It's great to hear from you, bud. I hope you're in good health and that everything is going wonderfully for you. I've also been generally absent, but I always see your posts and they make me very happy :3
I've been craving pineapple lately, so here's my suggestion: "Kiran (you can choose the gender) will ask Leo's help to set a magic fat trap for Takumi, since the Hoshidan prince hasn't stayed still and therefore hasn't spent enough time with his summoner, and summoners need more time with their S-rank support... right? ;)"
Yeah… my idea isn't groundbreaking, but I think it sounds fun xd
You don't have to write anything if you're not in the mood; maybe I could ask for it as a commission in the future :3~
Take care plz :)
Glad to still see you around! And I really enjoyed this idea cause I have been replaying fates lol so this is now the first request of this batch done~
Also I did enjoy this idea lol so hopefully you like this! Thanks again for the kind words,,,, I've missed you as well
“Can’t you see that I’m busy doing things that actually matter?” Takumi turns back around, heels digging into stone as he glares at Leo. “Unlike some people around here,” he adds. He shifts Fujin Yumi in his hand, the bow as effortlessly light as ever.
“Ugh. Enough with your overzealous estimation of yourself. You do realize that you’re helping no one. And I’m sure that you must have had some good reason for stopping by the library instead of parading around on your little missions?” Unlike the ever-active Takumi, Leo remains seated. The books cluttering the table are all closed, gently placed to the side as he grins up at Takumi. Leo quickly glances at the empty chair in front of him. And then back at Takumi.
Thankfully, the gesture isn’t lost on Takumi. But he chooses to stay standing, hands clenched around the backrest. “Oh yeah? And what’s your studying going to do? I haven’t seen you help around or even go on missions. I cleared-”
“Before you ramble on, just take a seat. It won’t kill you,” Leo waits for Takumi to do as he asked, but when he only sees Takumi’s still irritable expression, Leo goes on with a sigh. “Oh, how does she put up with you… Just sit already. I’m only really bothering you because Kiran wanted me to check up on you,”
The books bounce with the slamming of Takumi’s fists on the table. “Huh? What did she say?” The chair no longer goes unoccupied.
“Finally,” Leo grins. “Well, it’s not really my business what Kiran says or thinks about you. Mostly because I don’t really care,” he stands up.
Leo’s smile widens when Takumi finds that he can’t do the same.
“H-hey! Leo, what’re you doing?!” Takumi’s hands grip the armrests, they push, then pull, anything to break the chair that seems to clamp onto him like pincers, his body seemingly glued to the object. “I’ll…Once I get out, I’ll tell Kiran about your stupid prank!” he flinches as Leo only laughs at him.
Leo places a hand on his shoulder, smile only growing wider when Takumi only looks up at him—the only thing Takumi can do. “Yeah, you can go tell Kiran about her own plan,”
“Quit lying!” Takumi thrashes even harder. To no avail.
“I wish I were. But according to her, you’ve been far too busy it seems. And I’m inclined to agree. Thankfully, she gave me some leeway when it came to what specific spell I could use,”
“Very funny, Leo,” Takumi’s voice is quieter. More uncertain. Waning as he stares up at Leo.
Who only pulls conjures up a vial of liquid. He uncorks it, smiling at the bound man before him. “You’re the one who’s been acting like a clown. Even insulting me for lazing about because I suggested we unwind with a round of chess or shogi,”
“That was…” Takumi bites his tongue, remembering the occurrence quite well. His eyes dart to the vial, the small container right before his face. “What does that even do?! You know our contracts with Kiran-”
“I’m not as daft as you. Of course I know. This is just something for my enjoyment. Payback for you insulting me. And payback for Kiran even asking me to do something as idiotic as this,” Leo frowns. “This should hopefully embarrass both of you,”
Takumi has no choice but to swallow the liquid, the vial ingested faster than a draw of his bow.
He lets out a belch, despite the insignificant bit of liquid. And in spite of barely consuming anything, Takumi feels bloated. As if he guzzled an entire gallon’s worth of the potion. As if he devoured an entire meal and enjoyed a second serving. As if his clothes might burst off of him. As if his sash were digging into his gut. He yelps when he finds the last to be true, head staring down as he watches himself expand. His panicking yet again yields no results; he remains forcefully seated.
“Since you’re so oblivious, I decided to base the conduit for the potions effects off of Kiran herself. See how much you grow based on the intensity of her enamorment with you. That might finally seem to embarrass Kiran, forcibly quantifying your two’s relationship,”
“You’re…hnnghh…” Takumi winces as his sash grows tighter around his midsection. The armrests grow tighter around it as well; his gut begins to take up more of his lap, the once slender yet toned thighs filling out with lard. They too press up against the arm rests, wood digging into his flab. “You’re an ass!”
“And you’re a lardass,” Leo’s smile remains plastered on his face as Takumi’s sash slowly comes more and more undone, the strap of material only able to wrap around so much circumference. It comes undone shortly after. And it exposes a smidge of Takumi’s burgeoning belly, the fabric of his clothes draping around it like curtains pushed aside by a boulder. The sleeves begin to billow out from his growing blubbery arms. His chest grows similarly, the beige protective layer of armor over his clothes digging into his breasts. Leo’s smile grows even wider as the chair begins to creak under Takumi’s growing weight.
It’s wiped off as soon as Takumi breaks the chair. He plops right on to the ground with a heavy thud. “Now can you stop this stupid idea!”
“No,”
Leo watches as Takumi grows ever fatter.
And Takumi can only helplessly watch himself grow fatter in return. Despite his struggles, the magic keeps him from leaving the chair, even in its now broken state. He winces as the plates of armor grow tighter around his body, metal digging into meaty, blubbery thighs that are now wider than he was before the magic, into his blubbery dome of a gut that continues to balloon and swell in front of him, into even his forearms that widen further as lard piles further onto his body. He doesn’t have to worry much longer as he feels them come undone, more magic at play.
“I figured I’d be kind,”
“Thanks,” Takumi nearly snarls. He glares as well but it hardly means anything with two blubbery cheeks framing his face, the two jowls refusing to allow him to properly frown. His attention goes back to his own body shortly afterwards; most of it his vision is taken up by it. But even glaring at Leo begins to become an issue as his tits swell ever larger, already larger than his head some time ago and now surpassing the size of entire pillows. Takumi lets out a small whimper. Said whimpers grow as he feels his clothes begin to rip and tear.
“Well, I also undid the binding spell with the chair. If you’d like to be a bit more appreciative,” Leo laughs, neck craning further and further up.
Takumi shakes and wobbles. He wheezes, panting as he musters up every ounce of strength within him. “I can’t… mmhmm…still can’t moove…” but it’s useless. Completely immobilized under his own weight, the best he can do is pathetically shake his limbs.
Which continues to become a losing effort as he swells further. His gut begins to press against the table. Then breaks it, bed sized belly smothering the entire object. But still, Takumi grows ever fatter. Already a blob, he takes up more and more of the room’s space.
“Do…ahhh..sommmmethiiinng…” Takumi half whimpers, half moans, eyes closed tight, his face a bright red. His limbs are completely useless now, arms and legs swaddled in lard and unable to be bent.
Leo takes a step back. Then another. And another. And another. Every foot of space that he gives himself, thinking Takumi will eventually stop growing now, is promptly met and surpassed. Soon enough, Takumi’s ass begins to press up against the bookshelf behind him. His left thigh presses against one side of the wall. And his gut starts to get dangerously close to the door behind Leo, like waves washing onto the beaches’ sand.
The door opens behind Leo. His attention is finally diverted away from the growing blob before him. It’s instead diverted to the culprit for said growing blob.
“Kiran!”
“Kiihrahhnnghhh…” Takumi keeps his eyes shut, panting as his face grows redder.
“Fix this!” Leo demands. His fingers dig into her shoulders, eyes boring into hers. He yelps as he feels the furthermost roll of Takumi’s gut begin to press against his ankles.
“You’re the one who cast the spell,” her energy is the furthest from Leo’s panicked own.
Leo chokes his response, mouth wide open before shutting tight. “Then figure something out! Of course this is what I get…” Leo grumbles. His face is a bright red as he glances at Takumi, the blob’s gut easily ten times the size of Leo's entire body. And still swelling larger. He pulls her to the side, Takumi’s gut now pressing up against the door.
“Fine. Just make sure that other heroes exit the library,”
“Tsk. Whatever,” Leo storms off, teeth grit as he hears the bookshelf creak and groan under the burgeoning weight of Takumi’s ass.
Takumi whines as he feels Kiran climb him, scaling him like a miniature mountain. But he does finally open his eyes when he feels her sit on his tit, the tit alone eclipsing Kiran; most of his vision is taken up by his enormity.
“Good thing you can finally relax now,” Kiran smiles, grinning from ear to ear at Takumi.
“Hnnhuuhh?” Takumi winces. He feels more of the cool wall pressing up against his left side, the outermost inches of his tit pressing up against it now.
Kiran’s fingers caressing his cheeks causes his wince to morph into a moan. “You’ve been doing way too much. I don’t need you to do everything for me.” Kiran continues to play with Takumi’s jowls; the massively bloated cheeks splay onto Takumi’s numerous chins and neck rolls. Her focus never leaves Takumi’s face, even with the expanding surface of his blobular body underneath her.
“Buhhnnghh…buu-”
“No excuses,” she taps his cheek. Like a falling pebble creating a landslide, the rest of Takumi’s body jiggles and sloshes, his whines drowned out from the growing cracks in the wall. “I’m grateful for what you’ve done. But, I’d rather spend time with you. I thought this would be a fun way to get you to relax,”
“Ughhh fiinnnee,” Takumi wheezes. His words slowly grow more slurred even without moans to impede him. He keeps one eye shut tight in a vain attempt to hold back his moans. “I’hhhll… shtaahhp…haahh…wooohhrkehn…” he fails to nod his head, as if to show Kiran his assent.
