from a quarter ton, he thought to himself -- he worried that if he got any bigger, he'd become one of those fat guys who was so big that they had trouble walking and had to use a scooter or wheelchair to get around.
There was a wheelchair in the corner of the room that the receptionist led him into. He couldn't help notice its gigantic width. "This is the suite where you'll be staying." The room looked like it was outfitted for a patient much bigger than he was. The king-sized bed was equipped with a bariatric Hoyer lift, and in addition to the usual IV bags and oxygen tanks, there were all sorts of medical machines he didn't recognize. The door to the bathroom and shower was only a few steps away from the edge of the bed, and he noticed a stainless steel railing to allow someone to steady themselves as they walked.
Noticing his expression, the receptionist continued. "You'll be staying here in the regular suite, since you don't have any serious mobility issues. Further down the hallway there's a second suite for larger patients. Both rooms will be kept operational during your stay in case there are any complications. As we discussed earlier, you'll be forbidden to leave the premises for the duration of the study. We can't have you going out to eat and breaking your diet."
He sighed inwardly again. He was already thinking of his usual Friday night meal, nachos and mozzarella sticks followed by a hamburger and fries at his favorite diner, washed down with a milkshake or two with each course. I guess I am a binge eater, he thought to himself sadly. This isn't going to be fun, but if I don't get myself under control, I really am going to end up weighing 400.
As if reading his mind, the receptionist gave a prim smile. "I hope you'll find the results of the study to be satisfactory. Dr. Moore is excited to be taking you on as a patient. Come back to the front desk with me and we'll get your paperwork finalized."
They returned to the waiting room through the double doors and he sat down on a double-wide chair to review the clipboard full of paperwork. HIPAA, check. Records release form, check. Insurance card, check.
After several more signatures, he came to the final document on the clipboard. Consent to Experimental Treatment, the header read. He skimmed through the legal verbiage, trying his best to take note of anything significant. The clinic was a private enterprise, he read. Dr. Moore had affiliations with several prestigious universities, but he waived his right to hold them liable for treatment outcomes. No guarantees were made as to results. "The Moore Clinic program is designed to help patients reach a satisfactory body weight through the application of both physiological and cognitive-emotional treatments. To ensure accurate data collection and clinical efficacy, all care will be taken by the clinic staff to prevent external influences from interfering with treatment. Patients acknowledge that for the duration of the study they will be under the exclusive supervision of Dr. Moore. Her permission will be required before patients can contact outside parties via phone or Internet."
He thought to himself for a moment. Well, I'm no good at sticking to a diet on my own. I might as well give this a shot. He signed his name on the last page of the form.
"Congratulations." The receptionist smiled as he turned over the stack of forms. "We're glad to have you here. I'm sorry Dr. Moore couldn't be here to welcome you to the first night of the study, but she had another engagement. These are our nurses, Sandra and Kevin. They'll help you get settled."
Soon he was being ushered into the hospital suite by the two nurses. Sandra was short and curvaceous, Kevin tall and stocky, and he couldn't help notice that neither of them was skinny. Both of them were chubby, in fact. Chubby verging on fat. They gave him a hospital gown and a plastic bin to store his belongings in, then drew a curtain around the bed and waited patiently while he changed.
Naked beneath the loose-fitting hospital gown, he couldn't help being aware of how fat he was as the two nurses drew the curtain aside and began to prep him for the treatment. He could feel the softness of his belly against his thighs, the subtle motion of his rolls quivering, as Kevin attached electrodes to his moobs and belly. A fold of his fat upper arm brushed against his elbow as Sandra straightened his arm and swabbed to insert an IV. I'm going to miss all this, he thought to himself. If this works, I'll be just another skinny guy in a size M. I might even have abs. And I'll probably never eat mozzarella sticks again. As the drugs in the IV began to take hold, making him woozy and disoriented and sleepy, he couldn't help wondering if waking up skinny was going to feel like a nightmare.
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"Well, well. My patient has finally come to."
From the slant of the light in the hospital suite, it was late afternoon. He lay in bed, still naked beneath his hospital gown, the IV tube still in his arm, the electrodes still on his chest. Staring down at him from the foot of the bed, an appraising smile on her face, was a fat woman. A very fat woman.
