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pangtasias-atelier · 5 months ago

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Dreaming Reality

Was really craving to write something with like my fave characters but individual and like more close to canon. But with still same bullshit indulgent nonsense in snippets, so have this Freyr at a huge size involving Askr and me trying to use the scraps of lore there is lmao so it is mostly like headcanons and whatnot

This also just got insanely long at 14k words so this is now my second longest traditional story. Also title taken from one of the book 4 chapters which I felt fit with this concept I had.

Warning: This is a fetish story!

Tucked away in the very heart of Ljósálfheimr’s vast, bountiful landscape, and further hidden within the equally imposing equally inviting castle —its stark white walls a sharp contrast against the usual warm, bright colors that permeate Ljósálfheimr— is a massively imposing tree, known as Yngvi to a select few, the ancient piece of flora, still as lush as ever. Its roots dig into the very soil underneath it, concrete foregone where it grows, centuries of magic pooled into it and the ground beneath it alike. Yngvi’s looming crown is nestled between the room’s towering ceiling and its own broad trunk. The massive tree trunk comes close to rivaling a manakete in sheer size alone. The entire testament of Ljósálfheimr’s wealth of nature is sprinkled in water, beads of water comfortably perched atop its abundant leaves like dew. And yet, despite the overwhelming size from a lone, singular tree, the room housing it is more than capable in doing so, the room enchanted to grow along with such a delicate creation as they ought to be taken care for. The space tinges with magic permeating the very room, the sheer size of a single ever expanding room is far too much for most people to comprehend.

But not to Freyr, the magic interwoven into the room one of his own creations as Ljósálfheimr’s King. The room itself is mirrored after his own oft forgotten throne room, magic incantation included —said throne room itself modeled after the World of Steel’s architecture from ancient civilizations, back when mortals once believed in their own dreams. The massive rotunda is filled with empty space like his own throne room as well, the only adornments from the land’s natural prosperity itself, vegetation lined across the walls and through the building itself; the openings in the walls also allow for the sun’s beaming rays to envelop the room as well as the light beams directly down onto the tree’s crown from the dome’s oculus.

Freyr rests against the tree. His back is pressed up against the enormous tree trunk far wider than could be normally expected of a tree. His eyes are as closed as they ever are, the golden hues of his eyes hidden behind closed lids. The vegetation surrounding him is a radiant myriad of colors like Ljósálfheimr’s usual abundant springtime. The beads of water refuse to sully his robes, the dewed tree coated in water all around itself besides where he sits despite the lack of rain in his realm. Freyr holds out his hand. And a single droplet is summoned forth, the bead of water splashing into the very palm of his hand without leaving a trace of water.

And then, Freyr begins to dream.

Freyr wanders the snowy landscape. The blanketing white snow envelops the entire ground and coats most of Talrega’s modest buildings during Daein’s harshest weeks of the year. Only a few people travel along the narrow alleyways and singular main road, snow crushed under eager to move on beorc ready to avoid such a remote area’s tumultuous weathers. Freyr passes by them. Everyone continues walking past him, all ignoring Freyr and even the stout goat horns jutting from his head that plainly mark him as a laguz. None so much as even bother turning to look at his strange attire, the draped white robes something akin to reasonable in the weather if not for his archaic wooden staff or the large bright butterfly wing design jutting from his torso, the bright colors a beacon of light even in the poor weather.

Freyr enters the inviting tavern —the building the lone, singular tavern Talrega has to offer— its soft beacon of light pouring from the windows. The door chiming as he enters the building, Freyr ignores the raucous laughter from the small band of men taking up a table, each and every one of them wearing the countries’ emblematic black armor. And among them is a dozing off man with an eye patch, the dream Freyr so casually invaded the man’s own. But the food awaiting the men at their table is the cause for Freyr’s visit, the bowls and plates on the table catch his attention much more. And taking a seat on one of the tavern’s empty stools, Freyr conjures up his own copies of the food, a one for one recreation of the still steaming meal now in front of him.

A hearty warm bowl awaiting him, Freyr digs into the sizable serving of soup first. The soup not something to certainly write home about —the ingredients afforded to such a remote region clearly not the best— the feeling permeating throughout each and every bite radiates with warmth as Freyr indulges in the soup. The somewhat watery soup is as thick and creamy as the person’s old dream he gave himself the liberty of entering imagined; the soup goes easily down his throat, a small contented hum elicited from Freyr as he goes back for another spoonful. And another, the potatoes nicely tender as they melt in his mouth, the potato paired with a small offering of carrots and onions. The bowl itself is nothing special. But Freyr continues to hurriedly eat his soup. He soon finds his spoon scraping the bottom of the bowl; the sound scraped wood only happening once before he simply lifts it and chugs the last remnants of the hearty soup that go down just as easily as Ljósálfheimr’s crystal clear water. He finds his small portion of bread all by its lonesome now in his haste to finish the soup, the humble offering of bread as big as a loaf for the human. But nonetheless, Freyr takes a hearty bite of the dense, slightly stale bread, the bread not too far off from the cold mountainous country of Illia he had the fortune of transporting himself to yesterday. He eagerly applies the small sliver of butter provided — well, conjured; the salty butter is spread as thin as possible, the cheap knife routinely scraping the thick slice of bread. All the while, Freyr keeps his eyes closed in his hurried state, Freyr’s fast pace nothing more than a barely perceptible difference to the few beings that know of his existence. Unlike the mortals who continue to ignore the strange invader, the humans only follow the hazy dream’s memory; all of them are nothing more than a figment of imagination unlike Freyr’s very real self and the sizable portion of food that now contently sits in his flat stomach.

Freyr comfortably rests on the stool; the murmured conversations are muffled, the noise as incoherent as the person’s own dream, most of the dream an incoherent mess besides the intoxicating allure of company and food if not for Freyr willing the rest into place. He continues to rest in the seat for a moment, taking in the inviting presence as the small group of Daein army converse behind him, and continue to eat well past what they originally did. He takes a couple last sips of his drink, the wine far from anything spectacular next to the eons worth of aged bottles he owns. But the drink suffices for him, the allure of human food far too great to resist and experience for himself. The cup of wine is gently placed back onto the counter once he finishes it, Freyr well and truly satisfied after his meal.

And then, Freyr wakes up.

“Ah, I was wondering how long it’d take you. After all these years, I'm still never too sure about your expeditions,”

And Freyr is met by Askr, the divine being patiently standing directly in front of him.

Until he kneels down, poking a finger directly into Freyr's gut. “You've certainly been enjoying your expeditions into the dream realm. Though, how does that even work, considering we are currently in Ljósálfheimr itself?”

Freyr accepts the hand Askr holds out for him, Askr’s defined musculature comes in handy, his biceps tensing as he helps Freyr stand up. “No need to concern yourself over it. Thinking too intently on the laws governing Ljósálfheimr is the mind killer. It is something best left alone,” Freyr opens his eyes. The scant few times he bothers doing so, his golden eyes staring right down at Askr with the few inches of difference between the two men.

And unlike his avatar within his own miniature dream realm where he relives others dreams, Freyr’s dreamself is a clear depiction of himself back when he was three hundred pounds lighter.

And standing right in front of Askr, Freyr's own differences from enjoying his ventures into people's own dreams are clear unlike the hazy figments of humanities’ imagination. Freyr's newfound belly presses against the flowing, draping white fabric of his attire. The vibrant trims of fringe bulge outward to accommodate his wider gut. A gut that now comfortably slots itself in between his large, plump thighs whenever he sits. So wide and full is his gut that the plush roll for love handles press against the massive adornment of butterfly wings Freyr wears. Said butterfly wings obstruct his newfound meaty tits, the two plush breasts resting atop his large gut as they press up against the stiff material of the wings. His rotund figure is visible through the column like robes he wears, the outline of his figure once as straight as a wall unlike his current obese figure. The outline of his large, portly thighs peak through his robes, the outward curve of his legs bulging against the yards of white fabric. Freyr’s flabby arms are hidden a bit better underneath his clothes, the draped fabric loose enough. The sleeves do show off his arm’s girth, his biceps more akin to cushiony pillows used to aid humans into drifting off into his realm instead of the once svelte, limber arms he used to sport. Freyr’s face is similarly bloated; his puffy cheeks have a barely perceptible jiggle to them as he breathes, Freyr’s visage far softer and more rounded unlike before.

“Alright then,” Askr rests a hand on Freyr’s belly. He gives it a couple of pats, Freyr’s large gut much flabbier than his own little muscle gut. Askr also sports a bit of extra heft on his frame, Askr clearly having been indulging as of late. He still has his usual musculature, all of it accentuated by the extra bit of flab he has. His biceps are rounder and more filled out. His tits look more plump and squishier. His thighs have a bit more heft to them as they rub against each other. And Askr’s once defined six pack is washed away underneath a small pool of lard, the beginning stage of a flabby belly on his figure. “No need for me to stick my nose where it’s not needed. Since you’ve been enjoying human cuisine lately, I thought you might enjoy trying the real thing,” Askr holds out his hand for Freyr to take as he conjures up a portal. The very same one he entered through, the banquet awaiting them is visible through the translucent blue passageway.

“I appreciate the offer, but unfortunately I must relent. There is a certain, ‘fine’ quality to experiencing things through the lens of how mortals perceive them, no matter how untrue they might be. You are welcome to join me whenever you’d like,” Freyr offers as he takes a seat once more. He summons another droplet of water from the tree. But the water remains as it reaches Freyr’s palm. the singular bit of water evaporating into immaterial streams of steam. And the scenery of steep, craggy mountains circled by tamed wyverns fill out the portal Freyr conjures up. Freyr slowly drifts off into Macedon, a weak willed noble’s remembrance of drinking and eating after being reunited with his sister for the second time too compelling to ignore any longer.

“Perhaps some other time then,” Askr waves Freyr a goodbye, heading back to Askr with a small shake of his head despite the smile on his face.

-------------

Choosing to enjoy the limitless possibilities offered to him, Freyr continues to venture through the mortals’ own dreams.

Like most every other venture into a human’s former dream, Freyr had been tempted by the allure of the dream itself, one chosen at random amongst other similarly brilliant dreams. Far from pure like most of the rest, the avaricious fantasy has Freyr enjoying his time amongst the lavish lifestyle of Carcino’s nobility, the merchant’s son turned into a rogue clearly well remembering the more recently founded countries’ extravagance.

Freyr enjoys himself all by his lonesome in the corner. Not that anyone pays any mind to him. Every single imaginative recreation of a person simply replays out their roles in the human’s dream. Sitting at one of the smaller tables —what Freyr assumes to be for the more distant, emerging relatives of more powerful merchants. The small table, at least for such a clear display of such vast wealth, had originally been nothing more than a vague, hazy void, this section of the dream clearly not the focal point and forgotten as such. At least until Freyr had rectified that by imbuing the hazy patches with his own will and magic.

A bevy of dishes await Freyr. Far too many for a regular mortal to realistically enjoy. But Freyr promptly digs into the honey-glazed ham —the vibrantly aromatic meat imported from the Frelian-Carcino border clearly a well remembered smell from the years old dream Freyr visits; the sweet yet salty cured meat that Freyr’s gut had first set its sight on makes for the perfect first entree to taste. So much so that Freyr ignores the abundance of sides provided to him. He simply keeps on enjoying the ham, one bite immediately followed by another, only after swallowing the prior bite, manners not lost on Freyr despite his hunger. And once he finally finishes his first slice does he bother indulging in other things. Like the cheesy, decadent pasta that is as creamy as it looks as well as the finely aged wine; the wine is by far the clearest memory the dream’s owner fondly remembers —not that they currently reflect it with how much the rogue indulges in food unlike the true reality of the dream. The wine is almost comparable to Freyr’s own reserves in Ljósálfheimr when blended with the tantalizing elation of mortal memories, almost. One glass quickly leads to another. And another serving of ham plus a heaping helping of potato gratin alongside it. He eagerly takes a bite of the nicely crisped gratin, the still bubbling pockets of cheese melting in his mouth along with the buttery slices of potato. Unfortunately the dish has little remembrance in the owner’s dream, but that doesn’t detract from the natural flavors of the high cuisine Freyr eats. But it does tempt him straight back into tearing through the ham, the meat all the more delectable from its own exquisite flavors as well as the owner’s faint memories of their own dream, the emotions and desires of one’s own mind a potent effect in the dream realm. Freyr continues to enjoy the ham, his second and then a third serving finished far faster than is appropriate, and eaten in far larger quantities than what would pass for decorum. But Freyr has little concern to worry about that in the presence of faint dreams. Especially when his still thin avatar has nary a single ounce of pudge.

After finishing his third heaping portion of ham, Freyr indulges in a lighter snack before moving straight to dessert. By helping himself to a hefty serving of salmon and shrimp, the seafood served over a bed of rice and seared, buttery vegetables. And another glass of wine as well, Freyr now on his fifth glass. The rice having sopped up most of the errant drips of sauce, the grain pairs well with the tender cuts of fish, a forkful of vegetables followed after each and every bite of the seafood and rice. Freyr takes quick bites of everything. Not a single drop of sauce ends up misplaced. Every bit of food easily finds its way into his mouth. He finishes the very last bite with a small contented sigh while wiping away at the nonexistent crumbs on his lips. His fingers almost find their way on his flat stomach, delicate, nimble fingers hovering above his stomach for a second before he stops himself from patting it in satisfaction.

The dessert afterwards comes easily to Freyr. Especially when they’re all clearly well liked by the dream’s owner; the above average slices of cake and pie are nearly the finest treats Freyr has had when dreamt up by someone with such a sweet tooth. He stops himself from lifting the plate off of the table, fingers fiddling with the rim of the plate as he struggles to hold himself back from devouring the rest of the delicate morself in a couple of quick bites. But he does finish it all the same, the decadent red velvet cake eaten in a few minutes slower than his gut craves. But Freyr simply conjures up another slice to enjoy. And another after he promptly devours that one. And then one more to make up for the cravings he still wishes to satisfy. He only stops himself from creating another replica of cake to indulge on the strawberry-rhubarb pie, the tartness of the filling complimented by the flaky buttery crust. And while the bit of tartness isn’t as appreciated by the dreamer’s sweet tooth self, the dessert is just as welcomed to Freyr, a second and a third slice easily stuffed into his still flat stomach. He takes a moment to compose himself, yards of fabric dusted off as he stands up, not a single person reacting to his presence.