“Good,” Kiran drapes herself around Takumi’s face, nestling up against his blubbery shoulder that’s mingled with his rings of lard for a neck. Upon her soft, jiggly perch, she glances down beneath her. Most of her vision is taken up by Takumi’s enormity. And what isn’t is currently fighting the losing battle against his encroaching tide of lard. The door bows before his gut, the hinges nearly ready to blow. The bookshelf cracks underneath his ass, countless books toppling over. The wall to the left is slowly being subsumed by the growing pile of lard pressing up against it, his left thigh desperate for more room. And the wall to the right isn’t far off from sharing the same fate, the farther wall now being pressed up by Takumi’s girth.
“Did Leo happen to tell you what kind of spell he cast?” Kiran ruffles Takumi’s hair as she asks, freely able to with him far too fat to stop her.
Takumi tries and fails to shake his head. His vision is taken up by his own enormity now as he looks away from Kiran; his own cheeks and breasts take up the vast majority, his hill for a gut taking up the rest. “Nnnnghhnooo…” he pants. He closes his eyes, remembering Leo’s words. And he blushes, really wishing he could say something to Kiran upon his realization. But his nerves get the best of him; he stays silent—besides his deep, heavy wheezes.
Kiran only shrugs. “That’s fine. I’m sure it’ll stop soon,” the soft trickling of magic fills up beside her as she summons a portal. And from it, she pulls out a bundle of savory fried rolls. “Let me help you, you must be hungry being so massive,” she teases.
Takumi accepts the first mouthful, the mushroom and beef stuffed snack divine to him. He doesn't bother objecting. He knows stopping Kiran when she gets an idea in her head is an impossible task. Or so he tells himself, ignoring his own desperate moans as more and more food comes.
“Don’t worry. This time it’s my turn to take care of you. There’s a lot more to come,”
His face is a bright red as he stupidly realizes Kiran’s feelings, wondering just when he’ll finally stop growing. A whimper turned moan escapes him as his gut finally breaks down the door in front of him, his gut now beginning to overflow into the hallway. But still, he obediently eats, curious just how large her feelings are.
Another birthday gift for my lovely partner @the-forbidden-tuna and a continuation from last year's gift
This was actually written on time for his birthday which was a while ago, but I've only know just gotten around to revising it.
I will and forever always be a Tellius fan first and foremost so it's always a treat writing about them and getting to include more characters. Especially basing it off ideas we occasionally throw around lol
And also! Y'all should go follow him if you aren't already!
‘Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.’ The words are practically Edward’s mantra. They’re all he thinks about. He has no choice. Not in his current situation. Not when stopping for even a second risks-
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have our winner!” The crowd erupts into a cheer as Anna places a hand on Edward’s doughy shoulder.
He raises his head, blubbery cheeks that are marred in a smattering of sauces wobbling as he does so. And he finally stops eating. Not that he has much left in front of him with the breakneck speed he seemed to go at, like a pig before its trough. He glances around him. And each and every one of his competitors—those that still remain on stage nursing their aching guts from daring to even try and keep up with him—hardly hold a candle to him. Not a single soul was anywhere near to catching up to him, much less beat him when all Edward could think about was stuffing himself. Edward’s blubbery chins squish up against themselves as he glances down at the crowd.
Hardly organized, bits and pieces of the crowd begin to slowly trickle out of one of Nevassa’s countless plazas. The largest group that remains are those brave enough to gamble away their savings; the lucky few that won go and collect their earnings. Not that anyone bet on Edward’s odds of winning; no, that was simply a forgone conclusion, like the inevitability of the sun’s ascent and descent. They had instead bet on who would manage to reach second place against such a gluttonous beast.
Said second placer is still nursing his aching gut as well, eyes downturned as he does his best to catch his breath after nearly stuffing himself to bursting. Though despite it all, Pelleas tries his hardest to maintain some semblance of dignity—his belt still ever buckled regardless of how much he holds back a few pathetic whines as his churning and bubbling gut fights him. He remains seated, knuckles turning even paler as he clings to the table.
“Good match,” Edward smiles at him, hand outstretched towards him.
Pelleas gazes up. He mentally reprimands himself for somehow not hearing the lumbering footsteps. “Y...yes…” he reaches to take Edward’s hand. “Aghh… wait, please,” he quietly pleads. But he’s already brought to his feet. The damage is already done. He winces, his gut seemingly furious as it pounds against him for moving so. He rests a hand on Edward’s shoulder, clinging to him like he might fall back into his chair.
“Oh, sorry! Guess I’ve gotten used to eating so much,” Edward winces but the expression hardly lasts long on his face. It’s instead replaced by a jovial smile as he slaps his gut. “You’ve been getting closer each time. Who knows, you probably might catch up to me soon,” he laughs.
Though despite his words, and the truth behind Pelleas’ progress, Edward’s own enormity is hardly comparable to him. Not when his gut droops far down his waistband and all the way down to his blubbery knees. After gorging himself for so long and so constant, Edward’s weight was only ever able to go up. Though he had slowed down somewhat; feeding him enough to keep the same rapid growth when he first started was a challenge. But still, each and every time he partook in an eating contest, Edward was always fatter than the last.
Pelleas takes in Edward’s enormity. He’s forced to, his own sizable belly presses into Edward’s own veritable gut as he uses him for support. “I doubt such a thing. But I can’t say I won’t try,” he laughs. Before his stomach makes him regret the movement and wincing instead.
“Don’t sell yourself short!” Edward says, despite selling his own current size short. His gut is exposed, the blubbery mass for a belly seeping past his oversized jacket that had been a gift from Micaiah to keep up with his girth before he outgrew that as well. The job is made even harder from the current amount of food in his gut, the mass of flab having the slightest hint of firmness to it. Even his pants struggle. Though they stay vigilant, keeping him fully covered. Even as they’re practically swallowed by his girth, the fabric nearly suctioned to his barrel sized thighs that stick together despite how he tries to widen his stance.
“Of course,” Pelleas simply nods. He merely focuses on keeping one hand on Edward’s shoulder while the other tends to his aching gut—as discretely as possible he hopes. He does smile at Edward’s contagious enthusiasm and how he seems to forget that he’s still almost double—if not more than that—Pelleas’ fuller size.
The two stay on the stage for a while longer, until Pelleas’ stomach finally lowers in intensity, no longer roaring like a laguz.
Until Edward catches Leonardo’s gesture, his partner signaling him to come back. With a frown on his face to boot. And slightly behind him is Sothe, though his expression hardly gives away anything. Not when he looks away, eyes taking in the now half disbursed crowd.
Edward’s habit clearly having rubbed off on Leonardo, he manages to maintain some level of restraint. His pudgy figure is hardly comparable to his hedonistic partner. Leonardo has the beginnings of a belly, his stomach starting to pooch and having the slightest bump behind his clothes. His thighs are also thicker, pants tighter on them as they are around his waist, the couple old pair of pants that he can barely fit making his torso seem bigger with their vicelike grip. They also show off his slightly bigger yet shaplier rear, Leonardo’s behind positively affected by his extra few pounds.
And unlike the two gluttons eager to partake in such contests, and more like Leonardo, Sothe has hardly gained weight. Though like Leonardo, he’s been hard pressed to deny the fact that he’s gained some few pounds. Not as much as him, but Sothe’s extra bit of weight is more noticeable with his exposed midriff. Nearly imperceptible while standing, his lean abs now washed away into a flat abdomen, but the sliver of pudge always exposes itself when he sits down. And his thighs are a smidge thicker. But of the four men, he’s by far the thinnest.
“Took you two long enough,” Leonardo chastises once they do manage to get within earshot, the pair walking in single file with the stage’s wide steps being unable to accommodate both of their girth. His fingers cling tightly to the generous pouch of gold given to him—Edward’s winnings—as he glares at Edward.
Who smiles behind Pelleas, not quite hiding behind the chubby sage when he’s far wider than him.
Pelleas excuses himself, expeditiously so, a soft smile on his face as he goes over to Sothe.
Edward catches the bag of coins in his hands, blubbery arm outstretched. “Looks like we have more to add to our savings,” he jokes, waddling on over to Leonardo. His arms wrap behind Leonardo’s back as he goes beside him, the hefty limb squishing into Leonardo’s toned, deft back muscles. Though his gut presses up more insistently. It crashes against Leonardo’s torso like a wave onto a cliff. “Oh sorry, guess I don’t know my size,” he teases.
He gets a blush as a result, but he doesn’t wipe the frown off of Leonardo’s face. “You need to remember to pick up your prize earnings yourself. One of these days, you’ll be swindled,” he places a hand on Edward’s gut, fingers digging in and massaging the mass of fat. “But, good job,” He doesn’t go in for more. Nor does he say much else. Though he does smirk, ready with a rebuttal as he practically dares Edward to argue back with him.
“Ahem…” Sothe clears his throat, reminding the two of them of his presence as he joins them along with Pelleas.
Leonardo’s hands end up firmly beside himself. And he glares as he hears Edward about to let out a small whine.
“By Ashunera, you two really still act the same after all these years…” Sothe sighs. And as the two men simply blush, he continues on. “You two are heading to Begnion next, right?”
“Is that why you were so interested in joining us? You rarely attend these events,”
“It’s part of a favor,” Sothe gestures beside him.
And Pelleas promptly responds “Yes. I appreciate you doing this,”
“It’s-”
“I know you’re not doing this for me. But still, thanks are due,” Pelleas interrupts Sothe’s interruption.
Edward interrupts them, curiosity piqued. “So what’s this big favor?”
“Edward,” Leonardo chastises. “Their business is their business,” he says with a smack to Edward’s belly.
“It’s quite alright. Though I unfortunately can’t speak about it yet. It’s still a work in progress. But if everything comes along together, then I’m sure you’ll be excited,”
“Well if it’s all good news then…” Edward pipes down as he sees Leonardo’s glare only draw tighter like the string of his bow. “Then I guess I can wait,”
“Regardless of how it works out, of course you’re welcome to travel with us. We did make plans to leave later today however,”
Sothe nods. “That works. I’ll meet up with you two at your house later today then,”
“Safe travels. And not that you’ll need it, but good luck on your next contest,” Pelleas excuses himself, heading off as Sothe goes with him.