She wore a crisp white coat over a snug set of scrubs that did little to conceal how gigantic she was. Her stethoscope bounced against her enormous belly as she stepped around to the bedside and lowered herself onto a double-wide chair next to the IV bags. Her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and her triple chins swayed and quivered as she craned her neck slightly to take a readout from one of the machines beside the bed, then bent her head down to type some notes on a tablet.
"Welcome to the clinic. I'm Dr. Moore."
He couldn't help but be baffled by her size. A private clinic specializing in weight loss, and she was the doctor in charge? She must have read the expression on his face, because she immediately burst out laughing. "Yes, I'm really Dr. Moore. And I'm very excited to have you as my patient." She scrolled through the tablet, her eyes moving rapidly as she reviewed his case file. "You're here for morbid obesity. You say you struggle with binge eating. And you're concerned that your weight is continuing to rise."
He nodded, feeling suddenly hazy. The anesthetic had worn off, but whatever else was in the IV was still taking effect.
"Tell me." Dr. Moore's voice was suddenly stern. "Did you come here to lose weight?"
"Yes." His throat went dry as he began to speak. He realized with a start that he was dreadfully thirsty, and something in Dr. Moore's tone made him nervous. "My primary care doctor says my goal weight is 180 pounds. I've tried a couple of different diets, but nothing worked."
"One hundred and eighty pounds?" Her voice was full of disbelief. "Oh, no, no, no. That won't do at all. I'm going to write you a new prescription."
His heart was suddenly pounding. He didn't like the way she was talking to him. "I think your goal weight should be… five hundred and eighty pounds. For a start."
He tried to speak but no words came out. His throat was terribly dry. Dr. Moore turned the tablet to face him. "See? Goal weight five hundred and eighty pounds." There it was on his patient chart, as clear as day. She smiled. "I think you must be disoriented. Did you know you've been under anesthesia for four days? The treatment takes time to take effect. I'm going to get you something to drink." Without rising from her chair, she reached to open a refrigerator by the side of the bed. He had seen it during his tour and had assumed it was full of syringes and dry ice, but it was full of… cups? Giant cardboard cups with straws, the kind a fast food restaurant might use for a soda or a milkshake. She reached out and grabbed two.
"Drink. This will help settle you down." He wrapped his lips around the straw and sucked eagerly, feeling a cool, sweet, creamy liquid flow down his throat, soothing the dryness. It was a milkshake, he realized. Then he realized that he was ravenously hungry.
"Yes, that's your appetite coming back. Or rather, coming to. It never left, but you've been getting your nutrients intravenously while you were under. We call that one the 'feedbag.'" She gestured to one of the IV bags that fed into the tube leading to his wrist. In the color scheme he had already come to recognize as the Moore Clinic's branding, it was stamped with the words: "HIGH CALORIE FORMULA."
His heart was still pounding, but he was feeling more relaxed now. He heard a rustling behind him and realized that Sandra, the nurse, was busy adjusting the proportions of the IV bags.
"Yes, that's a sedative." Dr. Moore smiled. "I thought it might help put you at ease while I explain the details of my treatment program." Her voice took on a firm and didactic tone, as if she were giving a lecture to an auditorium full of med students, but underneath it he felt that he could hear something almost… flirtatious?
"The Moore Clinic takes an unorthodox approach to the treatment of obesity. As a dual-certified endocrinologist and psychiatrist, I bring a unique perspective to both the metabolic and biosocial components of extreme weight gain." She paused. "Sandra, another high-calorie bag. Thank you." As the nurse replaced the now empty bag of formula, Dr. Moore continued. "Many of my patients arrive with deeply disordered cognitive attitudes towards body weight. They are unduly susceptible to social influences, preventing their full psychological individuation as a mentally well, hedonically satisfied obese person. They regard themselves as suffering from morbid obesity instead of enjoying it." She reached out to pat his belly. "I'm afraid you're a textbook case."
He could feel himself getting hazier and hazier until the world seemed to shrink to himself, the milkshakes and Dr. Moore. He couldn't tear himself away from her gaze as she continued to speak, her triple chins and dimpled fat cheeks quivering hypnotically as her eyes seemed to pierce right into him. "This is why the use of psychotropic drugs is a key component of my program. To fully undo the traumatic effects of societal fatphobia on my patients, I must be prepared to use the entire arsenal of modern psychopharmacology."