Or to the fading background of the dream, everything washed away back into nothingness as Freyr wakes up and returns to the calming moonlight of Ljósálfheimr after his third dream of the day, Freyr unable to restrain himself to just one like when he first began these voyeurs.

-------------

And the days continue to drift on in Ljósálfheimr. The dream realm as peacefully quiet to rule as the name might suggest, the picturesque days all mingle together. As do the dreams Freyr continues to indulge in, weeks swiftly turning into months. An all too easy thing to forget when Freyr has lived longer than entire lineages have existed.

In his fourth dream of the day already, Freyr pauses his eating for a brief moment. Only after he finishes his current helping of seafood paella from Solm, Freyr eager to once more partake in the well known Solm’s most famous chef, the former Sentinel having cooked twice as much in Freyr’s version of the dream compared to what actually happened. Freyr quickly nods his head at the tingling sensation in the back of his mind, someone clearly wishing to enter his realm. Which he allows before ending the dream, the sweltering, arid heat of Solm that’s dulled by a citizen’s own accustomation to it much more gladly left behind than the abundance of food. Food that he quickly shovels in his mouth, a serving of tiramisu and nut milk pie left over his now messy face.

The fading remnants of the dream dissolve into nothing, the ostentatious design of Solm immediately replaced with Ljósálfheimr’s own more natural one as Freyr wakes up once more.

Doughy, flabby arms lifted above his head and past his goat horns, the two meaty hammocks for arms squish against Freyr’s rounded out face. An extra bit of heft on him from even more ventures into others' own dreams —and the subsequent amount of food he ate during every single one— Freyr’s real body clearly shows off all the weight he’s gained. He no longer wears the large butterfly wings attached to his chest, the overflowing white robes he wears now more affixed to his curvaceous, flabby body. And weighing a couple hundred pounds past an entire quarter ton, his flabby body has an abundance of rolls, each and every one of them as soft and supple as the last. A fact Freyr knows all too well during more self-reflective moments, and not of the introspective kind. Freyr’s girth weighs heavily on him despite his own divinity; the deity struggles to stand up, his flab wobbling to and fro as he takes deep, heavy breaths. And despite his apparent struggling with so much bulk in the way, he stands on his own two feet just as easily as his once spry self did.

He starts walking forward, his whole body jiggling as he heads towards the one of many exits of the massive dome. His gut jiggles most of all. The large ponderous gut that clearly matches someone weighing more than seven hundred pounds presses against his engorged, dimpled knees, the gut large enough to smother one of his own subjects audibly slapping against his barrel sized thighs. It also presses against his tight robes, the outline of his sloshing gut shifting with each step. The soft, cushiony bell shape of his lowermost belly roll is pressed prominently against the white robes. Freyr’s gut isn’t the biggest obstacle despite how much the massive belly gets in the way. No, his large adipose riddled thighs give him more trouble with how he’s forced to swing one heavy leg past the other. His legs don’t press up against his clothes, thankfully. Unlike his cushiony rear, his rotund posterior past the point to where it now needs two chairs —that the mortals use at least, Freyr’s furniture massive enough to handle him with Ljósálfheimr’s rules bent by his very whim. His ass wobbles as vigorously as his gut does. And it serves just as well as a shelf as his large breasts which closely resembles his sister’s sizable own. If not for the way they splay and sag, Freyr’s chest splayed to the side just as well as they sag, the two hefty tits pressed up against the sides of his arms that’re bent at an angle.

And yet, despite it all, Freyr continues to walk at a leisurely pace just the same as he used to back before gaining six hundred pounds. He breathes fine; the only issue he struggles with is the sheer amount of his own mass being in the way of itself as he waits for his guest.

“Looks like I’m right on time,” Askr waltzes into Ljósálfheimr, entering through an azure blue portal. He smiles brightly, just as eager to meet Freyr as he always is. And Askr still enjoys human cuisine just as Freyr does, Askr’s own rotund figure a much lighter size with him not even weighing half as much as Frery does. He waits for Freyr to respond, Askr’s prodigious chest fitting for a bull such as himself swollen with lard much like his gut, all sense of musculature now completely washed under a torrent of flab.

“You could have entered on your own if you wished. You needn’t ask permission,”

Askr takes a step closer, flabby belly pressed against rotund gut. Askr’s own stomach looks emaciated next to Freyr’s own grand size, despite his own top heavy figure. “Well, just think of it as a reminder about my visit. I know how long you can take in your dreams,” It takes only a single thought for Askr to summon a large napkin, the cloth wiping away at the crumbs of cake and pudding before disappearing with yet another thought. “And I can tell I was right with how much of a rush you were in, my friend. Good thing I understand the rules well here,” Askr’s pudgy fingers sink into the mass of fat that is Freyr’s gut as he pats it.

“Well enough. What is it that you wished to visit me for then? Since you made it abundantly clear about the secret nature of your plan,” Freyr asks. He makes no motion to remove the hand on his gut.

“Since you still refuse to leave your realm, though you should try it someday, I know you’d enjoy it, I thought that maybe I should bring the food to you. Why don’t I conjure up what I remember from all the offerings the mortals have given me? Or better yet, why don’t we experience one of my dreams together? Though I’d wager you already did so considering how much you enjoyed the offerings I’ve shared with you before,” Askr chuckles to himself, his body jiggling as he waits.

Freyr struggles to hold himself back from immediately agreeing, the sheer elation of Askr’s cuisine mixed with the deity’s own pleasure in receiving such gifts too tantalizing to pass up. “Partaking in the dreams of other divine beings is… difficult to say the least. But, as long as I have your express permission, then we may journey into one of your own dreams together,”

“Perfect. I’ll lead the way,” Askr grabs Freyr’s arm, interlinking the flour bag for an arm with his own flabby bicep. His love handle is squished against the massive wall of flab that is Freyr. But the two of them walk back to Ljósálfheimr’s Yngvi despite their own sizes. “So why is it that you normally can’t view my dreams? Is it because Ljósálfheimr is made up of mortal’s dreams?”

“Very astute. But not quite. Or else I would not be able to enjoy the dreams of dragonkin of other realms, as humans have so called us as well,” The two of them laugh at the mention, neither of them able to transform into dragons. “Think of it as simply the realm’s own defensive measures in denying me the ability to peer into the other rulers of Midgard’s realms,” He continues.

“So then it’s to protect us from any being who manages to attain the ability to view other’s dreams?” Askr helps Freyr sit down, the massive goat gladly accepting the help so as to not crash onto the ground out of laziness.

Resting against the massive tree, Freyr no longer resembles a mouse next to an elephant. “Correct,” Freyr summons a dream once Askr sits beside him and nods in agreement, a ray of light somehow peaking through the tree’s crown as it envelops the two of them.

And Freyr and Askr begin to dream together, the two of them transported to Askr’s domain not so long ago. And not much lighter either, the imaginary Askr only a couple pounds slimmer than the very much real one, Askr retaining all his weight like Freyr.

“Didn’t you say you made yourself thinner in these little expeditions of yours?” Askr’s hands grope himself as well as Freyr’s own immense flab. His hands expressly reach towards Freyr’s bulging love handles, both hands required to properly handle all the girth.

Freyr hums for a moment. He takes a couple of ponderous steps before conjuring up a table, complete with its own enormous spread of food much like the rest of the food in the dream. If not for how each plate nearly overflows with food; every single portion comes close to being twice the size of the real thing. “You seem to be enjoying your more plush size. Although…I am… surprised by the amount of humans here,” Freyr plainly admits, glancing around at the abundance of mortals.

“Of course! Food is much more enjoyable when in the company of others,” Askr elbows Freyr, the rounded out flabby limb merely squishing against more flab. “Though I don’t remember this dream,”

“Dreams can be a form of recollection, of one processing their own memories. Or they can be something long forgotten, tucked away in the subconscious,” Freyr answers, not saying more. He instead takes a seat on a chair. Two of them, his ass spilling off both sides of them. Freyr’s ass thankfully has no armrests to deal with to pinch his corpulence. He instead uses his bulging love handles to rest his enormous arms for. His gut does struggle a bit unlike the rest of his girth; his gut spilling forward to take up all the space on his thighs, Freyr’s massive belly presses against the table, his gut spilling on top of it.

“I see. I take it this is something best not thought too deeply about?” A small hypothesis formed, Askr can already feel his brain hurting at the thought, one theory followed by another and another. He takes a seat right in a single chair beside Freyr and he pulls his chair a bit back to give him some breathing room, his flabby little ball of a belly grazing the edge of the table.

“Yes. For now, let us simply enjoy the food you so fondly remembered,” Freyr starts with the roasted duck, dipping it in sauces unknown to both him and Askr.

“When you put it like that,” Askr digs in as well, enjoying the buttery garlic steak first.

And the two begin to eat in earnest once they finally take their first bites. Freyr first sticks to what he likes; he continues to put away more and more of the duck. Chunk after chunk of thinly sliced meat plopped in his mouth as if they were tiny, little finger foods. Duck is only followed by spoonfuls of white rice drenched in sauce. The spoonfuls soon easily resemble near cupfulls as Freyr shovels them into his mouth as if the dream were to end any second.

Askr follows Freyr’s example in how fast he eats. All it had taken was a single bite of his steak to be convinced. Askr eats at a rapid pace unlike the lenient speed his dream self does. A hunk of steak soon turns into a glass of wine and then a thick, creamy soup with Askr wishing to retaste everything offered to him. He continues to eat everything available to him, a large sampling of the variety of dishes too good to pass up on. Even as he begins to feel himself become comfortably sated, his gut content with the nearly dozens of plates he’s eaten —the cleaned out plates stacked high as if a monument to his indulgence— Askr goes to reach for another plate, mouth still full of food.

Askr only eats another piece of steak once there is absolutely nothing else to taste, every morsel of food he tried all sitting heavily in his gut like a weight. Askr sits back in his seat. He cradles his taut gut, so much of the flabby give it once had now replaced by stuffed, taut skin. It takes him a few minutes to speak up, one eye lazily closed as sleep begins to draw him in its clutches, the logistics of falling asleep within a dream taking place in the dream realm something Askr forces himself to not think too much about. “You were right. This -oughh- tastes amazing…” Askr takes deep breaths as his gut continues to argue with him.

“You clearly enjoyed eating this the first time.” Finally no longer eating duck —not that Freyr no longer craves it, the hefty dream king forcing himself to at least try everything else lest he keep on eating the duck and nothing else— Freyr’s molehill of plates makes Askr’s look like an inconsequential anthill. “One’s original emotions greatly impact the flavor of dishes,” Freyr tears off and bites into half of an entire loaf of sourdough bread, the loaf littered with holes from its clear craftsmanship.

“Ah…” Askr lazily replies, tiredly nodding his head.

Freyr finishes the half of a loaf of bread, the dry piece of bread helped by the sauce Freyr dunks it into and subsequently chugs down afterwards, bits of sauce dribbling down his bulbous jowls as he responds. “I must say, this was quite an experience. For you as well,” Freyr digs back into the food, his gut squishing further into the table as he leans forward, nothing within arms reach safe from ending up in his gut.

Askr takes a deep breath before responding. “Yes. If anything, all of this was easily twice as good as the first time I ate this,” Askr sits up from his slumped posture, straightening his broad back.

Freyr continues to eat. He only offers a small humm of agreement, the bit of noise practically a moan as he continues to stuff himself, more food conjured up to sate his seemingly endless hunger. And Freyr simply continues to eat in silence, more time passing by without a word said between the two men.

“Well, I -ourrp- think it’s time to call it quits. I don’t even have room for dessert,” Despite having finished eating in full a while ago, Askr still nurses his aching gut, the several plates of food sitting heavily in his gut along with the snacks he enjoyed while waiting for Freyr to finish. He takes deep breaths as he leans back into his chair, his plush backside pressed up against the entire width of the backrest, his flab squeezed past the edges of it. He sits like that for a few moments. One hand rubbing his poor, aching gut, his other rests on his tits. His attention solely devoted to tending to himself at the moment, he can’t help but shift his eyes as he notices the still eating humans in the background. And his still imaginary self still gorging on food well after the small little banquet had ended. Askr says nothing, turning to Freyr instead as he continues to wait.

Freyr shifts his attention over to dessert —after cramming another handful of slices of duck down his mouth and washing it with an entire glass of wine. Two pieces of carrot cake end up devoured in nearly whole bites, the slices crammed into Freyr’s gluttonous maw before he finally stops. “Hmmm. Perhaps so,” He says before reaching for yet another slice, doughy bingo wings for arms struggling to reach past his enormous gut that’s just barely beginning to gain some tautness to it, the ball of a gut pressing up against his robes as if he stuffed a beach ball underneath it. He crams a forkful of the cake into his mouth, a third of the heaping slice of cake forcefully crammed in by himself despite his agreement. He also doesn’t bother rising up. Freyr gladly stays seated in his two too small chairs.

Askr rolls his eyes. Though he can’t help himself from laughing, a deep, tired chuckle escaping past his messy crumb littered lips. “I guess if you’re still hungry. What kind of friend would I be to not help you?” One hand on the chair for support, Askr stands up. And he shovels the rest of the slice of cake into Freyr’s mouth with zero hesitation. He conjures up more food for the two of them to enjoy, his own creations an even more indulgent, heaping portion of food based off of Freyr’s already excessive sizes.

“Eat up. It’s not every day you get to enter my memories right? So help yourself as much as you want,” Askr bends down, whispering in Freyr’s ears. His pudgy double chin rests on Freyr’s bloated shoulder.

“Hmpph I still have room to spare,” Freyr says as if he were talking about the weather. Which it might as well be to him, his own insatiable appetite a fact of life to him like everything else in life, the endless possibilities of dreams a window to the future just as much as they are recollections of one’s past gifting Freyr with the ability of minor divination of countless possible futures. And the future looks promising to Freyr as he opens his mouth for another bite of food that Askr happily feeds him.