For their part, Edward and Leonardo head back to get ready for the trip.
“So are you sure you can’t tell us about your secret mission?” Edward asks for the umpteenth, the trio comfortably secured in their carriage several days ago. Already in Begnion, the trio have little distance left before they reach the capital.
“For what is hopefully the last time, Edward, I'm sure he can’t,” Leonardo groans. But a smirk remains on his face as he gazes up at the ceiling. He sits beside Sothe—giving Edward more room on his side and giving him a direct view of Edward’s jiggling bulk. “For that question, you have to wait before you can snack,” Leonardo shakes the last bag of hard candies.
“Oh come on! I promise not to ask again…” he whines. But he’s only met with yet another shake of the bag, his arms crossed over and resting on his gut as a result. “It’s not fair. You used to always get the super secret missions from Nolan and now Pelleas too,” he pouts.
Sothe snorts. “It’s nothing that exciting. I’m only a glorified errand boy. Unless you want the job?” he raises a brow, his stoic expression slowly peeling back into a grin.
“In that case,” Edward reaches down, hands digging underneath the expansive blubber for a gut that smothers his doughy lap, and to the best of his ability—despite how his arms shake and despite being unable to reach all of his girth—he lifts up his gut. Only a few inches. The vast majority that doesn’t fit the palm of his hands seep down like an overfilled plate of pancakes as they graze thighs that are wider than Sothe and Leonardo’s entire torso. “I think I’ll allow you to keep your job. I can’t let all my hard work go to waste,”
Leonardo hardly looks his way. He tightly crosses his legs, the slightly wider thighs squished together as he gazes outside. Rather vacantly.
Sothe coughs. His focus never leaves Edward’s corpulence. Not even as Edward’s arms tire to where he drops all of his bulk with an unceremoniously exhale, massive apron of a gut audibly slapping his thighs. Sothe coughs again. “You have been putting in a lot of work. You are still bulking up…”
Leonardo keeps his gaze distant, face flushed cherry red. His pants are ruched from how tightly he clings to them.
“So do you have any plans for…when walking gets a bit too hard?” Sothe hears the scrape of boot against wood beside him.
Edward does not. “Oh that shouldn’t be an issue! I did actually speak to Pelleas and there’s already some magic research to help ease mobility when I get bigger,” he excitedly blabs on. “Besides, Leonardo said he doesn’t-”
“OH WHAT TIMING!” Leonardo points outside. He presses himself against the window, hardly daring to look back at the two men. “We’ve finally reached Sienne! I’m sure Tormod will be happy to see you again, right Sothe?”
Edward tilts his head, visibly confused. “Yeah, but-”
“Here, your snack, you deserve it,” Leonardo shoves the bag in front of Edward’s face—the bag already opened.
Sothe speaks up as Edward tears through and munches on the candy; he hardly pays any attention to them while he stuffs himself. “So-”
“Just…”Leonardo interrupts him. His fingers curl over his own mouth, as if that might stop his face from blemishing and even more vibrant red. “Oh Ashunera, I’m sure you can figure it out already,” he says, not speaking anymore afterwards.
And neither does Sothe. He merely nods his head, his face a far more subdued yet still flushed shade as he glances at Edward gorging in front of him.
Soon afterwards, the carriage offers them a reprieve by coming to a stop.
Sothe is the first one out. The instant he can, he opens the door. Leonardo follows shortly afterwards. And after a few moments of sluggishly lifting his fat ass off his seat, Edward lumbers on to the door. Both Sothe and Leonardo help him step down; the carriage visibly lifts upon being relieved of its heavy cargo.
And already waiting for them at their destination are both Tormod and Muarim.
“There you finally are! You took too long!” Tormod shouts with a flabby, jiggling arm waving at them.
Having enjoyed himself with the rising popularity of Tellius’ eating contests, Tormod’s body is a clear reflection of that. Far beyond tubby and well past being fat, Tormod’s short stature only makes his already substantial size seem even rounder. Most of his girthy thighs are exposed; his far too tight shorts cling as they wrap around his bloated legs, his flab squished where his shorts end. His prodigious rear also manages to stay within the confines of his shorts with the aid of his shirt. Tomod’s upper body is larger still; his gut practically swallows up his tunic, the fabric desperately tucked into his shorts and still failing at that, the lowest roll of flab from his gut exposed where it came untucked. His chest presses against his tunic. It’s hard not to from how they rival the size of Tormod’s own head, both expansive tits splaying down his gut.
Tormod smiles despite his complaint, cherubic cheeks dimpling. His second and third chin squish against each other.
“We got here exactly when my letter said we would,” Sothe groans.
“Wait, you could send a letter about when we’d arrive, but you had to hand deliver this one? Now I have to know what this is about,”
“Oh, Sothe wasn’t lying. You grew! Too big!” Tormod interrupts the energetic man, stepping in between Edward and Sothe as he appraises him. His bulk wobbles with each waddle. He takes in all of Edward’s enormity, Tormod only outsized by him. Eventually, he seems satisfied. His gut presses up against Edward’s own as he stands in front of him.“I’ll just have to catch up. But as for the letter,” he snatches the letter from Sothe with a surprising amount of deftness—and because Sothe let him. “That’s official business! But, if you’re going to be my rival, I’ll be sure that you’re one of the first few people who find out,” Tormod goes to shake Edward’s hand but thinks better of it as their guts squish against each other.. So—after adjusting to stand beside Edward—Tormod instead sticks a hand out, resting the palm of his hand against Edward’s gut; his sleeves strain and stretch from his blubbery arms, each resembling a bag of flour.
Sothe and Leonardo merely ignore the two talkative tubsters. They instead stand with Muarim, the Laguz standing over them as he smiles at the scene. Muarim is also much wider. Not having gained quite the same amount as Tormod, he carries his bulk considerably well. And a large amount of bulk, absolutely heftier than Sothe and Leonardo combined. Like Tormod, he’s pretty top heavy, his gut spilling past his waistband. But an also considerable amount of weight goes to his chest, the two hefty tits nearly the size of his head as they rest atop the comfortably doughy shelf of his belly. His baggy pants do well to hide the bulk of his bottom half but they still press up against his rear. A rear that’s only made to seem even bigger by how small his tail seems now.
“I hope your travel was uneventful. Do you have any plans in Sienne?” Muarim asks. “Before next week’s competition,”
“Not really. Edward just wants to try as many restaurants as he can. Because of course he does. We only really travelled here for the contest. Though Sothe already seems to have told you that,”
“I didn’t,”
“But I-”
“Leonardo, what else would Edward be here for?” Sothe flicks his hand, gesturing to the still conversing duo.
Leonardo bites his tongue. “Fine,”
“No worries. While you’re here, we can show you around to our favorite places for food,”
And as if hearing the word stirred something within them—most likely their guts as they manage to grumble from the mention of it—both Edward and Tormod turn their attention to them.
“Good idea! We should show them around now while the day is still young,” Tormod grabs Sothe’s hand, who blushes but doesn’t make an effort to extricate himself.
“Yeah. I’m starving. I’m sure Tormod is too. We gotta keep our energy up,” Edward agrees, the group beginning their first of several food trips.
The week passes far sooner than Edward expects. Or that any of them expect really when they spend every day sampling dishes from countless places. A quick stop for a snack often derails into a couple. Especially when Tormod happily shows them Begnion’s cuisine, the rich, decadent meals far more hearty than Daein’s own.
But Edward is still more than ready for the competition. And most of all, his gut is ready; the growling gut makes its hunger known when he’s only eaten a light snack for breakfast—a bowl of fruit drenched in honey, as if Edward were attempting to recreate the Great Deluge before Leonardo chastised him.
Leonardo had a far heartier breakfast, the benefits of merely watching Edward gorge himself in contests rather than partake himself. He simply chose to gorge himself in the comfort of his own privacy. Minus the entirety of last week upon being paraded around. Still somewhat slim, the designation only has meaning when standing next to Edward’s rotund self. Leonardo’s tummy has a bit more curve to it; the once ever so slightly filled out torso now presses insistently against his clothes. And it’s a bit firmer after having eaten an entire omelette that overfilled his plate—an omelette he had to protect from Edward.
“Well? There’s no point in waiting anymore. I already signed you up, so you can take your spot now. You’ll be at the seat second from the very right end,” Leonardo makes no comment on how usually Edward is given a seat on the immediate end. Despite his tone, he makes no effort to rush him. He stands beside him, pudgy hip pressed against immense hip as he rests his arm on Edward’s blubbery love handle.
“Thanks. But I’m hungry now. Just a small snack wouldn’t hurt…” Edward whines.
Leonardo stands firm. Figuratively and physically. His boots dig into the ground as he feels Edward lean against him, gently pressing his shorter and much wider frame against Leonardo. “I already let you eat a bit of breakfast. I thought you wanted to win,”
“But,” Edward places one billowing arm around Leonardo.
“No. And it’s final. Besides, you can have as much as you want to eat after the competition. I’m sure everyone else will want to celebrate after you win,”
“He’s right!” Tormod joins them, bumping shoulders against Edward—his belly pressing against him first. “And now I’ve finally got good news to share. After the competition, there’ll be an announcement,” he adds as Edward gives him puppy eyes.
Sothe follows behind Tormod.
“Just get on the stage, Edward. The longer you complain, the longer you’re going without food,” Sothe reprimands him.
But the words of wisdom do have an effect on Edward who visibly perks up.
Leonardo wishes Edward good luck as he ushers him off. And though he would prefer to give him a quick peck on his porcine jowls, he only gives him a quick squeeze of his hand before Edward waddles up and onto the stage. Leonardo only glances back once Edward takes his seat, on both of his chairs. “You’re not competing, Tormod?” he gives a quick glance at Sothe, as if he were the reason for Tormod’s confusing lack of participation. Especially when he would most likely do well; not win like Edward inevitably will, Leonardo proudly thinks.