Sandra laughed, catching a hint of the shock on his face. "It's a real cocktail in these IV bags, honey. If Dr. Moore tried to sell this stuff at a nightclub, she'd be arrested."
The doctor smiled at her nurse. "That's right. Some of these are experimental drugs, and Federally scheduled. I'm fortunate to have a license, and a substantial research grant which pays for high-grade laboratory synthesis. And the same is true for my metabolic work."
She reached out and slipped a hand under his hospital gown, grabbing ahold of the fold of one of his moobs and squeezing playfully. Even through the increasingly powerful haze of the drug cocktail, he could feel himself blushing. "The other vector of cure," she continued, "is to address the body itself. Too many patients labor under the delusion that the unfortunate medical side effects of morbid obesity are somehow a reason they must lose weight." Her voice grew stern. "Nothing could be further from the truth. Obesity is not a disease. It's a lifestyle. And it's beautiful."
"But sometimes," she continued, a frown on her face, "my patients resist. This is why I require a minimum of four weeks' supervised stay at the clinic. The setting here accustoms my patients to the possibility of living with bariatric equipment as a full-time lifestyle." He looked around the room, suddenly seeing it with new eyes. "And while my patients get used to the pace and challenges of their new lifestyle, my metabolic treatment can do its work."
Despite the sedatives, his heart was pounding faster than ever. Her words seemed to move as slowly as molasses, her chins swaying back and forth like a pendulum, as her eyes gazed into his. "There's more than just calories and party drugs in those bags, you know. There's drugs to shock your system, break down your metabolism, destroy your body's resistance to gaining ever more weight. Even if you left the clinic right now, all the diets in the world couldn't fix your metabolism. My treatment has taken you to the point of no return."
Just barely, as if fighting his way through a slowly moving fog, he managed to gasp out a single word. "When?"
"When?" Dr. Moore threw her head back in laughter, exposing a beautiful smile, her cheeks and chins quivering with mirth. "Darling, I told you -- you were under anesthesia for four days, and my treatment works quickly. It's already happened."
He tried to protest, but before he could speak another word, the fog seemed to close around him and he drifted into a deep anesthetic sleep. When he dreamed, he dreamed of being fatter than ever.
#feedist fiction#wg fiction#ssbhm feedee#weight gain fiction#deathfeedism#fat feeder#mutual gaining#mutual feeding#wg fic
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diary entry #2
re: being a deathfeedist, its a little (a lot) hard for me to relate to a lot of of feedists. like. if the consequences that ppl consider negative in gaining (especially mobility issues and health issues) did not exist, i dont think i would want to do it? i think it would be very boring if i could just blow up to 600+lbs and have no great impact on my life, no joint pain, no medications, no peril, no,, er, weight. theres no weight to the decision or actions, its missing a huge part of what makes feedism so exciting to me. the finality of extreme weight gain, the impact of it, the dedication, the transformation, these are all things that i cherish and things that make me squirm. im not looking for a fairytale where everything is roses and gumdrops, im looking for a visceral experience, where i feel every second, every inch of life is gasping with need for more. i want endless greed, no matter the consequences, but i want it to matter, i want there to be consequences. i need to be helpless. somebody sent me an ask abt if health issues were something i looked forward to, and i think its funny, i could say yes, but its a bit more accurate to say that there is nothing that turns me on more than knowing my health issues won't sway me from my path to increasingly morbid obsesity. it doesnt encourage me to be less sedentary, less gluttonous, the warnings of my body bypass my brain and run along deeper, more perverse wires. i feel so desperately hungry. its obscene, isnt it? you could even say its wrong. and people do, they say it quite a lot. that deathfeedism is wrong, unless strictly fantasy, and a lot of ppl assume that's all it is. i cant speak for anyone but myself but its not a fantasy for me, its my life, and my dream. im not a victim, im a person with needs and desires that fall outside the norm, and imo, it would be cruelty to subject me to whatever nonsense ppl consider "ethical/health feedism", im made to be a lazy, wheezing pig, and i want everything that comes with it
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