So much dessert —as much of a spread of it as entrees— the two take their sweet time in exploring each and every single one, despite Freyr’s initial wishes; he reaches for some more carrot cake again.

Askr smacks his portly hand. “Come now. You have all of these to taste, and you still want to try the same old thing? I would have thought someone with your expertise would understand the beauty in trying new things,”

Freyr opens his eyes. He glares at Askr with his half lidded golden eyes. His face is still smeared in frosting, bits of orange crumbs littered over the white cream. “Rest assured, I will try all of them eventually. There is nothing wrong in enjoying the things one likes,”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that you will eat everything. I don’t think anyone doubts your capabilities in gorging yourself. But since I’m here to make sure you do, it’s best to enjoy a little variety on the way to the end. Especially when you have the perfect tour guide right here to help you. Now, let’s see… Ah! Here it is,” Askr reaches down at the table, and grabs a bowl of peach cobbler with one hand, his other hand resting on Freyr’s gut. “This was my favorite dessert of this banquet.

Freyr eyes the treat. His eyes aren’t quite the same as their former glare. He reaches towards the peach cobbler with a flabby arm. His gut digs further into the table. “Then I shall try it-”

Askr smacks Freyr’s hand as he pulls away the dessert. “Now hold on. Your greedy self will have to wait for it,”

“Then hurry up with the rest of the food,,” Freyr blows out a strand of hair out of his face with a huff, his glare deepening.

“What happened to the calm, patient Freyr? You must have eaten him, you beast. And many others to reach a size like yours,” Askr pokes Freyr’s tits, his meaty chest larger than Askr’s own pudgy face. But he relents, giving Freyr the food like he so desires. Freyr is a hair’s breadth away from becoming a mess, eyes drooping down in exhaustion from the oncoming food coma. He breathes through his nose, mouth always filled with food that he can’t help but crave more of. Not when each delectable treat is as buttery and sugary as the last, the fresh. sweet dessert lovingly handmade and lovingly enjoyed by Askr originally, Askr’s excited emotions clinging to every bite as Freyr swallows everything given to him.

Askr starts with the more simple treats, a few cookies dumped into Freyr’s mouth at a time like a waste disposal. Askr starts with the more basic variety, chocolate chip and regular sugar cookies first before moving onto shortbread and gingersnaps, those devoured by Freyr as easily as dreaming comes to him. And Askr continues on, crinkle cookies and butter cookies disposed of into Freyr’s mouth like all the rest.

“There. I’m sure even someone like you should be satisfied with that,” Askr taunts after giving Freyr several dozens of cookies, all of them as voraciously devoured as when Freyr first started glutting out on duck more than an hour ago.

“Per- mmmppph!” Askr shoves more food into Freyr’s mouth.

Askr’s tail flicks behind him, the thin tail barely noticeable behind his bulk. Especially as he leans onto Freyr’s corpulence, his still digesting belly a soccer ball next to Freyr’s beachball of a belly. “Don’t worry about answering. Can’t have you wasting energy, now can we?” Askr winks, giving Freyr more food. He gives him donuts, eclairs, macaroons, and all manner of things, Freyr fed Desserts that hadn’t even been brought to the banquet. Only after Freyr devours everything else, does Askr bring the peach cobbler back to Freyr’s bloated, messy face.

The scent wafts towards his nose. The still warm dessert tantalizingly calls Freyr’s name. The dessert begs, no desires to be devoured by him, Freyr sluggishly moving in his chair as he needs to fill himself with it. His porcine arms jiggle in the air as he reaches for it, hands barely lifted up. “Give it alr- hnghhhh…” Freyr’s lips eagerly close down on the spoonful of food shoved in his mouth. His eyes once again closed in content, Freyr becomes a mess of moans as Askr gives him another and then another.

“Now what did I say earlier?” Askr continues to feed him. First with one nearly spilling over bowl of dessert followed by another exactly the same. But after that, Askr hands him a tube, the metal contraption leading to absolutely nowhere. “Since we’re in a dream, I figured this should help tide you over,” Askr holds the tube right in front of Freyr’s mouth. His light blue eyes peer down at Freyr, one arm sinking into Freyr’s gut as he leans on him. “Well?”

And Freyr eagerly accepts the tube. A torrent of a mess of peach cobbler comes cascading down it, every single ounce of sugary, crumbly dessert dumped into him like Ljósálfheimr’s plentiful picturesque waterfalls.

With his own hands now free —and his own appetite whet after the hedonistic display in front of him— Askr tries a spoonful of the cobbler, his first taste of dessert in his own dream. “Mmm…” Askr’s ears droop. As do his eyes. Suddenly weak, both physically and mentally, he digs into the dessert despite his still sated stomach. His stomach only allows him to enjoy a second plate before he can physically take no more. He takes a seat once again while he waits for Freyr to finish devouring to his heart’s content, Freyr’s eyes closed as his moans come out muffled past his feeding tube. “Well, looks like I’ll be here for a while,”

It takes far too long for Askr to keep track of for Freyr to the feeding tube to finally dissipate back into nothing, the tube gone just as easily as it had been created. “booOUUUurrrp…” Freyr belches, both hands caressing his gut in the meanwhile. Askr goes to join him, a smile plastered on his face as he tends to his fellow god.

“Perhaps it’s time we returned,” Askr whispers in Freyr’s ear, one hand resting on his horns. HIs cow tail lazily flicks in the air behind him, the thin wispy tail even smaller next to his engorged self. His own gut still bubbles and churns from all of the imaginary food. But it no longer nearly kicks at him in frustration, his gut now a more manageable level as it digests the last remnants of his meal. And it fails to compare to the battlefield going on in Freyr’s gut, the deity’s gut resembling the primordial ocean as it churns away to digest the countless pounds of food stuffed inside it.

“Indeed,” And the dream dematerliazes just as swiftly as it once appeared with a simple flick of Freyr’s fingers. The two of them wake up underneath Yngvi just as they dozed away under it.

“Well. It’s time I return to my realm. Though, we should do this again sometime soon,” It takes him a short while, Askr nursing his own gut, and Freyr giving it a couple of pats as well, but eventually, Askr disappears through a portal much like the one he emerged from. And back in his domain —the real one— he easily forgets about all concerns and worries about the accidental consequences of Freyr’s expeditions as he gazes upon the plump mortals in his country, all of them clearly visited by the morbidly obese dream king. And all of them clearly enjoying themselves as well.

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Freyr finds himself trudging down the busy roads of Hoshido’s capital. How can it not be with its newly crowned King walking amongst his people after a treacherous war and the unexpected and prosperous hope of peace between three countries on the horizon? The entire capital in clear celebration, Freyr finds little space for him amongst the largest throes of people closer to the King’s congregation, trying to fit his enormous girth into the small gaps of Hoshidans like trying to fit the towering, looming Dream Gate into a mortal’s home. So Freyr stays far back, where the crowd of people is much less dense, Freyr’s body a boulder next to pebbles. Freyr still retains his weight from his true self; all of his bloated corpulence wobbles whenever he moves. And he moves a lot, Freyr walking to all of the food stands littered throughout the procession’s path. Currently seated at his eighth stand, the single wooden stool underneath Freyr is nearly nonexistent underneath his swaddled under several multiple hundreds of pounds, his ass obscuring it from sight. And yet, the stool expertly holds Freyr up without a single complaint as he crams a third serving of takoyaki into his mouth. Though he has much more care this time, not a single bit of the mayonnaise or fish shavings gone to waste. And after another two quick servings, Freyr slowly stands up —not before conjuring up two handfuls of the takoyaki he tried from the third stand, his favorite so far, for him to snack on— and he makes his way to the next stand, not a single mortal batting an eye at the enormous walking sack of lard among them.

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Freyr enjoys the accompaniment of music with his food, the delicate strings of the lyre plucked while in one of Tarrah’s numerous taverns. Though Freyr barely registers the bard’s tale, the Thracian saga one Freyr has seen through other’s dreams many times over, even if it comes from the original creator's own mouth, Freyr well accustomed to hearing it as well. The booth Freyr sits at is all taken up. By all of Freyr’s own enormity, the sides of his thighs and ass seeping off one edge while the other end is crammed against the wall. His gut is wedged against the table itself despite how pushed back it is. But Freyr worries little about it, instead simply enjoying his meal in the dream like he does everyday, the well respected inn a known name with Tarrah so close to Miletos’ border.

He instead focuses on enjoying his third serving of dessert. His table is littered with emptied out plates; a vast majority of them patatas bravas, the crispy chunks of potato even more enjoyable to Freyr than the bard remembers in his dreams. That and the croquetas made up most of Freyr’s meal, the excessive amount of fried food followed by at least a single serving of the rest of the menu’s sampling, the bard’s frequent stops at the inn throughout his travels a great dreamhost for Freyr to try everything. And currently on his dessert, Freyr takes great care in not getting sugar or the warm chocolate sauce all over himself while he takes large bites of the churros. He has to eat somewhat slowly —his near competitive eater pace he goes at now an extra few seconds slower as he holds a napkin to his doughy triple chin, a fourth not far away. And after eating a fourth serving of them, Freyr begins moving onto the numerous other desserts, the fine playing of the lyre ever continuing.

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Freyr never once stops venturing into the mortals’ dreams. Not even for a single day as he continues to discover and enjoy all manners of food. Even as he waits for Askr, he can’t help but indulge in them, Freyr woken up by all manners of his corpulence being shaken. The stone walls of Garrag Mach wash away, a certain professor’s reminiscences of the countless dishes offered through the dining hall as exquisitely delightful as Freyr had expected.

“I guess it was to be expected that you’d be dreaming still,” Askr waits for Freyr, a smile on his face as he peers up at him.

Which is a feat with Freyr sitting down, his own unabashed corpulence raising him off the ground with so much of it to go around. Not that Askr himself has done any real better, the bull’s body showing off all of the extra weight he’s gained. All seven hundred pounds of them, Askr’s size reminiscent of Freyr’s own enormity he once considered absurd back when they first dreamt together. His body clearly favors storing most of the weight in his upper body with how his gut juts out several feet in front of him, the wobbling belly unable to be contained by his shirt, the lower half of his hairy belly exposed past his deep navel; the sagging blubbery mass of flab for a stomach reaches all the way down to his engorged ankles, his calves melding into his ankles now. And his tits that are easily larger than people’s entire torsos are exposed as well from the plunging neckline of his shirt. Most of them are visible, the inner portions of Askr’s plump, over swollen tits which sit on top of his mountainous gut like two boulders on the edge of a cliff. His breasts manage to have some shape to them still despite their size. Askr forgoes his cape now, not that the adornment would help cover him in any meaningful capacity without wasting several yards of fabric —far too much already needed for his shirt and pants— to partially cover his flabby back that’s broad enough to smother a chair. Similarly, Askr no longer wears the strip of fabric tied around his waist with his own waistline more than tripled in size, and his gut would cover most of the white fabric. His pants do their best in clothing Askr; not a single tear in them or a bit of flab from his tree trunk sized thighs escapes through the stark white pants. But the upper sliver of fat from his large rear escapes the back of his pants.

And yet, Askr’s gained weight still looks petite next to Freyr’s wanton display of gluttony for a body, Freyr’s own heft leaving him looking like a whale more than anything else. Unbothered in trying to weigh himself or even figure some estimate —despite the ease of achieving such a task in the dream realm— Freyr’s stupendous size is a marvel to all, his weight as great a mystery. The easily an entire ton of lard swathed all over him has all of Freyr’s nearly indistinguishable from itself to those not used to seeing him in all of his splendor, one needing to stand a good few feet away from him to do so. At the very center of all his enormity are his barely perceptible horns, the significant length of the two protruding goat horns small in comparison to the rest of himself. Even Freyr’s near floor length hair seems like a tertiary fact about him, the strands of cascading white hair tinged with light blue lost and sunken into his too many to count rolls of lard. His green tinged bangs frame his bulbous face, the strands of hair resting atop the porcine jowls that jiggle and jostle simply from breathing. Freyr’s neck seems nonexistent with it buried in between several hefty chins that meld into the blubbery neck rolls. Freyr’s outfit is a cheap imitation of his former outfit, all of the embroidery and additional fringe gone; the white tarp for clothing lacks any of its former ornamentation. The yards upon yards of silky fabric seems almost suctioned to him with how tightly it clings to him. It does at least manage to do its job in covering up his enormity. Even Freyr’s mattress crushing ass is clothed —his ass able to crush the bed needed to usually gain an audience with him in the dream realm. His ass juts out a few feet behind him, his ass similarly splayed out the side as it takes up as much space as the ground it occupies. Freyr’s ass presses up against Yngvi despite how far he sits away from it. Freyr’s thighs meld together, the two enormous limbs the largest aspect of him. Freyr’s thighs are wider than he is tall now; the couch crushing legs are made up of too many rolls to count. His thighs make for the softest pillow if not for his gut getting in the way since it takes up most of the surface area of his legs. The cascading belly rests on the floor still from it being longer than his limbs though the sides of it only just barely manage to not reach the outer edges of his thighs. And Freyr’s tits splay down onto his gut, the two mortal crushing tits the finest pillow in Ljósálfheimr and even Midgard, his stomach the finest bed. Freyr’s breasts press up against his arms. The two bulging limbs have only the barest semblance of flexibility. The same as his hands, Freyr’s hands barely poking out the wall of flab for arms, just like his legs do to his feet.

Freyr eventually opens his eyes. The usual harsh angular look from his golden eyes are softened by his bulging, ovular visage. “It’s time then?” He slowly starts to stand up, his magic aiding him despite having no leverage. And standing up, Freyr is a wobbling wall of lard, Freyr taking the slowest steps known to anyone despite all of his girth in the way.

“It is. And you did promise to enjoy a meal in my realm. A promise I presume you intend to keep,” Askr takes a step back as the mound of mass trembles before him. His portal still open behind him, the blue aura swirls behind him in anticipation. He enlarges the already massive portal needed to transport all of his own heft. And he takes a step inside after making sure Freyr is following him, no matter the slower than a snail’s pace he moves at.