Sothe returns Leonardo’s confused glance back at him. “I’m not his assistant,” He does blush lightly as Leonardo only stares at him more insistently. “He can do whatever he wants. I don’t push him like you do with Edward. Shouldn’t Muarim be here? Where is he?” he looks away, not wishing to look at either of them.
“I was too busy setting everything up. And since it took some effort, I want to see the crowd once the announcement is made. I’m sure Edward will be excited,”
“The Little One did work diligently in convincing everyone,” Muarim suddenly reappears. He smiles as Tormod grumbles, unable to stop calling him by his nickname despite how many years have gone by.
Sothe snickers at him, holding back his laughter.
Muraim speaks once more. “As did Sothe. I’m happy to see you two-”
Sothe stops laughing, face beat red. “Yeah. I don’t mind helping every now and then,”
Tormod laughs at him this time. He however makes no reservations about his enjoyment, gut jiggling as he points at Sothe. Though his own face is dusted with a pink hue, Muarim the only one willing to point out the two’s closeness, unlike the two men. Tormod eventually does settle down—his jiggling gut following suit as he stops laughing. “Hey, Sothe was right. You were gone for some time. Where were you, Muarim?”
“I was merely helping an old friend,” he smirks, gesturing to the stage.
And the other three men’s eyes go wide at the sight before them.
Walking up the stairs, struggling more apt, is Volug. The wolf laguz takes his sweet time when he’s as wide as them—not even Edward able to claim such a lofty achievement. None of them having seen him for quite some time, each and every one of them can clearly tell what he’s been doing all this time.
Managing to surpass even Edward’s size, Volug easily has him beat in every single category. And he shows it all off with his usual state of undress. Going completely shirtless as ever, the decision now seems to be one born more of necessity rather than a choice—unless asked, Volug just as proud to show off his morbidly obese figure as he once did with his now nonexistent toned six pack. His pants are hardly as baggy as they once were; they’re not baggy at all. The plain beige fabric is nearly skintight with how it hugs his shapely rear. Particularly his lard laden ass, both cheeks wobbling to and fro with each desperate waddle. The upper bunch of flab is visible from the two tanned cheeks spilling out of his pants. The motion is especially vigorous with how he tries—and struggles to succeed—in climbing the few steps up the stage; his ponderous gut makes sure that any attempt to lift up his legs is a chore. His black wolf tail swishes behind him. Not as vigorously as it would years ago. His extra weight makes sure that even that is an exhausting task as well, though his large ass squishing his tail makes the movement harder as well.
But the clear displeasure seems to catch the attention of some of the staff, a couple of men pushing against him, one’s hands sinking into his ass while the other’s squish against Volug’s doughy, blubbery backside. A broad, filled out backside that no longer has any sense of the definition it once did. His tattoo is as stretched out as his back, the golden markings much rounder, lacking its fine ended points with a wider canvas now. His shoulder blades are softer, rounder as well. His love handles spill out the side; they press up against his hammocks for arms.
“You never told us Volug was coming?” Sothe turns to Muarim. But his eyes don’t stay focused on him for long before focusing his attention on Volug once more. “Or that he was such a…”
“Hog,” Leonardo finishes with a whisper. His eyes dart between Volug and Edward. Back and forth. Back and forth. His face is somehow the reddest it’s ever been, even more unbearably hot than when he was traversing the Desert of Death’s edges.
Muarim chuckles. Even though the others keep staring at Volug, he looks at them as he speaks. “I was unaware of his size. Or that he was coming. I simply saw him struggling in the crowd,”
Tormod scoffs. His fingers subconsciously find their place on his own gut. “Well duh, of course he’s gonna struggle when there’s hardly any room for him,”
“He still can’t speak the Tellius Language. Do you not remember how he struggled with General Ike?” Muarim explains. “So I helped translate for him so he could register,”
“It’s not like it matters. He’s obviously not doing much talking regardless. Oh, he’s finally up the stairs,” Leonardo once again returns his focus on Volug.
Eventually, after the tremendous help from the two men, Volug finally makes it onto the stage. His massive apron for a gut distends past his waistband and down to his knees and even past that. His once ink free torso now sports a few tattoos, the curves and lines of the pattern hard to make out with the overarching curvature of his rolls that seem to cave in against other rolls. His chest rests heavily atop his gut; both tits sit atop their lofty throne. Each breast larger than his own head, and easily far more well endowed than Tellius’ women, they seep off the broad shelf that is the uppermost roll making up his belly.
Seeing Volug from the side, the entire crowd gets to see him in motion—a task that makes him seemingly blessed by the Goddess to not yet be immobilized under his own weight. But with all his Laguz might that he musters, Volug slowly, sluggishly lumbers on over to his spot. At the very far right end. Right next to Edward.
Who watches with the same bated breath the rest of the crowd seems to share. Edward watches how all of Volug’s enormity jiggles and wobbles. Until Volug finally manages to reach Edward’s spot, his blubbery jowls and multiple chins glistening with sweat.
“Finally some competition!” Edward waves at him, smiling at the familiar face—even if said rounded out face hardly resembles its former angular, defined visage. “Good luck, Volug! Good thing Leonardo didn’t let me eat, you’re on!”
Volug smiles in return. Though unlike Edward’s eager expression, his is much more smug, the smirk softened by his blubbery cheeks despite his self-assuredness. He wracks his brain for the correct words in the still unfamiliar tongue. “You…need luck,” he smirks, waddling the last few steps to his spot—where a staff member hurriedly brings a third chair for him—and fills up all of his seats with a sigh, both hands on his gut.
“Thanks!” Edward misunderstands.
Before either can say much more, Anna finally comes onto the stage herself.
“Well! After such a drawn out introduction, let’s start off before more people drop out,” she wastes no time. And neither do the staff; they hurriedly bring out trays of food. “Alright…begin!” she announces with a gust of a wind tome aimed straight to the sky.
All the competitors do as told. Most of all Edward and Volug.
The first dish that’s brought out is arancini. By the platefuls.
Edward starts tearing into them. He plops them in one at a time. He hardly savors the crunchy fried batter or its savory fillings. After two to three chews, he crams another one in before repeating the process.
Volug is much the same. Only he crams them in by the handful. If it can fit in his mouth, he shoves it in, no concern for neatness or about pacing himself. He simply eats. And does it quickly, his three trays of arancini swiftly ending up cleaner as he shovels more and more down his mouth. He breathes heavily from his nose. Hardly from anything resembling exhaustion—not when he's a long way from feeling close to sated—but because he doesn’t want to waste time that can be spent stuffing himself.
He finishes all three trays before Edward can even finish his second, six left on his second plate, nearly the entire rest of the competition still on their first. And he’s immediately rewarded with more food from the staff. He tears into his gnocchi with the exact same wild abandon. This time he uses a fork. He also has the large bowl situated on his tits, maneuvering and wielding utensils a bit difficult with his draping gut pressed up against the table and hammocks for arms pressing up against his own bulk.
So he swiftly devours the lightly sauced gnocchi. An entire saucepan size worth of gnocchi joins the bucketful of arancini. Volug pays no attention to the rest. But he can hear several quitting on the spot upon glancing over at him and realizing just how much he’s already feasted on.
Edward is not one of them. If anything, the sight only spurred him on. Eating his massive bowl of gnocchi as well, he’s already a quarter of the way through it, trying his damnedest to catch up and surpass. He lets out moans unlike Volug, properly savoring and enjoying his meal despite the frantic pace he eats at. Edward digs into the second bowl with the same energy as the first. And shortly afterwards, his reward is a different dish. Mushroom risotto. Hardly full, Edward gladly digs into that as well. He scoops up hearty spoonfuls of the creamy rice. He keeps at it, one spoonful, then two, then five, until his plate is practically licked clean before he goes onto the second serving of risotto.
Volug already finished with his, he’s already onto his final dish, a simple peach pie for dessert. Which he returns to using his hands for. Like Edward, he focuses on nothing more than eating.
So much so that the two men fail to realize that they’re the only ones left competing. Or hear Anna’s announcement.
“Due to the high drop rate, we’re changing the contest to one of endurance rather than speed,” Anna announces.
But neither man cares. Volug hardly cares about how he technically would have won already after eating his pie; he mindlessly digs into the extra plates of food that get brought to him.
Neither does Edward once he finishes his pie. Starting to lag behind Volug again, he follows suit in shoving the extra servings of arancini into his mouth by the handful. Then he moves onto the extra gnocchi where he furiously shovels more and more in his mouth. Then the risotto he hardly savors anymore with mouth chock full of food. Then arancini again. Before more gnocchi. Back to risotto.
Each serving slightly less than the last, it hardly changes the sheer countless servings Edward stuffs his face with. Servings that slowly but surely begin to catch up to his gut. A gut that begins to ache and gurgle, his gut now exposed with how tightly compacted it is, vest riding up and now unbuttoned after his third round of arancini.
‘Don't stop. I can’t. Keep eating.’ Edward encourages himself, trying not to wince as he scrapes several spoonfuls of gnocchi into his mouth at once, cheeks stuffed without an inch of leftover space. ‘Don’t…’ And then he leans back into his chair, belching as he surrenders, both hands on his aching gut. “Ughhh…”
“And we have our winner!” announces Anna, another flurry of wind shot straight up. “Give it up for Volug!”
Said winner merely keeps on eating—the staff keep bringing him more plates after a glare. He continues shoveling whatever deserts he can reach. The current victim is an entire peach pie, the sweet delicacy hardly treated delicately from how he crams slices into his mouth, errant globs of filling dirtying both face and fingers.
But Anna ignores him; she continues on with her announcement. “After such a contested victory, I’m all the more proud for our closing announcement,”
“Haahh…fina-boouurrp…” Edward burps in his seat, head still tilted back as he rubs his aching gut. He keeps his eyes shut as he tries his best to hear the supposed announcement he waited so long for over the near deafening sounds of his digesting gut.
“While we have been expanding these contests to a wider audience, our scope has been limited to Daein, Begnion, and Crimea. But now, with the help of our liaisons, we can now excitedly announce that our plan to include the Laguz nations have been finalized!” she pauses for applause.
