Agatha

Agatha is the kind of girl who wants nothing more than snacks and drinks to be more fat. So one afternoon she was eating away as usual. The living room was a landscape of wrappers and empty soda cans, a testament to a very successful afternoon. Agatha was sprawled across the couch, her massive frame sinking deep into the cushions, the fabric of her purple "HAPPY" shirt stretching taut across her belly. She had a large bag of potato chips balanced on her lap, one hand rhythmically reaching in to grab a handful, while the other held a half-finished milkshake.

She let out a long, satisfied sigh, the sound muffled by the sheer volume of her contentment. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were half-lidded, drifting toward the ceiling as she chewed lazily.

"Mmm... that's the spot," she murmured, barely audible, her voice thick with drowsiness. She didn't look up, but she could feel a presence nearby. Her expression didn't shift—no urgency, no alarm. She simply reached for another chip, crunching it loudly.

"You're not gonna tell me to stop, are you?" she asked, a slow, lazy smile spreading across her face. Agatha didn't even wait for an answer before she shoved a handful of chips into her mouth, the loud crunch echoing in the quiet room. She shifted her weight, causing the couch to groan and settle under her immense bulk. The movement was slow, deliberate—the kind of movement that came from someone who had long since abandoned the idea of being quick or graceful.