Back in Askr, in his own domain with humans already waiting, Askr has to wait an extra few minutes for Freyr to appear. The portal prepared specifically for Freyr is an exaggerated portrayal of his usual ones; the ethereal blue haze of the portal fills up a large portion of the landscape, a necessity to allow Freyr passageway when the usual width needed for Askr’s humans would be incapable of allowing even Freyr’s flabby, bulging bicep through. But eventually, Freyr comes through. His gut enters the portal far before he does, the wobbling mass of fat immediately dragging against the floor. His gut nearly fills up the entire expanse of the portal’s width. Only a sliver of inches of extra space are visible on the sides of Freyr’s gut. His draped in white gut continues to slowly trudge forward, the wobbling belly struggling as it scrapes against the plush grass.

“No need to be alarmed, Everything should already be set for him,” Askr’s arm raised up, he quells the stem of husky humans rushing over to help. Which Freyr looks close to needing after his face finally is visible through the portal, several feet of lard pushed through first. Freyr’s face is bloated, his blobular face red as his sagging porcine jowls jostle against his own bulk while he takes lumbering steps. Though his rounded face pales next to his plush chest. The two massive tits resemble guts in their sheer size; the two clothed breasts use Freyr’s gut as a table, the two jiggling tits managing to stay atop his enormous belly. Eventually his now huffed breathing and tired face make it through the portal, after his tits. It takes even longer for his ass to make it through the portal. The humans continue to wait for Freyr to walk through the portal despite it looking like he’s done. His ass juts out behind him, his immense ass gets wedged, the width of it too big for the portal before Askr hurriedly widens it. But Freyr does make it through the portal after making the humans wait long enough, all of them quiet as Freyr does indeed make Askr look thin like their god so claimed. And afterwards, Freyr comes crashing to the ground, the enormous picnic blanket already prepared for him.

“I thought you might enjoy a more rustic experience true to the mortals. True to Askr. Next time, I’ll imbue my domain with more of my magic to make it easier on you,” One hand on his hip, Askr spreads out his other hand towards the spread of food already prepared. And to the few mortals in attendance. The lightest of them weighs no less than two hundred and fifty pounds, every man at least sporting the tiniest of bellies, the largest of the men —the morbidly obese man well above the average— just shy of being half of Askr’s size.

“If you’d like, they can even tend to you for the night. All of them are rather eager, even if you may not be their patron deity, their benefactor,” Askr winks, a smirk on his face as he awaits Freyr’s response.

“You seem to enjoy their company. And if they are willing, then I will allow it,” Freyr’s flabby finger is lowered. The magic glow fades from the food, Freyr patiently waiting for his food for once. Not his grumbling gut though, the ground around them trembling as the mortals do their best to not stumble.

“Perfect. You heard him, men. He’s a great companion of mine. Treat him as you would treat me,” Askr sits down beside Freyr. His legs are spread out in front of him. With a bit of magic on his fingertips, he begins to enchant the food over to him like Freyr. Only to be stopped just like Freyr, a couple of humans still tend to him. “Hmmm. I guess I should’ve known better. Just make sure you two enjoy your own share as well, don’t worry about how much he’s going to eat,” Askr’s chins jiggle from his gesture towards Freyr before he gets fed by the two largest humans, both fat men resembling bodybuilders next to the two obese deities.

Freyr tended to three men, the three thinner but still pudgy men trudge carefully around all of his enormity, until Freyr assures them. “Perfect choice, but next time bring some more,” Freyr says after eating through an entire bowl of feta pasta —all of it dumped into his mouth upon requesting it. “And make sure you all have some as well. There’s no guarantee Askr and I will leave anything left,” Freyr’s gut rumbles again, his appetite whet from the small bit of his upcoming feast for a meal.

And feast he does, food easily fed to him despite the small trek it takes to climb his corpulence. The humans take their turn; two feeding him at once just to keep up with his demanding gut while the third snacks and rests atop of Freyr despite how gripping the jaws of sleep call to them as they use such a fine seat. Freyr accepts every bit of tribute: spicy seared pieces of steak, roasted buttery cauliflower, tender and juicy pork, rich broth of chicken soup, and even the cold leafy vegetables from the salads devoured all the same. His current attendants never spill a single drop despite the bumpy seating that is Freyr’s flabby rolls. They also manage to properly keep up with Freyr’s appetite, the men clearly used to Askr’s own.

Only for a while before Freyr’s hunger gets the best of him, the ground trembling as his gut gurgles for food. The banquet of food floats through the air. A vast majority of it ends up towards Freyr, three fourths of it enchanted by himself. “Forgive me. But I am still feeling rather peckish,” He gladly accepts another generous pouring of soup into his mouth, the rim of the bowl held up to his pudgy lips by one of his helpers. “But again, feel free to help yourself,” All three men tend to him at once now. They gather around Freyr’s flabby head, his large tits and shoulder flab used as their own personal chairs while they stuff Freyr as he wishes.

“Don't worry yourself over our concern, Lord Freyr,”

“Please, have some more, Lord Freyr,”

“Lord Askr mentioned how much you enjoy wine. Enjoy this red wine, Lord Freyr,”

The eager mortals keep on talking, Freyr unable to get a single word in between the urging and insistent men and the deluge of food handfed to him at a rate still not as fast as when he indulges in dreams. But Freyr still eagerly accepts every piece of food offered to him. His body is Zenith's slowest whirlwind of activity. The three men use Freyr's whale of a body as if they were stranded sailors stuck on a protruding boulder. And despite Freyr's current inability to speak, the men work in tandem to keep him well fed with his preferred dishes. They practically dump the lobster rolls into Freyr's gullet; they give him one large bite for him to eat around half of the buttery lobster that nearly spills out of the long buns before simply plopping the other half into Freyr's mouth. And as he hurriedly chews on that, he guzzles on the wine poured down his mouth in-between bites; they pour various bottles of wine into his mouth throughout the entire dozen of lobster rolls. Freyr also gets fed more of the feta pasta to help vary it up. He devours an entire plate of it after every three lobster rolls. And they continue to feed Freyr even after all of that. The rest in lower quantities, they feed him the drenched in ranch salads as well as the roasted chickens, both of them almost as delicious as they were in Askr's dream. Everything that remains of the buffet of food, they shovel and feed it to Freyr, their hectic pace still rather careful.

Bits of sauce and food end up on his face by the end of the rest of the main course. The mess of smatterings are smeared all over his porcine jowls as well as his several chins.

“Our apologies, Lord Freyr,” But they thankfully get cleaned up; the man serving him wine takes a moment to clean up the entire mess. He rubs the damp cloth napkin across Freyr's expanse. It takes him more than an entire minute to reach across all of the dirtied expanse of lard, the napkin carefully rubbed in between all of Freyr's rolls to remove the errant bits of sauce. He takes special care in tending to all of the folds of flab that make up Freyr’s multiple chins.

“Time for dessert, Lord Freyr,” The other two men speak in unison as they hold more offerings for him. All of it for him. One holds a tray of brownies, the crispy upper layer of dark chocolate still warm and gooey in Freyr's mouth as he shoves an entire piece into his mouth one by one. But Freyr gets fed a heaping spoonful of vanilla ice cream the instant after he gets fed a brownie.

“Keep going…” Freyr demands, still so much dessert to go.

And the men follow their orders. They continue to cram the dessert Freyr so desperately craves. The pounds of sweets that end up in his stomach are still nothing more than a drop of water compared to the pond of lard for a body. He gets fed brownie after brownie until the entire tray is left with nothing more than crumbs. And even those are dumped into his mouth. The rest of the ice cream is funneled into him, the remaining bit of it warm enough for Freyr to chug. And even after he finishes that, Freyr is fed an entire strawberry shortcake, the large cake broken up into several slices. Not that it matters much when it all ends up in his stomach all the same, Freyr digesting the hefty serving of dessert as the men begin to grab even more.

“No need to worry you two. Despite his appearances, he does his best to share,” Askr doesn’t bother turning, well aware Freyr can hear him despite looking seemingly too busy enjoying his food to properly pay attention. Or the gluttonous haze that takes over Freyr —a similar one beginning to take over Askr as well. The other quarter of food brought to him and his two attendants by his own magic. He eats most of the buffet of food, but he still takes his time to share despite getting stuffed around the clock.

“Have this, Lord Askr. I know you've been craving this,”

“You skipped your second lunch today. You must be famished Lord Askr,”

Unlike Freyr's treatment, Askr is treated more akin to a valued eater —Askr unable to complain about the near livestock treatment — than a valued guest. Food ends up in his mouth before he can even request a certain dish. But he gets fed his favorites all the same. The juicy steaks are quickly cut into smaller, but still mouth watering large portions, and fed to him. And to wash it down, Askr's attendants feed him mashed potatoes. And Askr gets funneled gravy all by itself. To top off his meaty heavy meal, he gets fed even more meat, slow roasted pork served atop a bed of rice shoved in his mouth before he can properly finish chewing. As well as salmon served with asparagus, the salmon melts apart in his mouth before he even has to chew. Which helps Askr as more and more food is crammed into his mouth. Dribbles of sauce end up running down his portly cheeks. Askr's attendants only clean it up after they finish feeding him their plate, their own pudgy bodies pressed up against Askr's own while they kneel on the ground. They pinch and grope Askr's cheeks as they wipe him clean. Something they take their time in bothering to do, Askr’s face ending up a mess of food like a pig before they clean him up.

And afterwards, they serve Askr his portion of dessert, they bevy of cookies baked to his preferences with more than a dozen different types of cookies for him to choose from. Not that he chooses; all of it ends up in his mouth, one cookie crammed into his mouth before he can even finish half of the previous one. Askr can't speak past the chunk of food in his mouth. He simply moans as he drowsily looks up at his attendants while they devotedly tend to the bull.

Askr and Freyr go on for quite some time to get through all of the food brought to them despite the speed they devour everything, enough food for a family eaten by the two of them each far too quickly only to get fed another family sized serving. But they eat it all, ninety percent of the food eaten by just the two overwhelmingly obese deities alone despite the five humans eating their fill as well.

Both of them simply remain seated after the feast. Enough food to feed a small army, neither of them even show the beginning onset of being overstuffed. Instead, they seem all too comfortable to digest their meal as the time passes by them. And they impatiently await for their next snack, their guts already craving more to sate their avaricious selves.

“Next time we meet, let’s enjoy it in your realm,” Askr proposes as the humans begin to clean up, the men a loud burping mess as if they were the ones who had eaten countless pounds of food.

Freyr readily responds. He remains seated, digesting his food for once, actually enjoying the company of mortals. “Yes. You still owe me another dream,”

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Freyr waits with unabashed passion for Askr’s next visit. So he prepares in the only way he knows how to in the meanwhile now, by dreaming. He takes up most of the room in one of Badon’s inns, the private room usually meant for large groups of private entourages traveling through the port city. Freyr’s body completely dwarfs the humans in the main room. Freyr has more weight in his arm alone than an entire human. He can no longer lift them up without the aid of magic like the rest of his body; his limbs are completely useless now. And despite his size, Freyr is nothing more than an Álfar in Ljósálfheimr —a common sight not worth paying attention to. Freyr’s ass is pressed up against the wall, his gut pressed up against the other end, and the sides of his blubbery spill past the thin strip of curtain meant to offer a false sense of privacy. So little space for anything else, Freyr simply conjures up the food and floats it to his mouth, the pirate chugging ale as if his life depended on it Freyr used to enter his dream off to the side in the main packed room. Freyr pays little attention to what he eats. He simply wants it all, the Lycian meat paired with unique spices from the trade routes that run through Badon all lost on Freyr. The only real difference he tastes is when he swaps to different food categories, a good hour spent on entrees before he enjoys the next hour greedily guzzling down it all. And after he has everything on the menu, he simply conjures up food from the other inns’ menus, pulling from the pirate of two names’ other dreams as he tries to get his fill. A task Freyr devotes plenty of time to achieve.

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The quaint little mountain village offers little in the way of Valentia’s finest cuisine, or even Zofia’s for that matter. The small location can barely compare to all the port cities’ extravagance of variety or the more prosperous offerings found in Zofia’s capital. But what the village lacks in sheer absurdity in variety, it more than makes up for it with the tantalizing dream of one of its lumberjacks; the sheer respite and relief he feels from his hearty portions after a hard day of work enough to make the food surpass in worth to Freyr. The little village offers little room for Freyr, but he makes do with the space available to him. One clearing large enough, Freyr’s enormity takes up most of the south-west section of the village. He takes up too much room in fact; his ass presses up against the natural barrier of trees and craggy rocks of mountain while his gut spills forward countless feet in front of him, the outermost rolls of his gut taking up space on the narrow roads. And the few people walking have their routes adjusted, the remembrances of humans walking carefully alongside the wall of stomach flab that only leaves them a bit of room to walk by despite none even being able to perceive Freyr. But nonetheless, the humans avoid him all the same, a humongous gap in the dream where Freyr takes up all his space. Not that he thinks too much of it. He simply continues to enjoy his meal, the heaping servings of soup enough to sate him at the moment. And when he tires of that, he begins to once again borrow from the lumberjack’s other dreams, his visits across Valentia providing more than enough options to Freyr for awhile before he even begins to mix and muddle with the dreams of the lumberjack’s former war compatriots, far too many mercenaries to choose from to mix and match food that doesn’t even belong to the original dreamer’s memories.