Neither Volug nor Edward cheer, but Anna does have their attention, however much she can get with the two men still eating and nursing their overstuffed gut respectively.
“And while we have hosted various competitions throughout the year, we’ve also planned to host annual competitions, the largest of the year to mark such an occasion. And to commemorate it, Gallia will hold our first ever event! I hope you happily await more news as we approach the event,” with that, Anna heads off the stage. She ignores the two lardasses still on it when she sees the crowded and noisy line at the gambling tent.
Edward remains seated. He’s unsure if he has the energy to get up, or if his gut will even allow him without making him suffer for the activity. But he doesn’t have to wait much longer before assistance arrives.
“I know where we’re heading next year!” Edward exclaims. His gut doesn’t deter his eagerness, nor does the loss.
Leonardo huffs, but he smiles. Softly, lips curved ever so gently as he takes in Edward’s poor state. “Of course. Though for now, let’s focus on getting you some rest,” his left hand feels the soft fabric of Edward’s vest, digits gently grazing the stuffed gut as he rubs it; his right hand goes to support Edward. He wraps it around as much of Edward’s doughy back that he can, and on the count of three, slowly helps him to his feet. And from some support from using the thankfully sturdy chair, Edward manages to stand up.
“Well! How worth it was the wait? I told you it’d be an exciting announcement! The crowd practically couldn’t contain their excitement.” Tormod bundles on over to the duo.
And Sothe practically dutifully follows behind him. Though the appearance doesn’t stop him from chastising Tormod. “Settle down already. You’re the one who’s most excited. But good job on setting it all together,”
“Good, the more recognition I rightfully deserve, the better,”
“Did it take long to set it up?” Leonardo asks, slowly bringing Edward over to them, and closer to the stairs off the stage.
“Ugh, Leonardo, who cares about the logistics? That was an amazing announcement! I’ll make sure Leonardo and I are there,” he glances behind him, Volug still seated. “Hey, Volug! Where are you heading next? We have to catch up,”
Extricating his face from the now licked clean pie tray—all other plates completely cleaned out—Volug stares at him. “Hmm, I…”
“It might be best if I translate,” Muarim joins them. “Here,” he tosses a hefty bag at Volug. “Your winnings. I figured it’d take you a long time to get them yourself,”
“Thanks. That saves me some energy,” his gut wobbles as he smacks it. “What did Edward want?” Volug groans when he sees Muarim raise a brow. “What? I’m decent enough to learn some people’s names,”
“Commendable. He wanted to know if you have any future plans.”
“Why would I? I’ll probably stay around a bit and try all the food. See the beorcs’ stupid faces when I eat most of their food,”
“Volug says he has no plans besides possibly sightseeing around Sienne,” he translates for the rest. “And sampling the food,”
“You should’ve said that first,” Edward cheers. “Come on, I know some good places now thanks to Tormod and Muarim,”
“Edward, you already ate more than enough,” Sothe says.
Leonardo says nothing.
“Well, I need to start training now. And the best way to do that is with my rival, it’s exactly like sword training. ” Edward outstretches his hand towards Volug.
And for his part, Volug tries to shake his hand, but the two realize better with their ponderous guts getting in the way, both bellies squishing against one another.
“Rival is pushing it. But you are the closest thing. You’re on.” Volug grins. “I want food, now,” he speaks in the modern tongue, clearly knowing the words he cares most about.
“That settles it then! Let’s go get food,” Edward cheers.
“Ugh, their energy is contagious to one another,” Sothe sighs. He nearly falls as Tormod bumps him with his wide hips.
“Don’t worry, that makes three of us,” he laughs at Sothe, heading towards the stairs as Sothe bites his cheek.
“You know when I was your mens’ age,”
Sothe follows right behind Tormod, his face even redder as he runs away from Muarim’s advice.
The group slowly get off the stage, Tormod walking down first before Sothe and Muarim go down and help guide Volug down the few steps—both standing to the side of the steps with Volug far too wide to allow anyone else beside him.
Lastly, Leonardo helps ease Edward down the stairs. He leans against him, offering support but also whispering in his ear as he finally speaks up. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure that you’ll blow him out the water by next year,”
This was written quite some time ago after started to pick up reading books again and while I don't have the most time for it, reading while on break and lunch at work has been productive and helped get back motivation to write.
I've only now just got to editing this and I've been enjoying reading so much that I wanted to try past tense since I've basically always written in present. And I do kind of like it but I'll see if I stick to it lol. Since I have another story ready that's in present tense
But anyways! I really love pathetic fat men, and Shannam is perfect for that plus I enjoy using him to begin with (I am the world's only B route truther) Plus I'm a sucker for mages and bards and like Homer as well
So this idea of Homer finding a fat Shannam and stuffing him has been gnawing at my brain for some time.
Homer rushed past the well-occupied streets, maneuvering past and around the crowd until he finally reached a lull in the crowd. His head swiveled to the right, purple locks swishing as he found his target once more, thankfully walking down an alley.
“Hey,” there was no immediate response from the unaware recipient, but Homer was hardly a patient man. He at least had the fortune of catching up to his target with no one finally around. But still he sighed, Homer usually preferring to keep some sense of mystery to any onlookers would-be patrons. His nimble fingers seemed to dance as he cast a quick spell, the fluttering of wind a far gentler effect than his usual spells from his preferred branch of magic. But it had the desired effect, his rather portly target turning around to face their assailant.
“What’s…” the voice at first shouted, his indignant tone silencing itself as eyes widened in recognition. They made no effort to move despite standing in the middle of a secluded alleyway.
Homer simply strutted up to him, a taunting smile etched on his face as he usually bore whenever awing a crowd. “Well, to think a king would be so far from their country. Especially the-mmphh!” Homer felt the sturdy brick wall slam into his back, hands forced over his ever talkative lips. He also felt the soft, plush expanse of a sizable belly press into his own lean torso.
“Would you shut up? I’m done with that whole charade,” Shannam hissed. He glared down at Homer—a feat only achievable through pushing down on the bard who was an entire half a head taller than him, Homer’s statuesque figure perfect for drawing in large enough crowds that were eager to listen to the tales he regaled—and, ever so slowly, Shannam lifted his hands from Homer’s mouth.
“That’s not what I overheard from a rather excited merchant,”
“He’s…Well…” Shannam sighed. “It’s a long story,” he added.
Yet Homer received no other information afterwards despite his inquisitive expression and silence.
Shannam continued to offer nothing, both men remaining in awkward silence.
And it was their silence that Homer began to focus on the warm yet pleasant sensation of Shannam’s figure pressed up against him, still pinned to the wall underneath such a hefty figure. Predominantly Shannam’s belly, the clothed expanse of lard practically enveloping his entire torso, his barely-present abs completely smothered in Shannam’s lard; he also felt Shannam’s plush newly gained tits squish into his lean yet defined chest. Though his focus was more taken up by Shannam’s thighs, both meaty legs that were once defined from travel now two blubbery stacks of flab that insistently pressed against his own that were barely half as wide. “So are you gonna finally get off of me?” he blurted out, pale face suddenly beginning to feel as warm as his smothered torso.
Shannam acquiesced. He pushed himself off of Homer—with a grunt of exertion Homer noted— blubbery, sagging arms that jiggled from the slightest bit of effort using the wall for support. His face mirrored Homer’s own. Not from any sort of embarrassment over the two’s close proximity, but from the effort expended to pin Homer and subsequently stand up properly.
And it was then that Homer was able to get a better look at the man he hadn’t seen in a couple of years—still hardly an all-encompassing appraisal with the two still standing so close, mostly from Shannam’s protruding gut. Homer could at least tell that the slipshod swordsman’s biggest feature was his gut despite the awkward angle. The bulging sash around his waist made it hard to ignore such a hefty, rotund gut that seemed so eager to jiggle and wobble with even the slightest of movements: a gut that draped itself comfortably past down a widened waist, a gut that managed to take up so much space that it nearly begun to reach his bloated knees.
Shannam’s robes fit him well enough. Close enough to still be something akin to wearable—if given the weak excuse in wishing to show off one’s curves which had far surpassed just plump—where the fabric ruched to hug so much girth underneath it but just narrowly managed to avoid appearing as if it might rip at a moment’s notice. His chest helped contribute to the effect; both sizable tits positively strained against his robes, the topmost button loop that helped hold his robes together pushed downward by his tits and digging into his hefty right chest.
“Are you done staring?” Shannam huffed. He took a step back, moreso a waddle.
“It’s my job to appraise what I see,” Homer replied, placing back his ever usual grin. “How else can I do my job of selling a story? And thankfully, I have a fine subject. One who could use my expertise,”
Shannam rolled his eyes. He briefly contemplated running away. But he thought better of it upon feeling a finger sink into his gut. “C-cut it out…” he whined, face now taking on a redder hue that could hardly be chalked up to pure exhaustion.
“Tsk… I had hoped you’d be able to at least put up a better front when in public, a king should hardly be acting so… timid,” he decided, nodding as he continued to inspect and appraise Shannam.
And inspect he did, eyes taking in Shannam’s blubbery arms, his sleeves much more lucky than the rest of the garment in their abundance of fabric when having to clothe two piping bags for arms that seemed to match, if not exceed, the girth of Homer’s own thighs. But still, it was easy to notice just how much his blubbery biceps—not that Shannam had much in the way of those to begin with—filled up said sleeves, the fabric tightening and coiling around his arms whenever he stretched or bent them a bit too much.
“Enough,” he placed a hand on Homer’s shoulder, stopping the man just as he was about to test and feel Shannam’s own.
“That’s more like it. Now you sound as you did when trying to seduce all those women in Tarrah. Not that you succeeded,”
“I don’t recall you managing anything beyond a wistful plea to stop them from leaving you,” Shannam retorted. He scoffed at Homer, glaring at him before he began to take a sudden interest in the empty wall behind him as Homer laughed.
Homer’s eyes hardly matched the curling of his lips, both staring down at him. “So, mind explaining how you managed to find yourself all the way in Miletos? I figured that I could use the information. I wouldn’t want to accidentally slip out your true identity," his hand felt the pliant blubbery roll of Shannam’s love handles, the soft, plush rolls nearly as fine as the finest pillows in Silesse’s more renowned inns.
“I…He…”
“Start from the beginning. It’s pretty convenient that just as soon as Isaach’s king started to pack on a few pounds, you seemed to do the same,” Homer’s hands drifted upward, pinching and groping at Shannam’s tits that overflowed the palm of his hands. “Though if anything, you’re probably even fatter than he is at this point…” he nodded approvingly.
“Okayyyy!” he seethed, face red as he slowly swatted, and failed, Homer’s inquisitive hands away. “It all…sort of happened. Everything,” he added upon seeing Homer’s skeptical expression.
“Really now?”
“Yes! I guess whenever Shannan started to gain weight, people must have thought I was him and gave me all sorts of food, telling me I was looking famished or emaciated. And…well, I’m not going to waste perfectly good food. So I couldn’t help myself from indulging a bit,”
A bit was doing the heavy lifting for Shannam, his morbidly obese figure far from just a bit of a few extra meals here and there. He seemed to be stuffing his face around the clock from his current size. And, as if on cue, his gut began to growl at that moment, the loud plea for food a sudden reminder that Homer’s old acquaintance really, truly had packed on several hundreds of pounds since he last saw him—as if his prior groping wasn’t enough to confirm all this as real.
Homer sighed, whole chest expanding from the exasperated motion. “Fine. It figures that someone as pathetic as you would just go along with whatever. And I take it that this so-called merchant invited you because he mistook you as Shannan and insisted you come and sample his wares at tomorrow’s banquet?” he didn’t bother hiding his irritation. He could hardly control it as he squeezed the lowest, flabbiest roll of Shannam’s gut, frowning as he stared down at him.
“Ah-aahh…d-don’t grab there, but yes…” he positively whimpered, bottom lip quivering as he gazed up at Homer’s irritated expression.
“Damnit, Shannam,” he sighed once more before letting go of Shannam’s gut. “Well. at least you’re good for opportunities. Because I’m coming with you. You need someone to make sure you don’t screw up, and I’m sure there’ll be some good chances to get my name out there amongst such a lofty crowd.”
“Okay…” Shannam complied with a weak nod of his head, any sort of objection never making it past a single thought.
“Oh Naga, you really are pathetic. But, at least you know when to shut up. Sometimes. But, first off, if anyone asks how we know each other, we can chalk it up to being some old war comrades. That’s not even a lie, now is it? Even you should be able to handle that. And Shannan is just the kind of sentimental enough man to do such a thing,”
Before Shannam could reply, his gut grumbled yet again, the massive mound of flab refusing to go unheard and unfed despite having been satiated a couple hours ago.
“Hmmm…” Homer thought, a smile beginning to form on his face once more before the corners of his lips curled ever tighter—just as they did so many years ago when he re-encountered the always down on his luck man in the Mirage Forest; Shannam once more considered running away as he felt Homer’s eyes bore into his own before their gaze lowered, drifted down as they stared at his corpulent figure. “We’ll have to test just how much you can fit in this beast you got. You’re going to have to show everyone just how much you enjoy that merchant’s goods,” he gave his gut an appraising pat.
“But!-” Shannam whimpered once more as Homer grabbed his gut.
The walk was thankfully uneventful. Most people in the New Republic of Miletos had more important things to do than stare at just another pair of strangers. Even if one of said strangers practically rivaled three men in size. But they cared little over such a thing just as they cared little for the king of a country on the other end of the continent, so none bothered stopping the duo.
“No arguing. You’re lucky I have connections. I’ll take you to one of the nicest places Miletos has to offer. Now, lead the way,” he smacked Shannam’s ass, ushering out of the alley and towards the busy roads. “It wouldn’t look proper for a bard to be leading a king in front of curious eyes,” he non-committally said, hardly looking at the street besides a few glances to make sure he gave the right directions when his gaze was so focused on Shannam’s engorged figure.
The only meaningful portion to Homer was the view of Shannam’s wobbling ass cheeks, long draping robes only able to hide so much when they draped over such a lard-laden rear. His trousers were in much better shape than his robes, but the sheer effort Shannam expended just to move one overfilled leg past the other in a pathetic mimicry of a walk forced him to expend much effort in not staring at the sight. In fact, the sheer size and sight of them had almost made Homer reconsider on whether it or Shannam’s gut truly took the prize as the most defining feature, almost.
Entering the establishment had been equally as uneventful. The worker had merely let out a small frown, the twinge of disappointment gone as quickly as it appeared—like one selecting the wrong adornment before reaching for another one—before they silently handed Homer a key to the finest room in the resort, as Homer had so demanded with a whisper into his ear.
And before the two could even reach said room, Shannam couldn’t help but agree with Homer; calling such a place as just an inn would hardly do it service, the ornate architecture of the building and its opulent yet understated interior indicative of Miletos’ splendor.
Splendor Shannam felt an intruder in.
Yet here he was, seated on one of the finest beds he’s ever had the pleasure to rest on. Though he was far from comfortable when he was stripped down to his undergarments, all his bulk on display.
“This isn’t necessary…” Shannam fidgeted, blubbery belly slapping against nearly as blubbery thighs.
Homer stood before him, practically hovering before him as he smiled down at him while still being fully dressed.
He held the first of a few plates before him—another supposed favor. “You’re lucky we can use the excuse of traveling light on the off chance anyone dares to ask the illustrious King of Isaach about his shoddy attire. So I have to make sure you don’t soil them from your gluttonous gorging,” he brought the first forkful to Homer’s mouth, gently so, eyes flicking back and forth as he seemed to realize the situation he brought upon himself.
But Shannam opened his mouth before Homer could even command him to. How could he not when he struggled so much to hold himself back from reaching for the entire plate himself? The aromatic freshly roasted duck that Homer so taunted before him was so hard to resist.
“Mmhmm…” He closed his eyes upon the very first bite, tongue licking teeth in its insistence to not waste a single morsel of the juicy yet crunchy duck. Shannam opened his eyes soon after, only after he was left waiting, mouth expectantly open. “Come on, don’t make me wait so long,” he whined. Yet there was a bit more conviction behind his words. He scooted up further in his irritation, more of his bulk pressing up against Homer who only stared back at him with wide eyes before he said, “S-sure…”
And so, the second forkful followed just as he promised. And then a third. And another. And another. Homer diligently fed him. This time he wasted no moment in shoveling another heaping bite of food into Shannam’s eager mouth. He also pressed his still clothed body more insistently against Shannam’s obese exposed own.
It was only after Homer finished feeding him the portion meant for two—only realizing upon the harsh scratch of silverware—did he finally speak.
“You know, that merchant sure is going to earn back more than triple whatever he spends on feeding you if you’re as happy as you are now,” Homer reached for the pasta salad next, only a small portion given. “Now open wide, we can’t have you eating that merchant out of house and home tomorrow. If the owner didn’t owe me, I’m sure your fatass would do the same to me,”
Shannam obediently ate the next forkful of food, the cold, fresh taste a nice change of pace from the decadent duck, especially the pockets of cheese in every couple of bites. Every retort he possibly could have had was washed away like the sandy shores of Miletos’ beaches the instant he was presented with more food. He simply kept opening his mouth, a few moans of ecstacy escaping him each and every time he was fed more food.
“That’s it. You enjoy yourself again like this and everyone will be clamoring to get their hands on the same exquisite meals that brought Isaach’s king to such elation,” Homer whispered once Shannam was finished with the small yet delectable side dish. His hands roamed the massive gut before him, rubbing and feeling its heft in near desperation to leave no inch spared. “Just make sure to control yourself tomorrow. Why, it’d be unbecoming of a king to act like a whimpering harlot in public, wouldn't it?” Despite his words, Homer indulged in the glutton’s delight; he pressed himself more insistently against the massive ball of flab for a gut, lithe thighs digging into the soft almost buttery blubber that so comfortably and gently caressed him despite how desperately he pressed up against it in vain wishes to somehow get even closer. His knees began to slightly buckle, breath a bit strained as he grinned down at Shannam who only gazed back up at him with glazed eyes and a flushed expression.
“As long as I’m full beforehand,” Shannam eventually said after gaining his breath, still taking a few deep, heavy breaths—some still mingled with moans. He said the words with no hesitation. Not when he so cravingly stared at his second entree, pan-seared pork over a bed of rice and vegetables tauntingly behind Homer. tauntingly behind reach. Shannam reached up, pudgy fingers wrapping themselves around Homer’s lithe yet slightly defined biceps—acquired not from any sort of real dedication to bulking but from the necessity of having to lug his own equipment around from traveling.
Homer’s head shot up, as if hearing the dreaded chant of a Jormugandr spell he heard countless times years ago. But instead of fear being written all over his face, there was embarrassment, tongue bitten as he continued to gaze at the gesture. “Yeah, of course. Just…let go real quick?” he quickly added as he could hear his own strung up nerves in his voice. “By Naga, you really are acting like those desperate women back in Tarrah, you know?”
“So are you. You’re like the few women who were still so insistent on finding a husband, ready to wait and tend to them,” Shannam retorted. He removed his hand from Homer, reluctantly so. He used it to instead caress his gut, face a similar tinge to Homer’s own. “I can’t say I mind it though,”
It was Homer’s turn for a rebuttal, eyes narrowed as he at first stammered. “Of.. Of course you don’t! Your fat ass just wants food,”
“Well-mmphmmmhm…” Shannam’s eyes went wide upon the sudden intrusion. But he quickly began to relax once he tasted the crunchy slightly charred skin of pork.
Homer fed him another bite before he could even finish the first one. Shannam hardly fought against it. “Just…Shut. Up.” He frowned down at him, chest practically heaving as he leaned closer to him. “Just for right now. You…you look better when you stuff yourself…”
Shannam nodded and obediently opened his mouth before the next forkful came.