-------------

“Ahhhh. That was buuhuurp a splendid snack,” Askr stews in his own enormity as he smacks his lips. “But I did promise to visit someone,” He slowly begins to rise from his seated position, Askr’s wobbling mass of fat still a sight to behold to all of the humans tending to him. A feat that he can only accomplish through the aid of his magic. But nonetheless, Askr stands up on his own two blubbery tree trunks for legs. He takes a few deep breaths, regaining his stamina as well as his magic. His face bulges with each deep breath, the flabby ovular face jiggling as he does so. Askr’s chins are synonymous with his bulging neck now, the two of them a small tire for his head. His bull horns look small next to his rounded out face as well as his immense weight. He still wears his former clothes, his pants and shirt painted onto his bulging spherical figure. Far too much weight slowing him down, Askr takes slow trudging steps. All of his lard chafes and rubs against itself. Friction and gravity refuse to be his friend, Askr’s gut draping against the floor as he sluggishly walks to the portal that’s only a few inches in front of him. His ass wobbles behind him, his couch crushing cheeks shifting and jiggling every time he lifts his feet up a barely perceptible few centimeters off the ground as he desperately swings one overburdened leg past the other. His jutting love handles sag multiple feet off to the side. They hide the waistband of his enormous pants made up of enough fabric to serve as a tablecloth to the largest of banquet tables. A feat his shirt similarly holds while it does its best to hold back his enormous sloshing wall of fat that is his gut, the battle to contain it all lost a thousand pounds ago. Now, his shirt serves more as an ill fitting crop top. A crop top that only covers a small sliver of his immense breasts. Askr can barely even see the portal; his bountiful chest blocks most of his vision. His engorged tits somehow having a clear shape to them, his chest fills up most of his vision while it rests on his waterbed for a gut. Which currently makes it hard to even hear the gentle hum of the portal as it gurgles and rumbles for more food despite his light three pounds of food for a snack. But he does make it, his gut entering the portal first.

“I’ll make sure he visits next time,” He says to the mortals, all of them a hundred pounds heavier than last time, the mortals weight gain exponentially slower than Askr’s own tremendous growth, the bull now an entire monumental ton, two thousand pounds of flab making up the divine being. He is met with a resound of cheering as the rest of his body trudges through the portal.

He comes crashing down onto Freyr’s mountainous gut. A torrent of flab wobbles as it sloshes and crashes against similarly wobbling folds of lard. Freyr’s corpulence continues to wobble even as minutes pass, every single roll of fat jostling to and fro like a water bed, a stone tossed into a lake considering Freyr’s immense size. It takes Askr a few moments to get his bearings. And to figure out where on Freyr’s enormity he landed on. Despite Askr now weighing a ton —a fact exemplified by the fact that he isn’t just a grain of rice next to Freyr and by how much he sinks into Freyr’s enormity— he still manages to be dwarfed by Freyr’s gut alone. Freyr’s own growth makes Askr’s time stuffing and gorging himself look like a small binge in comparison.

The goat’s stomach spreads on for miles at his size. Freyr still wears his form fitting sheet of fabric for clothes despite his expansive girth. He takes up most of the once spacious room now. An entire half of the room of the expansive area is taken up by Freyr’s immensity. His ass is pressed up against Yngvi, the tree now comparable in size to the gelatinous blob for a deity. The tree steadily holds strong despite the torrent of lard pressed up against it. Freyr’s ass is pressed up against it. The two hills for ass cheeks rise up higher than his own face now, Freyr’s porcine visage sunken in between so much fat. His jutting rear is large enough to fill up rooms on their own; all sorts of mortal transportation in the dreams he’s visited are completely useless to him at his size. The hills of flab for an ass are draped in the white fabric of his tarp for a robe. It manages to cover the majority of his ass, only a small sliver of flab —an entire foot of his ass— escapes past the unhemmed edges of the fabric. His ass taking up a considerable amount of width as well, the farthest reaching rivulets of flab seep past the multiple doors to the side of the room. As do Freyr’s immense thighs. Freyr’s thighs meld into his ass, the exact moment where one ends and the other begins far too great a task to discern. And equally as fruitless, Freyr simply on the path to keep on indulging and growing. His thighs are wider than entire castle hallways, the far too narrow passageways now as useless as entire roads to Freyr’s bulk. His thighs bulge off to the side, the sagging rolls of lard jutting off to the sides of Freyr as they blanket the floor around him, the goat exponentially wider than he is tall. His own thighs are difficult to discern, all parts of it melding together into countless infinitesimal rolls, Freyr’s knees sunken into all the flab, flexibility completely lost to him several tons ago. His cankles that are thicker than peoples’ waistlines smother and do the same to his feet, the appendages buried under lard like most of his body. Freyr’s gut spreads far beyond the length of his legs despite not being as wide as it, his thighs like a blanketing net to hold the oozing deluge of flab that is his stomach. Freyr’s stomach is more than capable of blanketing every mortal room he could possibly visit. Even throne rooms and banquet halls are barely spared from his girth, his tremendous thighs and ass filling out the rest of the space his gut can’t reach.

Even the room that currently houses Freyr struggles to house him; his gut oozes out the front entrances of the circular room. And his smaller throne room can barely fit him anymore, Freyr simply too lazy to use his magic to conjure up more space at the moment. Not when he can spend the energy on stuffing himself. His stomach touches most of his own corpulence in the same way it blankets the floor around him. The elephantine stomach is made up of several stomach rolls; each barely discernible from the last. Even his cavernous black hole for a navel is obscured by the upper rolls of lard that seep over his belly button and rest on his lowest few rolls of stomach fat. Freyr’s arms rest on his gut much like how his gut rests on his thighs. His useless arms are pushed out of the way to make room for his gut, the cylindrical rolls of flab moved aside at an angle, so much flab around them that they're similarly helpless in being able to move. Even Freyr’s hands are useless; the over swollen digits are buried under a bulging roll of wrist fat, his wrist just as buried by his forearm and the largest, flabbiest bicep in all of Ljósálfheimr and Midgard. His biceps touch his own tits, the two comforters for a chest draped over his gut. Freyr’s chest is large enough for Askr to use as his own seat. His chest lacks much shape to it the same way Askr’s does, but the two bountiful breasts still have the slightest bit of shape to them, not all of it splaying down his gut. And at the very center of all of his enormity is Freyr’s face, his face hidden between the rest of the treasure trove of flab. Freyr’s hair flows everywhere behind him, the strands of hair draped atop his cascading back rolls. His horns look absolutely inconsequential to the rest of his corpulence, the two horns a spot of brown amongst the sea of lard. His several chins and neck are a bulging tire of lard, the plush flab helping his face from sinking too deeply. His bulging cheeks take up more space than his head at his size; the two bulging cheeks look constantly stuffed with food, which they always are. And yet, Freyr simply keeps on eating and craving more at his inconceivable size. A fact made acutely aware by the two feeding tubes crammed into his maw, the gushing noise of whatever it is that Freyr guzzles down almost loud enough to drown out his aching gut.

“Hmmm,” Askr peers down at Freyr. He rests on Freyr’s breasts. “I guess I should have expected something like this. It seems your appetite really is endless,” Askr says after a few moments.

“HUUUUUAAAAAAAAARRRRRRP!” Freyr belches for a few minutes upon dematerializing his feeding tubes. The walls shake from the belch. His entire corpulence is sent wobbling once more, Askr shaken like a small raft upon the vast sea. Freyr looks up at Askr with half lidded eyes. “Ahh thought it hahhh… bessht tahh wait for hnghh… you,” Freyr says with difficulty, his own magic only able to do so much when physically swaddled under too much weight to even physically weigh properly.

“I appreciate that. And while we should hurry and enjoy our dream, I do have a question for you. If you don't mind answering for me?”

“Goooh ohhnnn…” Freyr urges him. His gut also urges Askr as it impatiently rumbles for more food. If Askr didn’t know better, he’d fear that the whole building would come crumbling down, the walls trembling.

“You knew this would happen didn’t you?” Askr summons a couple of portals. All of them only enterable one way, the small windows into his own realm and into the countless worlds tied to Askr through his own powers are positioned towards Freyr. The two of them not the only ones affected —their own sizes a product of their own gluttony— Askr’s own well worshiping humans aren’t even the only ones affected, Askr’s portals a glimpse into the present of far away worlds beyond Midgard’s borders, countless men at the very least on the precipice of being pudgy, numerous others well beyond that threshold into being rather husky men. From the World of Mystery all the way to the World of Rings, all of the men share their extra heft like Zenith’s own husky population. And yet, none of the mortals think anything of their newfound gluttony. The extra trait given to them is nothing more than a regular facet of their daily lives.

Freyr ruminates on a response. But he does eventually respond after a short while. “IIt'sh wahsh only a nnnff shmall pohshsibilihty. But'sh theyyy sheeemmed ughhhh t-too ehnjohy deehmsheehlveehs. hnghh A-And you doohn't'sh m-miihnd iht…” Freyr takes his time to recuperate. By conjuring and guzzling some more of the slop from his feeding tubes.

“You are correct,” Askr admits. He smiles. Already well aware of Freyr’s lack of malintentions, he couldn’t help but sate his curiosity on the matter. “The humans seem to find their predicament enjoyable. And they do deserve to enjoy themselves. But, one final question. I promise this time,” He adds after Freyr glares at him. “How is it that you gained weight to begin with? This is the dream realm afterall,” Askr waits for the feeding tube to disappear once more. He feels a prickle in his head, an incandescent ball of light coming from him.

“Tah saayy it'sh in ahh ahhh… fairy tale shortaah wayyy, “Your thoughtsh becohme r-reality.”,”

“Of course. How ridiculous of me. I should've expected as much considering how much you’ve been enjoying yourself,” Askr gently pushes the ball of light, offering a dream towards Freyr. “Here, I have a special treat for you. The very first time humans gave me offerings. I’ll make sure you have your fill,” Askr smiles as the ray of light grows stronger, the two of them enveloped in it —after some time to get all of Freyr’s enormity.

And then, Freyr and Askr begin to dream once more, food awaiting them as it always does for the ever hungry and ever growing gods.

#fat emblem #male weight gain #my writing #ssbhm #feeder emblem #fat fiction #maleweightgain #the s supports

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pangtasias-atelier · 1 month ago

Text

Sumo-sized Elyosians

Another commission for @dragonitemaniac this time featuring Dia-mant, Bo-uchero-n, and Mau-vier alongside his OC Ben, turning into some sumos after being summoned to As-kr. Had a lot of fun writing this cause I forgot how good like writing mind alteration is and I need to do more now ajsbjbjs

Also featuring some other kinks (flattening) at the end after the last line break

“Ahhh,” Boucheron sighs. Stretching his well-developed arms, he raises both of them above his head, two defined biceps framing his as he simultaneously cracks his back. “That was a good training, wasn't it? And we're even back in pretty good time,”

“I must admit, finally having a fourth member from our world makes a tremendous difference,” With the once tumultuous Tempest behind the group of four, Diamant happily gives Boucheron a pat on his back —both figuratively and literally. Not that Boucheron stumbles from the force.

The usual dark gray clouds that seem ready to rain down lighting upon any that approach it now resemble the usual dim yet cheerful pale clouds after a storm. And with their work done calming the monthly Tempest Trial, the four men begin to head out.

“Yeah, you did great Boucheron. Especially for your first time on the field. Took you long enough to make it to Askr,” Ben high fives him, the two bulkiest of the group loudly clapping hands.

Mauvier chimes in, hand on his chin. “Yes, but it must seem rather distasteful to those of other worlds that our team is solely made up of our own,”

“Yes, but for something as long as the Tempest Trials, it is best that we fight with comrades we already know,” Diamant responds.

“Besides, it's just the four of us from our world here in Askr. I think we have some leeway in our team. We only just got Boucheron here after how long? And after how many new heroes from Fodlan?” Ben rubs his wrist, right where he once used to wear his bracelet back in Elyos, back when he was most often the one wearing the strange bracelets. Not that the emblem residing in said bracelet was strange. Anything but, the Bracelet of the Samurai gifting Ben a well enjoyed companion. And now one of numerous companions missing in Askr, the Emblems also unsummoned like the rest of the army.

Boucheron simply shrugs his shoulders with a small chuckle from Ben’s rhetorical questions.

“These sacred seals did seem to ease the burden of the Tempest,” Mauvier comments upon noticing Ben’s fixation on his wrist. Holding up his hand, Mauvier examines the thin, yet expertly crafted ring gifted to him by the Summoner, Mauvier’s fashioned like Diamant and Boucheron’s own.

Boucheron begins to examine his own ring. “They didn’t do much though. At least, they sure didn’t feel like it,”

None of the men bother turning their backs as the serene clouds dwelling above the Tempest begin to loom behind them. White clouds turn into their once gray hue. The clouds swell in size, potent magic swirling through them.

“Perhaps. But I do sense magic dwelling within these,” Mauvier replies. “The Summoner gave you these as our assigned leader. What did they tell you about them?” Resting his hand back at his side, Mauvier —as well as the others— fail to notice the smallest hint of a glow to their sacred seals. Or the way the full, large clouds slowly drift away to leave a clearing in the center as they make a ring.

About to immediately respond, Diamant closes his mouth, eyes wide for a few seconds. “Hmmm… They said nothing much. Only that these will help us feel better in the future. At least I think so. I didn’t think too much of it at the time but how odd…” Diamant’s eyes glance at the ground, as if expecting some divine jolt of memory to remind him of something else the Summoner said.

“Well- huh?” Ben is promptly silenced with the bright addition of a portal behind them all. His biceps shielding his eyes, he slowly lowers his brawny arm to gaze at the sudden intrusion with wide eyes.

As do the other three, all of the men completely silent.

The portal much larger than all others the group has seen —especially in sheer width alone— the usual bright sky blue coloration takes on a darker cobalt tinge. The flowing bundles of magic crackle through the portal as it struggles to maintain its shape. The unstable portal calls for all the magic in the area. Magic that continues to be flowed into the portal by the clouds hanging above it. And the sacred seals as well.

Perhaps too late —no, clearly too late— Mauvier finally notices the trail of magic. “The seals! Take them off, now!” He commands. Not that he can do anything to remove it; his fingers tug at the jewelry that now refuses to budge an inch. Unlike his body that begins to slowly get dragged towards the portal.

“I got you Diamant!” Ben holds onto their leader with both hands. Feet digging into the ground, the cruel brick refuses to give him much hold. Ben’s entire body tensing. He holds on strong. Even as Boucheron and Mauvier end up swallowed into the tempest. And the two of them follow not long after, Ben’s own strength unable to do much against the raging tempest of magic.

“Hey! Wake up already. Man… waking up Diamant was way easier than you. You’re practically a log,” Boucheron slowly shakes Ben.

The Tempest calms down soon after, the portal disappearing shortly after.