And Homer fed him as he practically begged so, lips so tightly drawn together that he feared he may never be able to sing another tale. But he’d rather think on that than his pathetic, obese friend who pressed himself against him—not that he was so blithely unaware that he was doing the same back. So he continued to feed him, listen to his desperate little moans, watch his doughy gut ever so slowly begin to firm up, and feel his soft expanse. Those were far more preferable than thinking.
Once again, Homer’s distraction ended far too early from the harsh scraping of silverware.
“That’s everything,” Homer shrugged. “Unfortunately for you. I’m sure you’d be more than happy to keep being a pig,” with his hands free once more, he felt Shannam’s girth with renewed vigor. His fingers squeezed at blubbery love handles, rubbed his firm, distended gut, and pawed at the two hefty breasts for a chest.
Shannam arched his back, head tilted back as he pressed himself against Homer. Insistently so. He whined, the back of his throat rumbling as he gazed up with glazed, half lidded eyes. His breathing quickened. And he began to speak; a few choked out moans barely came out. “Hnngh-hoomeer…” he said nothing more, allowing himself to revel in Homer’s administrations. Though his gaze was no longer directed at Homer. Nor what was behind him, but instead off to the side.
And Homer followed his gaze. Right to the small table housing emptied out plates. And a decently sized pitcher and a pair of glasses.
“Of course your fat ass can’t help himself,” he teased. Though his words were a bit softer; his smile was the same, an equally sinful yet shameful grin of glee painted on his face. He lifted the pitcher—glasses hardly necessary—and oh so slowly tilted the concoction forward.
“Hmmphhm….mmmhmmm…nnhnnnghh…” and so, Shannam drank, his breathing muffled as he let out what little choked out moans he could in between each desperate swallow of more, of something that could hopefully finally satiate him, leave him so full he couldn’t possibly ask for more. His breathing was audible, nostrils flaring as they did their best to breathe when he was practically drowning in the thick, creamy shake. He didn’t dare let a single drop go to waste. He obediently chugged down every bit of the drink that was fed to him. Even as Homer tilted it higher. Even as Homer began to relentlessly tease his now aching gut. Even as he started to feel the first signs of comfortable fullness that swiftly changed to unbearably stuffed.
But he bared it. How could he not when Homer so desperately ensured he was full?
He bared it until the very last drop went down his greedy gullet.
Shannam’s desperate huffs filled the room. He belched, groaning after every few burps. He glanced up.
Homer lifted the pitcher back up, yet nothing came out despite how he shook it. “There. Are you full now?” he asked. But he very well knew the answer himself.
“YeahhouurrghHHP…” he belched in response, following suit with more wheezing.
“Good. You should be ready for tomorrow now,”
Tomorrow flashed in Homer’s mind: of Shannam glutting out like a prized hog before so many merchants, of Shannam inevitably whining for more, of being his loyal companion who stood by the king’s side, of feeding him even more himself, of watching his already blubbery figure round out and grow even larger. And of days beyond just tomorrow. And he peppered a trail of kisses on Shannam’s neck up to his ear before whispering, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to take good care of your fat ass,”
I am back again, and with an echoes story this time. Cause as much as I hate this game and think gaiden is just a better time gameplay wise for the most part, I still love the characters and especially love their designs in echoes. So of course I just mash the favorites together lmao (besides Duma cause he deverses a longer story )
But for now, enjoy this kinda shorter piece involving, Luthier, Atlas, and Conrad with some 'research' lol
If there was one thing Conrad learned from all his grand expeditions around the One Kingdom of Valentia, it was that despite even the vastest of distances worth weeks of traveling between former Rigel’s northernmost frozen peaks and former Zofia’s southernmost humid farming villages, they were all so similar. So, quaint. Which he took no umbrage with —far from it when he grew up in one of the most remote tiny little hamlets under Sage Halvyon, a man who, in his countless years of wisdom, insisted that every chore be done the same exact method that had been performed for countless years. But when that was all Conrad grew up knowing, years whittled away dreaming of how the outside world must live far surpasses any sort of reality. Not even Zofia Castle, despite the capital’s bustling daily life couldn’t match his expectations, the castle he so fondly and terrifyingly remembered feeling like just another building when he laid eyes upon it again. His own restlessness to do more didn’t help him either, always wishing to help the One Kingdom of Valentia recover faster, so much to be done in his mind despite the rampant improvements in such a short time.
And so, traveling to the secluded tiny hamlet of Mountain Village —of which Conrad had already visited more times than he can count on both hands— that resembles his former village far too much in all but its scenery, Conrad can’t help but perk up when for once in all his visits, something finally appears different.
Well, someone. The entire village looks exactly the same; if Conrad had to wager —something he’d never dare do, years of piety instilled in him— he’d bet that even the animals are nearly exactly in their same spots he last visited a few months back. He'd for sure bet that the residents are in their usual spots of leisure.
Except for Atlas. The large, beefy mage isn’t waiting for Conrad’s arrival for once. But that issue is hardly important to Conrad. Not when the person who did show up scarcely resembles how they did before.
Not when Luthier sports an extra bit of heft to him. More than just an extra bit. And Conrad’s pace picks up, loose gravel swept aside under the heavy steps of his boots.
When he had first decided to help Luthier, the mage having approached him a mere week after Alm had slain Duma, Luthier politely yet pleadingly asked for any and all of Conrad’s notes on magic, his years of experience practicing the art under the lens of the Duma Faithful surely able to help offer some different insight to Luthier’s own village, and most recent records, containing the Mila Faithul’s variety of magic.
Luthiers’s insistence on studying from both branches of magic had been for the sake of helping Valentia’s —now bettering— issue when it came to crop production. For despite their ability to slay an entire divine dragon and bring peace to the continent, they were all still just human. And crops cared little when they took entire seasons to grow on still shaky soil that is only barely beginning to recover. So Luthier had taken it upon himself, along with Atlas’ assistance, the experienced sage guiding and teaching his still green apprentice who thankfully had much better social skills than the former.
But Luthier’s newfound figure shows some progress on said research.
Especially his lower half, the wide, bulging hips that put any birthing hips to shame are tightly crammed inside too-tight robes. Luthier’s billowing girth strains and stretches the fabric. His thighs are less of an issue, his robes tightest around his midsection and hips, yet Luthier’s bloated legs are hardly spared from his recent weight gain. His bloated, blubbery legs show off some of their shapely heft underneath his robes; the two meaty, barrel shaped legs are pressed up against each other, little space afforded to them from Luthier’s own bulk mingled with the already tight confines of his robes. His meaty legs are twice as thick as Conrad’s entire torso. And despite the sheer absurd width of his legs, Luthier’s prodigious ass still peeks out from behind the two blubbery limbs.
The back of Luthier’s robes and cape are completely useless in covering the onslaught of lard that adorn his rear. The two slathered in flab cheeks seem to have a mind of their own as the fabric clings to every inch of every roll-riddled curve, his ass constantly jiggling just from his heavier than usual breathing. Especially as his body seems to crave for a seat —or two, one chair no longer sufficient to handle all his width, and certainly not all his weight— Luthier’s face marred with a few beads of perspiration.
While Luthier’s ass is the true crown jewel of his figure, his midsection is no slouch either. His doughy blubbery gut presses against the front of his robes; the hefty outline and shape of it is clearly visible with how taut the fabric is, his gut perched comfortably atop his bulging thighs and fatpad. Luthier’s stomach is more than twice as wide as the ornamental strip of fabric overlaid on his robes. His gut droops down past his bloated waistline, his gut held back by the stretchy fabric and only drooping down to halfway down his knees at the moment. And Luthier’s newly gained breasts cause a bit less trouble to his garments. The two hefty handfuls for moobs peek out from behind the ornamental fabric, a portion of the fabric caught underneath them, both tits now as large as Luthier’s bloated, porcine face.
Which jiggles as Luthier finally bothers looking up from his tome —but not before gently slotting a bookmark in the old, dusty book— upon hearing the ever steady approach of footsteps.
“As cordial as ever,” Luthier greets. His cherubic cheeks dimple with a smile upon the sight of his fellow researcher.
Conrad's expression doesn’t mirror Luthier’s own. He instead arches a brow, face pensive at the sight of the now obese mage. He reaches a hand out but ultimately thinks better of grabbing and testing the heft. He instead diverts most of his efforts into stifling his pounding heart. “What happened with the magic notes I leant you?” he asks after a few more seconds of thinking.
Luthier’s smile doesn’t leave his face. But it does falter, a nervous hint attached to it alongside a partially forced chuckle. “Atlas and I are still fine tuning everything. But progress is progress, you must admit. And we undoubtedly would have never made it this far without your assistance,” Luthier begins to lead the way. His large rear sways and wobbles with every waddle he takes, the skintight robes that cling to every curve doing nothing to help hide the massive posterior, nor do they dissuade Conrad from staring at it.
Conrad rushes to walk beside him. A small pink dusting of a flush smatters his cheeks — which he blames on the dry heat— his flushed state doesn’t disappear walking beside Luthier, only getting a view of Luthier’s gut that’s just as trapped behind ill-fitting, too tight robes bouncing and pendulously swaying back and forth every single time Luthier takes a step forward, his meaty thighs pushing and pressing against the hefty gut that sags far past his waistband and halfway down to his knees. So Conrad instead focuses his gaze on the rest of the village’s residents —not that there are many to begin with. And just like the handful at the village gates, all of them are exactly the same. None of them have an extra single ounce of pudge on them unlike the extra few hundred Luthier’s gained.
And none of them treat the duo any different. They cordially wave at the two of them, the once oddly looked at newcomers practically treated just as they would any other resident. And none of them seem anything resembling shock or surprise over Luthier’s large size, if anything, Conrad is the one who receives more attention of the two, a few eager ‘welcome back’ and ‘stay longer this time’ shouted out upon spotting the red haired knight.
“Do you really think I’d risk testing anything unfinished on someone unwilling?” Luthier glares at him, seemingly genuinely offended as he lets out a scoff.
Conrad stops him before he can go further, knowing just how long Luthier can go on for. “Of course not. Everyone here seems so… nonchalant about your size. But I guess no one is going to say anything to the one who’s been selling them protective charms,”
“Baubles, is what they are. Getting in the way of proper magical studies. But still, they do keep people safe from harm while laboring. And if they help fund our research… then I suppose I can keep helping Atlas make them,”
Conrad’s focus seems to return to him upon the mention of Atlas. “I take it that he’s making some right now? He’s usually at the gates with you,”
“You could say that,” is all Conrad gets from Luthier. Before he's met with a question aimed at him. “Speaking of nonchalance, you seem to be taking this rather well. Far too well,”
Conrad mentally curses himself, wishing to have brought his mask with him when he feels his face might burst into flames. But any of his panic hardly matters much when the two of them reach the door to the Luthier’s small workshop —a once abandoned shop that he had been able to obtain through Atlas’ charm and connections to everyone, having lived with them all his life.
Atlas’ muffled voice also sounds out from behind the door. “Daahhrn…hnghhhh… thiinnnghh!” and afterwards, his tired wheezes and pants are audible as well, albeit barely.
“We can continue the discussion later. You first,” Luthier opens the door and steps aside. “Sorry,” he apologizes upon accidentally bumping into Conrad with his wide hips.
“It’s fine,” Conrad smiles at Luthier, slowly accustomizing himself to Luthier’s extra weight. But as Conrad goes to step inside, he decidedly realizes he's not fine.
The first thing Conrad sees before he even has a chance to enter the building itself is a large, tanned pile of something. When he takes a closer look, notices the countless rolls of what must be flab jiggle and wobble —the mound of lard more akin to the contents housed within a granary rather than a person— does Conrad understand.
And Conrad understands that the pile of lard before him is Atlas.
The former woodcutter turned mage during the war had gladly taken Luthier’s offer of studying under him, the reclusive sage eager for any excuse to make friends with anyone, especially one so green in the field of magic. And after the war, Atlas was just as eager to assist Luthier in his undertaking of easing Valentia’s food shortages.
And the apprentice clearly seems to have been the bigger test subject, Atlas having been immobilized several hundred pounds ago from his grandiose girth.
The largest aspect of Atlas, by far, is his gut; the billowing pile of lard practically blankets everything in its direct and immediate path. Wider and longer than Atlas is tall —the once former adonis of a man taller than the other two men in the cramped room— his gut billows past his uselessly bloated legs.The blubbery rolls that make up Atlas’ gut stack upon themselves, the bottommost section lurching out the furthest, the center of his gut just slightly extended out the most. Even the sides of his gut fan out further than the softened blubbery edges of his legs. The sides of his gut —Atlas’ billowing love handles, each now a hundred or so pounds in their own right— also span more than three quarters of his bedsized lap, and his immense breasts blanket most of that portion of his stomach, the furthermost sagging portions making up his tits resting upon both his love handles as well as the outer reaches of his thighs.
Atlas’ face is nearly obscured by his immense gut, the main identifier of where his head even is among the pile of lard that is his body being his stark gray hair. And his chest doesn’t help with the visibility. Both enormous tits are large enough to blanket nearly the entire surface of a table. The hefty shapeless tits billow down his gut, covering the highest roll of his gut and reaching nearly all the way down to his middle most roll, ending a few inches above his cavernous navel that nearly appears to be caved in from the bunched up lard around it. His tits also press up against his useless arms, the bloated limbs forced up at an angle.
His ass doesn’t compare to the sheer size and girth of his gut, but the two shapeless cheeks making up Atlas’ ass similarly billow out just as his enormous stomach does. Only, they have a wall to contend with, the immense asscheeks beginning to smush up against the wall, the far most bits of fat making up several hundred pounds for an ass —each one easily large enough to envelop an entire sofa— now beginning to pile upon itself with limited space.
And just like the rest of Atlas’ immobilized corpulence, his legs are completely useless, any sort of mobility or flexibility completely impossible. Especially when his feet —which are just barely visible— are sunken into the bulging cylinders of lard that are his calves and ankles. Atlas can’t even move a single inch, his arms in the exact same predicament as his legs; the two helpless bloated limbs are nothing more than useless rings of lard. The only self-sufficient capabilities Atlas possesses are the abilities to tiredly wheeze and speak and to sluggishly wiggle his fingers.
Which is far too much praise despite still being able to enchant some woodcarved trinkets, the charms gaining a faint hue before looking just as plain as they did before. Granted, Atlas is still reliant on Luthier for the beginning and ending process, but the immobile butterball still contributes the best he can —though evidently, his best contribution is being a test subject.
Casting magic does come with the after effect of Atlas panting and wheezing, his entire mound sized body wobbling profusely from the minimal effort of exertion.
“You’ve… finaahhly maaade…iiht…” Atlas wheezes, sluggishly regaining his breath through desperate pants. He barely sees Conrad, most of his vision taken up by his own enormity.
Conrad stays silent. He simply stares at the mass of lard before him. It’s all he can do, mind transfixed and stunned by the sheer size and spectacle.
Having only been a minor assistant to the duo’s project —handing over all his notes to Luthier hardly something Conrad would consider a demanding task, however pivotal in Luthier’s research—Conrad still couldn’t keep himself away from the pair, often visiting to see if any progress had been made. Not to say he didn’t enjoy their presence, it was hard not to when he fought with Atlas for several weeks while teaching the novice mage what little magic Conrad did know, and Luthier’s initially abrasive nature of correcting others had thankfully dwindled somewhat upon speaking to and teaching both Atlas and Conrad, mostly Atlas. But with every visit, Conrad couldn’t help but feel a tad twinge of disappointment upon no news of progress, wishing to do something to help alleviate Celica’s burdens of taking care of a nation.
But those thoughts feel distant, a flickering reminder in the back of his mind that soon dies down. Today’s visit offers him a far different emotion; his eyes never leave Atlas’s figure, his face a burning crimson red —a far deeper shade than his curly hair.
Conrad’s captivated staring is only interrupted upon hearing the door shut close. He clears his throat, fist brought up to his mouth. “So, it looks like you two really have made progress,” Conrad smiles. He can barely make out Atlas’ bloated face past his gut that easily weighs more than twice his weight.
“Perhaps some would say not much, but in the grand scheme of magical breakthroughs, this is one of its greatest!” For all his girth, Luthier slides up beside Atlas, one overly familiar and overly eager hand wrapped around Conrad’s shoulder. “I should have known that someone of your caliber and expertise would see the same as us,”
Gouoouuuhhhrrrgleeee…. The walls shake and jostle. And Conrad nearly loses his footing, Luthier’s hand steadying him.
The two men turn their attention away from each other and back towards the immobile blob taking up most of the room.
“Ah, but as you can see. We are still researching all the effects of all the food we’ve been able to grow,”
“Luuhhnnhhhthieeehr…” Atlas whines out, his gut letting out another deafening grumble.
“Patience, Atlas. The food will be done shortly,” Luthier chastises.
Conrad begins to smell the wafting aroma of food upon the very mention of it. Hardly noticeable at all, but the faint smell of wheat seems to whet his appetite, Conrad swallowing back a sudden bit of saliva. The aroma is mostly masked by what he can only assume are freshly cooked tomatoes, even fresher herbs beginning to penetrate the living room.
Guuurrgleee
Conrad glances down at his stomach, face beat red. But the culprit is not his own body. Instead, he turns as Luthier coughs.
“My apologies. Here, let us prepare the food,” he whisks Conrad behind him —and carefully walks sideways through the kitchen door. “But as you can see, we still have one issue. Despite removing all other possible problems, the food we grow is especially dense in calories. Which normally would be a good thing considering Valentia’s situation if not for just how high in calories everything is,” Luthier begins assembling everything, a rather simple dish of pasta for the day’s meal.
“I see…” Conrad glances around the kitchen. And his observant eyes find nothing of interest. For all the scenery in the living room —chiefly Atlas— the kitchen is rather…plain. At least after getting over the abundance of ingredients in the kitchen, several fruits and vegetables stored to preserve them the best they can. But even those look just like any other normally grown crop. “So Atlas has been testing most of the food. I take it that it’s all handmade?”
Luthier drains the pasta and hastily dumps the vast majority of it in a single oversized serving tray before emptying out most of the red sauce onto it as well. “Besides the butter I used for the sauce, everything was made with the ingredients from our garden,” Luthier then serves another plate, four entire servings worth on one, then goes to serve another plate before thinking better of it.
“I-I’ll take some too…” Conrad blurts out. He keeps his gaze half focused on Luthier; his face is still beat red, his blush accompanied by a sheepish smile whose corners seem to curve too tightly. “I’m a part of this too, right? Only makes sense I should help out with the whole research aspect,” he chuckles.
Luthier swiftly hands him a heaping plate with two servings worth of pasta, unable to gauge it properly after feeding himself and Atlas. “Perfect! Of course the people I befriend would be as sensible as myself. Now here, carry mine while I handle Atlas’ plate,” The two walk back to the living room, Luthier waddling with the nearly spilling serving tray.
“Ahbooouuugght…t-taihhmmeeee,” Atlas wheezes, mouth already salivating at the prospect of food.
“Here, I can climb him and-”
“There’s no need. Now make sure to not make such a mess this time, Atlas,” Without saying another word, Luthier nudges the serving tray up. And the dish remains up, floating in the air as he continues to guide it with a blubbery hand. It diligently obeys his magic and rises further and further into the air, above Atlas’ prodigious body and over his rolls before being set back down on his titanic chest. “There, you should be able to…” Luthier rolls his eyes as he sees the pasta begin to levitate again, Atlas’ strained wheezing confirming the blob of a mage using his magic.
“It cost some time from our main goal, but refining that small levitation spell is a handy trick. But enough of me prattling on, try some of the food,” Luthier’s own plate goes unattended. He simply stares at Conrad, all sense of decorum gone.
And Conrad obliges. He picks up a heaping forkful of drenched in sauce pasta, twirls it around his fork, and gives it nothing more than a cursory glance befo