Boucheron the first to get dragged into the portal, the axe fighter is the lone conscious man in the clearing. Both Ben and Muavier lay on the floor. The trio are thankfully safe for the meanwhile. Though so far, the group has little to worry about when it comes to animals, none heard through their guttural growls or the rustling of leaves from those hidden. The secure yet sizable clearing provides enough secrecy for them with the numerous trees blocking all but one pre-built, worn out path. A path that Diamant already went down to scout ahead for people.

“Maybe this’ll help…” Boucheron whispers to himself, slowly straddling him before placing his hands on Ben’s pecs, Ben’s chest an appreciable size larger than Boucheron’s own. Boucheron does get a good view at least, the plunging neckline of Ben’s wolf knight attire leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination when it comes to his abs and pecs. “Wake up! This is serious, man,” He squeezes Ben’s tits, fingers groping and massaging his rack while shaking him up and down.

To which Ben does respond to. First with a soft moan, and a certain pressure placed on Boucheron’s ass for a brief second before he immediately pushes himself off of Ben. And secondly, by actually waking up. Ben’s eyes slowly flutter open. The warm rays of sunshine greet him as he wakes up as well as the tree line above him, the sight clearly different from the tower housing the Tempest.

“Where are we!?” Ben jumps up, standing on his own two feet as he draws his knives. Except his hands meet nothing but the leather fabric of his belts.

“We don’t have weapons. The portal must’ve taken them away,” Boucheron sighs. “Now help me wake Mauvier up,”

The older man groans, as if hearing Boucheron’s words —or knowing what awaited him if he didn’t wake up promptly. Mauvier stands up slowly. One hand resting on his forehead, he simply scans the area around them. “I take it our best bet to find Diamant would be to take the path then?”

“Wait, where’s Diam-”

Boucheron places a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Relax, you two. Jeez, you guys just woke up. Diamant went scouting ahead while I woke up you two logs. It’d be no good if I went on my own, right?” Besides, everything seems pretty pleasant here so far. So why don’t we just- Finally you’re back!” Boucheron waves over Diamant.

“Everything looks peaceful here,” Diamant plainly states. “We should head down the path now that everyone is awake,” He motions for everyone to follow with his hand as he heads back down once more.

The four of them walk in silence. The only sound accompanying them is the occasional bit of gravel being kicked around beneath their boots. The rest of the environment is under a still hush; not a single bird or beast makes themselves known. Their walk goes on for quite some time. One step followed by another, they simply walk down the single path laid out in front of them.

“So…” Boucheron is the first to break the silence, speaking up after the group walks around yet another curve of the path that must be coming down from some sort of hill. “Did you manage to find a way out of here? This place doesn’t look too bad, or even dangerous at all, but this is still weird,”

“I might have found a way out,” Diamant walks down another short curved bend, the path still not diverging once as it follows the landscape of all the greenery.

“Might? You didn’t confirm this supposed exit?” Mauvier’s brow curves upward.

“There must be something dangerous there then. We should be able to take it on together. But we don’t have weapons,” Ben continues to search through his multiple belts once more. And even his pockets, but he ends up empty handed just the same.

“No. Nothing like that. It’s just, it is a rather strange sight. Though nothing to be worried about, I believe,” Diamant sighs. “You three will understand once we get closer,”

And the three of them listen and follow him. They keep on with their uneventful trek down the path. They only begin to pause their trek upon hearing a couple grunts and loud movement, the noises distinctly masculine. A break that Diamant quickly has them continuing on from with a brief glance. The noise gets louder as they begin to reach further down the path, the path widening out finally as well as offering different paths. To which Diamant simply keeps leading them. Closer and closer to the loudening cacophony of noise, a couple of conversations now made out between the noise. The group walks down the wider road in silence for a couple of minutes. They only begin to talk upon finally reaching the first point of interest ever since being suddenly warped.

“Those are some… rather big men,” Mauvier stays silent afterwards. His eyes simply take in the scene in front of him as they shift their focus to and fro between the myriad of husky sumos in the near distance.

Though big seems too inadequate of a size for the rotund men, Mauvier’s words a disservice to the large, hefty men in front of him. Especially with them all naked save for their mawashis, so much strong yet flabby skin exposed. All a variety of sizes, even the smallest of the sumos make the group of four built men look rather average sized, their bulging, pudgy bellies jiggling as they move all their girth, their well-trained muscles —the strong, muscley arms and legs clearly not just for show— seem just as broad as the team of four’s own built selves. Meanwhile, the largest of the sumos that they can see make them look downright puny in comparison. Despite all their monumental girth —the sumos larger than any man any of them have ever seen in Elyos— they manage to maneuver all their tremendous bulk. Their bloated figures are far more blubberry than the average person; each tree trunk wide thigh is coated in a generous portion of lard which hides the almost as generous musculature underneath it all. The same is true for their beefy arms that they move around with a semblance of ease despite all the lard in the way.

Which they need to do as they fight, a large chunk of men in some sort of competitive match, others watching while even more gorge themselves or train away.

Ben stays silent as he watches them. Unlike the other three who continue to gawk and stare at the scene in front of them, Ben takes furtive glances at the hefty hunks of men before him. A good deal of his focus is placed on adjusting his tightening pants. And not thinking too intently about the men's sizes: the amount of food they shovel into their mouth, the way they flaunt and show off their size, the easy excuse to grab and gripe other equally large men, and the way they all seem eager to grow still. All of it is too tantalizing and alluring for Ben. Plus, the idea that pops into his mind as he glances at Diamant, Boucheron, and Mauvier, his imagination getting the best of his as he adjusts his now far too snug pants.

Boucheron's eyes finally widen after squinting for so long at the spectacle. “I think I've read this before. All those men have to be sumos. Kagetsu even talked about it to me before. Something about it being somewhat common where he comes from,”

“We can't possibly be in Solm. I doubt even the Pale Sands would be filled with such vegetation,” Mauvier’s eyes squint as he takes a closer look at the sumos.

“Mauvier's right. Besides, if we were in Solm, there wouldn't be a portal for us to get back to begin with. As long as we head to that building and take the portal inside, we'll be fine. I've already spoken to some of the men. This is just a vacation spot from the way they make it sound,”

“So, they're from the Order, then. Perhaps this is what the Summoner meant by that cryptic message.” Mauvier mentions. His mind is already made up as he spots those from other worlds.

“Even better then. I've always wanted to try some sumo with the way Kagetsu talked about it. Though even I might be a bit too weak for some of these men,” Boucheron gently elbows Diamant’s arm, chuckling to himself.

“Perhaps, but we should still-”

“Let's go into the building!” Ben joins the conversation, interjecting Diamant as he stands up. “I saw an emblem and he went right into that building,” Ben points right where the other three were once staring at, the door now open as a broad, massive man slowly lumbers his way through the doorway. His flowing mane of brown hair swishes behind him as he struggles to maneuver his legs with his gut draping down to his knees. Despite the distance —and how much of the width the man's ass takes up of the doorway, so much fabric clearly needed for his mawashi— the azure blue light manages to peek through the door.

“I agree. Let's be sure of our way back before we see more about this place,” Diamant starts walking once again, leading his teammates closer to the practicing sumos and more importantly, where the portal back to Askr should be. He also keeps quiet on the way Ben's attention has been fixated less on the portal and more on the supposed emblem waddling inside.

As the group make their way closer, their concerns are immediately dispelled upon the first person who spots them; well, two, Askr and Eikþyrnir stop their match with each other to greet the quartet of newcomers. The two of them come lumbering over, both enormously engorged men wobbling as they slowly waddle their fat asses.

“You're back! And you brought your friends,” Askr greets them all. His focus is mostly on Diamant as he slowly raises a flabby yet beefy arm at them. Far more tits than ass, Askr’s upper body is heavily caked in lard. Though his chest has scant amount of definition to it, the slight lack of sag despite his plump chest giving away his hidden musculature. His hefty swaying gut sags past his crotch, the flabby ball of lard for a stomach obscuring a good portion of his mawashi. His bulging love handles help cover another good portion of it. His lower half still filled out as well, his mawashi fits him well; only a small amount of the uppermost bits of flab from his thighs squish against it.

“Portal's that way if you want to head back. Though I'd say you all should train here instead,” Eikbyrnir points towards the building with a big, meaty arm. Unlike the mostly butterball that is Askr, Eikþyrnir's figure shows off more of his dedication to the craft of working out. Especially in his legs. His legs well worked out, his bottom heavy figure moves around with complete ease despite the large gut Eikþyrnir sports along with the flab swathed over his body. His legs still jiggle as he continues to stretch during the silence, already getting ready for his next match. Same for his broad, flabby biceps that flex with each arm stretch, the meaty biceps covered in a smaller yet still sizable coating of lard.

“Well, I guess we should enjoy ourselves and train first then,” Boucheron eyes Eikþyrnir. Most prominently his arms and legs.

“Or help yourselves to the food instead if you'd prefer. Everything you need will be in the building,” Askr adds, a satisfied couple of pats to his gut.

Ben tries his best not to stare. Not that he can help it; his eyes simply wander back and forth from both Askr and Eikþyrnir. He appraises both massive figures. “We could do both,,,” He trails off, grateful for the other three men to be talking amongst themselves. Though Askr and Eikþyrnir smile at him.

“We can all decide together after we find the portal. At the very least, we now know we can leave whenever we want,” Mauvier starts heading back to the building without another word.

“Let's go, you two,” Diamant follows right behind Mauvier. And Boucheron and Ben follow them as well.

“It's been some time since we had newcomers,” Askr opens up a portal once the four’s attention is not on him. He plops pieces of sugary, buttery bread into his mouth.

Eikþyrnir crouches —his body tenses as all his bulk presses up against itself— getting ready as he looks up at Askr. “They'll make fine additions, now get ready,”

The two resume their sumo wrestling as the newcomers continue on their way.

“There are a lot of men here,” Ben points out as they almost reach the building.

He specifically points out one of the larger men he's seen, Raphael gorging on food along with Lukas. Raphael certainly larger than Lukas, the once absurdly beefy man clearly has been affected by the amount of food provided. Not as large as Eikþyrnir, Raphael is one degree removed in size. Especially in musculature with Raphael much more blubbery. And Lukas more petite than Raphael, Lukas’ body has an even higher proportion of flab compared to him. His body is much flabbier, his girth wobbling as he stuffs more and more food into his mouth. Though the two men are still small next to the absolute lard asses that are Stahl and Sylvain. Both cavaliers absolutely enjoy their food. Stahl much more as he shovels another piece of butter cake into his mouth, another followed shortly after before he can properly finish chewing that one. Rather bottom heavy, Stahl’s mawashi is tight on him, his figure clearly not taking advantage of the training areas provided. Sylvain much the same, his lazy self has somewhat more muscle than Stahl but not by much. He does weigh less than him at least, Sylvain More top heavy with his large breasts and dough, flabby arms with only a scant amount of muscle underneath it all

Despite not being far from the new quartet, neither of them make any motion to greet the other two. Nor do they even say much to the other besides a few grunts and words.

“Yeah. And they sure are enjoying themselves,” Boucheron watches the closest sumo match, his steps guided by Diamant in front of him.

Saber and Gregor currently wrestling with one another, the two mercenaries no longer resemble the once lean yet built figures they once had. Certainly not as large as most of the other men, both of them have a fine addition of pudge on their bodies, abs replaced by a belly and pecs washed away by flab to turn into puffy yet defined breasts. Their defined legs from traveling and fighting still hold their strength, their legs now simply much broader from their added girth much like their arms. Flab squished against flab, the two refuse to budge against the other. Meanwhile, nearby, Niles watches the two men, not really cheering on either of them. Instead, he watches them in silence. Niles grins at the spectacle in front of him. His figure is also well received by the new environment, his body much more plump than his once svelte body, his belly pooling into his lap while he sits down and enjoys a hefty meal with his show.

Diamant and Mauvier keep quiet. They simply observe in silence at the scenes in front of them, the two of them unconcerned but still confused. The men training at least feel more normal to them, the sight common to Diamant from Brodia’s culture and Mauvier from his own training.

Both Deen and Python training, the two men give opposite ends of effort into it. Python focuses on simple stretches, his more simply pudgy figure enjoying the more nimble and lithe motions followed by the ease of squats and pushups. Not that he puts much effort into those as well, his pudgy body clearly struggling despite his smaller size. Deen enjoys working with the heavy weights provided on the other hand, his biceps lifting the hefty weights with ease. His body is the complete opposite of his former figure. Deen is absolutely massive, his gut getting in the way as he lifts weights. Same as his large breasts do, his broad, bulky biceps squishing against them. And Deen’s efforts are only furthered as Raphael joins him, Deen moving onto bigger and heavier weights so as to not be outdone. Python simply groans as Lukas joins him, Lukas outdoing him as well as mildly lecturing him.

But despite the scenes before the quartet, none of the sumos even bother them, all of them and many more too eagerly absorbed in their training and eating. Which the group is thankful for as they finally reach the building without another disturbance, Askr and Eikþyrnir kind enough to tell them the way out. None of them say anything at the foot of the building, the massive building looming in front of them. Most obviously, the building is incredibly wide, far wider than anything they've ever seen in Elyos or even Askr for that matter.

Diamant simply opens the door, the massive door opening with a simple touch, the door wide enough for all four men to walk beside one another and leave ample extra space. The door promptly closes behind them once they all enter. But more importantly to all of them, the portal back to Askr is right in front of them.

Well, behind a barrier, the translucent sheen of magic fizzling as it protects it.

“What is this!?” Diamant slams his fist against the barrier. “They tricked us!”

“Hmmm, why don't we try the sides of the building? Maybe they'll remove the barrier,” Ben comments. Though his mind is focused on scanning the massive room, his reason for entering not found.

True to Ben's statement, the building only has two other ways to go, one massive hallway stretching out East much like the other stretches West.

“This could simply be a protective measure to stop anyone from entering the area through this portal,” Mauvier quickly whispers something to Diamant, the two speaking back and forth before speaking up again. “Diamant and I will head to the right,”

“That's right. The faster we can be sure of our exit, the better. Besides, Mauvier is most likely right about the barrier,” Diamant begins to walk down the right path with Mauvier, the two brooking no arguing.

“Well, that just leaves us going left then. Hopefully this just isn't boring,” Boucheron shrugs and does as told.

Ben does the same and follows him, the two men walking down the massive hallway side by side —an uncommon occurrence with their broad selves.

“No sign of that emblem, huh?” Boucheron asks.

“No. I swear I saw him walk in here. I promise,”

“I believe you. And I don't mind, it gives us another reason to explore this area anyways. Speaking of,” Boucheron stops.

As does Ben, Ben furrowing his brows before glancing behind himself. He finds nothing but the unadorned walls.

Their conversation cut short upon reaching a wide door —said door being the only possible way out of the barren hallway— both of the men stand before the doorway that is nearly as wide as the hallway itself.

“We might as well try to see if that emblem came down this way. Or even a way to enter the portal,” Ben pushes the door open, the door pushed aside as easily as throwing a knife.

Boucheron follows right behind Ben, the two entering together. And the door shuts behind them the same as last time. But unlike the broad, plain hallway they were once in, the two men end up in a single, more expansive and much more embellished room. A few benches are lined throughout the room. As well as draped clothes and straps of armor scattered around and seemingly left forgotten on the provided shelves. And along with every shelf, a fresh pair of mawashi are lined down them, each basket prepared with one.

“Well, it’s obvious that we found the changing room,” Ben slowly walks forward, eyes scanning the walls for any sort of door besides the one they just came from. But he finds none.

“We got the short end of the stick then,” Boucheron says as Ben shakes his head. With no hesitation, one quick step followed by another, he heads over to the nearest basket. “When in Elusia, right?”

“We should go find the Diamant and Mauvier first though. They’ll probably need our help if their side has more rooms,” Ben’s feet stay firmly planted by the door.

“Who said anything about not helping them? Let’s just change so that way we’re ready for some training once they have the portal unlocked. Come on, don’t think I didn't see you eyeing all those guys back there,” Boucheron sits on the bench, waiting for Ben to join him. When no movement happens, he sighs. “Seriously? The emblem you saw could be back outside there too. Now’s your chance to train with him again,” Boucheron stands up with a smile as Ben turns around.

“Fine. But we’re still helping Diamant and Mauvier first. And then we can train together afterwards,” Ben says as he grabs a mawashi from the basket next to Boucheron. “We’ve slacked off a bit,”

“It has been a while. Last time we trained together was in the Somniel, I’m pretty sure,” Boucheron starts undressing by taking off his shirt first. He slowly shrugs off the orange clothing, the fabric wrinkled up in a bundle as he tosses it onto the bench. Still needing to take off his brown tank top, the low neckline of it strained by his broad chest that spills out the side of the fabric, Boucheron takes his sweet time in appreciating his figure. Especially in his biceps as he flexes all his hard work from lugging around and swinging mighty axes. “I have to make sure you don’t pass me up,” Boucheron squeezes his right bicep as he flexes. His fingers don’t even come close to encircling all of his beefy brawn.

Ben takes his sweet time in unlooping and unbuckling the multitude of belts affixed to himself. The sturdy leather ends up dumped onto the bench while his body thanks itself for the extra bit of breathing room, meaty thighs already chafing against itself no longer having to worry about yet another thing creating friction. With no more straps of leather in the way, Ben tosses off his fur lined coat, his entire upper torso now exposed in an instant. “I am getting pretty close though,” His biceps indeed large, he flexes the two broad arms for a quick second. Before Ben goes to show off his biggest asset with a smirk. “I think I have you beat here though,” His large chest exposed, the two fat pecs jut out with no more tight clothing in the way to hold them back. Ben shows them off, doing a side chest pose as his tits seem to swell up in size, both meaty tits pressed against his biceps. Biceps which are admittedly smaller than Boucheron’s own, throwing knives only able to help keep the definition and musculature at his size so much.

“Alright. Yeah, you have a big chest. I remember how often you did pushups back in the Somniel. But I’m no slouch either,” Boucher pulls off his tank top. Rather slowly. He shows off his chiseled six pack, his firm, defined abs still retaining their definition. As well as his obliques, Boucheron’s abdomen more defined than Ben’s own. The hemline of his shirt slowly lifted off of his skin, his plump chest enjoys the fresh air. Boucheron grabs a hold of his left pec, fingers squeezing against the dense muscle. Not too far behind Ben, the difference between the two men’s chest is still apparent, especially with them being nearly the exact same height. Then Boucheron begins to take off his boots and pants, shrugging off the brown clothes and ending up in nothing but his trunks.

Ben subsequently does the same. His pants and boots end up forgotten somewhere behind him as he strips down to only his briefs.

Boucheron’s trunks show off his shapely ass, the bubble butt created from rigorous training. His two shapely cheeks fill out the back, the waistband just straining enough to reach past them. The low waistline also shows off his six pack and defined v-line, the trunks sitting comfortably at least there. Unlike the lower half which struggles against his big thighs; Boucheron’s large legs fill out the trunks, the material bunched up as it struggles. The pouch of his trunk is also rather filled out like every other inch of it. Meanwhile, Ben’s briefs are similarly tight. The back has little issue containing his ass, Ben’s rear still a nice, perky little butt. But, the lack of material from the high cut shows off a sliver of his ass. Same with the high cut in the front; his large, defined thighs are exposed, his legs free to breathe as they press up against each other. Ben’s thighs have nothing to worry about when it comes to being constrained. Unlike his crotch that stretches and bulges against the extra support provided by the clothing.

“Well, I’d say we’re about tied when you take everything into account,” Boucheron nods as he appraises Ben and himself one last time.

Ben nods just the same, his lips curving upward as he fully disrobes and puts on his mawashi. “Yeah. It just means we really have to train here once we get a chance,”

“You’re on,” Boucheron slides up his Mawashi after taking off his trunks. Though he glances down once the material doesn’t sit the best on his lower half. “Hey Ben, I think we got ones that are too big,” He holds the mawashi up with his hands, the material too large to even sit on him without falling.

“Yeah. Maybe we can adjust them?” Ben looks down at his own mawashi as he simultaneously holds it up, so it doesn’t fall. Properly looking at the object for the first time, he finds no way of easily adjusting it.

Mauvier and Diamant walking down the barren hallway, they continue to find nothing down the short walk before they end up reaching a door. They simply open it up without a single word. And yet again, neither speak up once the door closes behind him much like when they first entered the building.

Though it doesn’t matter as Ben and Boucheron can’t help but moan, both men suddenly red in the face as their transformation begins to take place.

Standing before them is a quaint yet massive kitchen, the room adorned with tables capable of satisfying the number of patrons needed for such a spacious kitchen. Except the kitchen goes completely unused at the moment. Not a single person cooking or baking, even the countertops look unused for quite some time as the two men begin to check out the room. But neither of them find anything of interest. Nor even an exit besides the one they entered from. The two men speak amongst themselves as they continue to search the room for possibly anything at this point.

“This must be where the food they were eating outside was made, but still,” Mauvier wipes off some dust off of the counters, his frown deepening.

“You said you sensed some magic coming down this hallway, right? So, the mechanism for the barrier should be here,” Diamant glances back at the dining area but still finds nothing.

Mauvier sighs. “Theoretically, it should be here. But I sent Boucheron and Ben down the other way in case I was wrong. Which unfortunately it seems to be the case,”

“Well, nothing to do besides head…” Diamant trails off. Brows furrowed, his nose twitches as he begins to sniff the air.

Mauvier’s back tenses, his arms rigid as he goes to grip his lance. Only to find nothing just like when they first warped to this strange place. Immediately turning around, his concern immediately turns to confusion.

“So that’s what I smelled. It smelled too savory to be poison,” Diamant stares right where Mauvier’s eyesight is focused on.

Standing before them on the largest table is a veritable feast of food, countless dishes somehow freshly made if the tempting aroma wafting off of them is any indication. The plates of food barely have any vacant space on the table. With no one else in the room besides them, Diamant and Mauvier reach the same exact conclusion.

“This must be the magic I sensed,” Mauvier takes a couple of slow steps forward.

Diamant follows behind him, his paces a bit more rushed before he overtakes him. “So, this has to be how the food is made here. It makes sense with how large everyone is here and why the kitchen looks to be unused,” Diamant stops before the table; he stares at the massive spread of food provided, mouth beginning to salivate at the myriad of dishes right before them, dishes waiting to be enjoyed.

Mauvier takes a few steps forward so as to stand slightly behind Diamant. And he places a hand on his shoulder, his extra height making it easier on him. “We don’t know if this food is meant for anyone else. Someone will most likely be coming for it soon considering how eager everyone outside seems to be eating,”

“You have a point,” Diamant relents with a groan. He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts and remembering about the portal. “If the mechanism for the portal isn’t here then” -Diamant smells the tantalizing food laid about before them once again. “Why don’t we wait and see if anyone comes for the food?” Diamant’s mind begins to grow fuzzy, his brain becoming clouded with thoughts of the food before him. But he does patiently wait as he said he would. He instead simply remains standing as the time slowly goes by.

“It would be best if we head back the other way,” Mauvier places his hand back on Diamant, this time gripping the man’s arm, squeezing his bicep. Glancing at the door, he lets out a sigh of relief as everything else looks completely normal. Mauvier winces as his stomach growls, a guttural sound emanating from the sudden yearning abyss forming in his gut. He places a hand on his stomach, as if to quell the intense cravings he begins to feel.

“It’s been hours since we’ve eaten anything, Mauvier. We pretty much haven’t eaten all day,” Diamant plops himself down on the bench provided —the area well equipped and accustomed to much larger figures using the room. The magic working on the far more susceptible to magic Diamant than Mauvier’s staff wielding self, Diamant decides to waste no time in enjoying himself to the food provided. He takes a bite of some fried chicken first, the crispy skin ripping apart as he tears into it. Then he helps himself to the grilled and steamed vegetables laid out next to it, all of it coated in a hefty helping of butter. Diamant still has his table manners at the least. Only after he finishes his plate does he move to a smaller second plate, grilled beef served over a bowl of rice. “Help yourself, Mauvier. It’s delicious,” Diamant says after finishing his current forkful of food, his stomach still gurgling in hunger as he continues to partake in the food.

Food that Mauvier stares down at, his face wincing as his stomach continues to crave food, his body no longer simply asking anymore, his body begging to be sated as he finally caves in and sits down. “We’ll leave after we have enough,” He says, his voice more so a faint whisper as he reaches for the bowl of clam chowder. And he begins to take his first mouthful, chunks of potatoes and onion mixed with pork and onion practically dissolving in his mouth. Mauvier takes his time, nursing his soup as he takes occasional bites from it. He waits to finish his current bit of food before going back for more. He only drinks the soup once he finally reaches the tail end of the dish, much faster than he normally would.

Ben and Boucheron struggle to remain standing. Their knees shake buckle as their entire bodies begin to be enveloped in a blanket of warmth, the caressing sensation quickly feeling like the sweltering heat of Solm as they continue to warm up.

Mauvier reaches for another plate of food, his pace quickening along with Diamant’s; both men begin to grow flushed in the face, increasingly heavy panting and moaning escaping their lips as they begin to eat faster, their transformation beginning.

And as their bodies begin to swell.

Boucheron holds up his mawashi with his jittering right hand —his left hand no longer able to hold onto the far too big clothing as it now caresses and fondles his newfound belly. A small, petite, little thing, Boucheron’s new addition reminiscent of his bulking days gone a day or two too long. Until it continues to expand, his gut slowly taking up more space as it bulges outward in front of him; his belly swells up before his very eyes —squinting from pleasure as he tries his very best to not fully tilt his head back. He shifts his left arm to under his gut, his also growing arm put to shame from its much more stagnant growth. Even despite the extra size it begins to sport not just from fat but from muscle as well, Boucheron’s biceps now larger than his head and easily capable of putting anyone from Elyos and even the Order of Heroes to shame. And yet, it struggles to hold up Boucheron’s stomach as it simply keeps on growing. Once it’s large enough to smother an entire chair does it begin to sag in earnest, his stomach drooping far past his crotch and midway down his expanding thighs upon him letting go of his engorged gut. His thighs thankfully grow sufficiently large enough to properly fill out his mawashi. The white fabric even begins to squish against his blubbery self, ass and thighs still growing.

Ben doesn’t fare much differently. His body expanding, his figure begins by putting muscle on his already adonis figure. He fills out at a more even rate, arms and legs both becoming rather brutish in the pure strength they contain as they grow and fill out with more and more muscle, Ben’s biceps capable enough to tear a bundle of spears while his legs begin to vie for more and more space against each other as his junk starts to get pushed forward from the growing lack of space. It doesn’t take long for his mawashi to be properly filled out, large tree trunk thighs that struggle to be close to each other from their shirt girth pressed up against the fabric as his once bubble butt which seems to jiggle from every slight movement Ben makes firms further up and becomes further pronounced behind him. Every labored breath he takes seems to add more muscle to his frame, his well-defined pecs filling up and jutting further out as they press up against his biceps, and his abs grow more defined, his glistening washboard abs seemingly bulging from as he continues to expand with muscle. So much so that he starts to struggle with moving. His over swollen biceps struggle to be lifted up when the rest of his titanic body is pressed up against them that makes even the most dedicated of warriors or berserkers seem downright pathetically puny, next to Ben.

Both of the men simply continue growing and swelling. The two of them muttering to themselves and to each other, the words come out choked by moans as they grow. Boucheron and Ben are barely aware of themselves. Only able to enjoy their growing figures, the two men don’t even realize the changes to their own minds. Not that they even can, old, distant memories of themselves warped and distorted. Memories become hazy. Boucheron’s memories of being a retainer become fuddled, of his time as an avid reader or his time simply training his muscles, and Ben’s memories of living in the forest, of following his own path rather than being a knight, of finding and encountering the Bracelet of the Samurai, those too begin to distort, both men’s experiences are washed away under a torrent of new information, their old muscular selves now replaced with memories of always being so large, of being so massive. The two become quite aware of their true size they were always meant to be as they grow, Ben and Boucheron’s minds filled up with false memories and experiences as sumos. They also begin to fill up with the not so false feelings of their true emotions, well controlled, hidden feelings about each other and the rest of the team bubbling up to the surface of their minds.

Eventually, the rest of Boucheron’s body slowly fills out as well to be something resembling catching up to his enormously bloated gut. His thighs continue to swell and grow, legs blimping with both muscle and fat, but mostly fat from the way his body continues to lose most definition.

But it lags far behind his immense gut; where bulbous thighs would press up against each other, they instead press up against Boucheron’s enormous gut, his stomach swollen enough to fully blanket another man with more than enough room to fit another. Boucheron’s growing tits —tits that are fatter than his own bloated, hefty face— use his enormous couch crushing stomach as nothing more than a platform to rest on, his bulging breasts diminutive next to the cascading wall of lard Boucheron has for a stomach. Boucheron’s arms struggle to move around from the lard encasing them. They barely reach past his own tits, tree trunk sized arms only able to move so much with too much of his own size limiting him. And unbeknownst to Boucheron, his mind preoccupied with simply enjoying all his newfound grandeur as he’s always known it to be, remembering just how difficult it is to move at his size, his mawashi begins to grow with him as it changes as well. His formerly white mawashi slowly compliments him properly, the fabric turning an orange shade; gold trims eventually form as well, the bright trimming given a small, nearly imperceptible teal border to it so as to match him.

And just as soon as Ben’s body begins to be too much for him to handle, most flexibility lost and mobility not too far off, his body slowly starts to be coated in a soft layer of flab. It starts off slow like his expansion of muscle, all of his mass cushioned by lard before it grows in earnest as more and more fat expands on his figure. Ben’s musculature is all washed away by lard, like cliffs smashed against by the sea. His figure simply continues to bulge further and further outward, arms and legs blimping up as they start to lose all definition. Ben grows all over, washboard abs quickly turning into a gut that easily makes it past his mawashi, his now a calming cream color much like the fur he once wore. Fur that would now cost a fortune to be enough to cover his expansive form. His mawashi also gains a red trim to it, similar to his old attire he can no longer even remember. And brown cross patterning appears over the trim, the design reminiscent to all his belts from carrying knives, not that a belt can even fit over an over engorged arm that’s larger than a man’s torso, much less his waistline. Ben’s chest fills out further, pecs now completely gone and replaced by two enormous tits that sag and splay down his stomach. Breasts large enough and slathered in so much fat that they still resemble the stomachs of the smaller sumos they saw despite the muscle hidden behind all of Ben’s lard.

“B-Boucheron…” Ben mutters with one eye open, his other closed as his beat red face huffs, a few errant moans escaping him.

“Hnggghh…” Is all Boucheron replies. His own face red, his bloated face jiggles as he heavily breathes. He takes his time catching his breath, unsure as to why his body feels exerted but all thoughts leave his mind as he gazes upon Ben. “You’re… hot as… always…” Boucheron stutters, mind slowly changing Ben’s former appearance to match his current one, all memories of Ben slowly replaced with new ones —memories that Ben’s bloated figure takes up most of the space. Doing his best to take a step, Boucheron’s enormous gut gets in the way of his lumbering waddling. But despite how his gut now rests on the floor, bottom layer of lard grazing and resting on the ground as it juts out a couple feet in front of him, he manages to take a couple of steps towards Ben. A couple steps only needed with how expansive amount of space the two take up by themselves, let alone together. Boucheron goes to grab Ben, but both of their bodies get in the way. “So big…”

“Y-yeah…” Ben’s memories also changing, they easily swap over to Boucheron’s new size. He doesn’t bother questioning a single thing. Ben merely enjoys Boucheron’s presence. And the way their lard squished together, rolls of flab pressed up against not only their own bodies, but up against each other’s. “Your stomach is huge,” Ben plainly replies as he tries his best to reach for it. But he can’t, not with his own enormity getting in the way, both men’s faces standing feet apart from each other as their guts press up and get in the way. But the sheer enamorment in both of their faces clearly show their intentions to grab and fondle each other.

Boucheron’s mind slowly begins to clear up, brain no longer addled from all the memories adjusting over. “But you’re big all over,” Boucheron gazes upon Ben’s sheer size. Both of them enormous and around the same size, Ben’s entire body clearly used every last inch of itself to hold all of its lard. Like a complete butterball, every bit of himself is completely massive. Especially compared to Boucheron’s self, his arms, legs, tits, ass, and even his face smaller next to Ben’s own sheer display of girth. And yet, Boucheron’s massive gut still puts everything else to shame, his gut now seemingly capable of filling out and crushing an entire bed.

“Mmhmm,” Ben agrees, his face flushed as he tries and fails to flex his biceps that he barely lifts up an inch before giving up. “Let’s find Diamant and Mauvier,”

Diamant and Mauvier’s asses are still firmly planted on the bench. The only time either men even merely rise a few inches up from their seat is to grab another plate of food.

And despite their sizes, the two men somehow manage to still move, two walls of lard slowly lumbering down the building as the door opens up for them and walk down the massive hallway that now barely struggles to contain them, flab brushing up against the walls that tremble from their steps.

Diamant’s mind a bit further along than Mauvier’s, he eagerly grabs at whatever food that tempts him. Which happens to be meat, meat, and more meat. Diamant occasionally grabs and eats sides of vegetables that tempt him, but the buttery roasted sides are nothing more than a simple stop to his true journey of indulging in meat. He still manages to eat with something resembling decorum. Especially for his Brodian heritage, the festy warriors of his country never the most courteous when it comes to table manners. But even his fervent eating comes close to surpassing the usual maximum of what is allowed. Diamant nearly begins to shovel more food into his mouth before he can truly appreciate and savor the taste. Or properly wash it down with ale. Diamant simply takes another bite the near instant he finishes swallowing the prior one. Diamant grabs whatever he craves from whatever plate is in front of him, wishing to sample and satisfy himself.

Mauvier still takes his time eating, or at least something resembling it. He savors all of his food before going onto the next plate. He does let out a few choked moans, however, his face a bright flushed red. Much like Diamant, Mauvier immediately gravitates more towards the meaty plates of food —of which there are countless. Though he takes his time in indulging them as well as enjoying the soups and vegetables provided. But no matter how he tries, Mauvier’s gut still continues to feel like an empty black hole; his stomach demands and begs for more and more food. And Mauvier obliges, his pace picking up as he slowly begins to now have two plates of food in front of him at a time, Muavier picking and devouring from both.

So engrossed in their food, neither of them even pay attention to their growing figures.

Mauvier’s figure filling rather slowly, he somehow begins to pack on muscle despite all of his gorging. The food laced with magic does its work on him, Mauvier’s clothes growing snug. A fact that Mauvier pays little attention to. Or even at all as the strap of leather holding his hip guards begin to grow a bit snug, Mauvier preferring to indulge himself with the fine spread of food in front of him instead. Neither does he pay attention to the armor on his arms and shoulders growing more constrained, shoulders broadening and widening as do his biceps, armor and clothing concealing the hulking figure Mauvier begins to obtain as he continues to gorge himself. But no sooner as his brawny body begins to show does he begin to gain a heaping portion of flab on his body. His armor and all the straps of leather that come with it start to struggle in earnest from his increased size. But even the cold metal digging into his clothes are little issue to the magic. The very instant something begins to become an issue for Mauvier’s growing body, his armor comes right off, hunks of metal falling off of him like a coin tossed into a fountain. They dissipate before they clink onto the ground, as if they were never there to begin with. His thighs slowly pool further and further onto the bench, poofy pants no longer as roomy as they once were with a set of large thighs and a large posterior that slowly begins to drape off the end of the large bench.

Which might as well be the case as Mauvier’s brain slowly changes as the potent magic demands it. All of his years of experience slowly fizzle away, memories washed off as magic replaces all his experiences with one befitting his large size. Memories of eating and training, memories of being a sumo. Memories of Diamant and the other men, Mauvier’s own deeply dug feelings slowly drudged up.

Diamant’s body bloats up nicely from all of his eating. With every bite he takes, more flab is slathered onto his body. All of Diamant’s body is coated by a hefty layer as he continues to eat more and more food in a vain attempt to satisfy his hunger. The bit of muscle he gets from all his gorging ends up immediately covered up by lard. Diamant’s stomach begins to pool onto his lap. The billowing gut he slowly starts to sport more and more of is held back by the straps of his belt, the expensive leather acting as a dam for this blubbery gut. His thighs slowly begin to take up more of the bench, pants growing snug as Diamant merely continues to grow as if nothing were happening to him. All the belts he has on his chest grow snug as well as his once broad pecs easily become noticeable moobs that press up against his clothes. Clothes that outline them as well; his chest continues to expand outward, attempting to break free from the clutches of his belts. And it comes far more easily than it should. Diamant’s belts give up. Far faster than the finely crafted leather should, but the magic simply has them snap as if they were made of simple twine. Diamant’s expanse has more room to grow with the belts out of the way, all of it simply gone as his brain slowly fills in new gaps of memories.

Years as Brodia’s prince are picked apart, Diamant’s lavish yet rigorous lifestyle diluted with new memories of training and eating, a rather fitting set of memories for his growing body. The magic works quickly and easily on Diamant from his poor susceptibility to the craft. He quickly thinks nothing of his current size or still growing body. Or anything about his feelings on the other men on his team. Or about how the men feel about him in return, the magic changing all for him as it brings about their emotions into reality.

“Mauvier, try this,” Despite his own now much more frantic pace that he eats at, Diamant no longer even waits to finish his current bite of food before shoveling another forkful into his eager mouth; he begins to hand Mauvier food, eager to help his partner grow. Diamant washes down plates of food with an entire mug of ale, not a single drop of the liquid wasted despite his hurried chugging. And his contented sigh only lasts a few seconds before he continues to shovel more food down his mouth.

Muavier’s mind slowly adjusting as well, he merely nods at the offer of food. And he does eat it as told upon finishing his current bite of food as the ravenous hunger from his gut and brain demand of him. Mauvier tries a bite of everything Diamant hands him, a bite soon turning into the rest of the plate. His figure still growing, the lard blanketing his muscle focuses on his prodigious lower half that begins to slowly tear through his pants, soft, squishy bits of flab exposed past the black pants. His shirt fares a bit better as it only outlines his hefty upper rolls of lard that make up his stomach, but even his stomach puts heavyset men to shame as it begins to sit and rest on his lap. Shortly after, Mauvier’s entire clothes begin to dissipate off of his body. And replacing it all is a mawashi, the black material the same color as his clothes. Along with the material comes swirls of purple patterning, reminiscence of the purple flames on his now old attire.

Diamant no longer having anything resembling decency, his clothes are in complete tatters from his enormity. Despite being the same size as Mauvier, Diamant’s own much more taut clothing can only do so much when he weighs thrice as much —and even more beyond that— as the original figure for them Diamant’s figure takes up the entire width of his already tree trunk sized thighs. The mawashi that magically appears on him upon his clothes dissipating are barely even visible upon his seated form, Diamant’s a muted red befitting of his old clothes, zigzags of black and a vibrant red patterned over it as well. And still, he continues to shovel more food into his eager maw. And most excitedly, he happily eats whatever Mauvier hands to him, the exchanging of food slowly growing more infrequent as both men continue to gain weight and slowdown from their size.

Eventually, the two skip handing food to the other upon feeling each other's own enormity pressed up against one another. Mauvier’s thighs bulge against Diamant’s slightly slimmer ones, while Diamant's enormous love handles ooze and rest on Mauvier’s thighs. With the mobility that they can muster, guts pressing up against the table, the two of them feed the other with the last remaining remnants of food, nothing but pastries left upon the once seemingly endless table of food. All of their girth getting in the way makes the prospect a bit difficult despite their mobility. Mauvier and Diamant lean against the other, lard slapping against lard, as they try their best. And once the food quickly runs out, they grope each other while they can, the magic slowly ending, and they return to something resembling their senses.

Both of the men go to stand up, both of them huffing from lugging around their immense weight. And standing, the two men are practically equals in sheer size and heft. Where Diamant’s entire body resembles one large dough ball, his large face full of breasts squishing against his enormously bloated arms while resting on top of his gut spilling all the way down to his bloated knees attached to enormous thighs, Mauvier’s extremely bottom heavy self leaves the taller man rather pear shaped. His mawashi is nearly hidden underneath all of his lardaceous legs, the over swollen thighs pressed up against each other despite his wide stance. And Mauvier’s ass juts out behind him, his upper half somewhat small compared to the rest of his enormity.

Diamant huffs as he smiles at his partner’s figure. Though he also lifts up his gut with both his hands, what he can reach of it anyways, content with his enormity. “Let’s… get the others…” Diamant groans, taking his first lumbering step at his size, moving with a surprising ease despite all of his girth.

“Y-yeahhh…” Mauvier wheezes as he joins Diamant. Much more muscle than his partner, Mauvier walks off with ease. Though his bulging thighs and ass make it rather difficult to walk with all his flab rubbing against itself.

Mauvier and Diamant reach the entrance first. The two men simply huffing as they wait, they hear Ben and Boucheron’s groans before they see them. And upon seeing them, the two men eagerly watch them slowly waddle their barely movable selves to the entrance. Neither Mauvier nor Diamant pay attention to the portal back to Askr swirling in the background beside them, nor the now missing barrier. And neither do Ben and Boucheron once they reach Diamant and Mauvier. Instead, all four men are simply content to be reunited.

The two men walking beside each other, they eventually have to walk in a single line when they reach the hallway, both of them now far too wide to walk side by side. So Mauvier walks in front, his ass wobbling behind him as Diamant’s gut pushes up against it as they walk down and fill up most of the hallway.

And so is the magic, the last vestiges of the spell taking hold upon the men once in each other’s presence. All together once more, the already barely addled men lose the last bit of their memories, each vision of their past becoming filled with nothing but thoughts of the other three. The group quickly becomes a mess of energy, moans escaping all of them as they begin to grope one another.

Diamant and Mauvier much smaller than Ben and Boucheron, the two men take joy in their ease of fondling the other. They grope at whatever they can, plenty to grab and far too much to enjoy all alone, the room becomes enveloped by the sounds of lard slapping against itself as well as moans. None of them even bother saying much, the magic taking away most of their intelligence.

The door soon opens up behind them. The bright light outside fills up the room as it seemingly waits for their response.

“Outside,” Diamant grunts after some time, eager for more space to enjoy each other. And the other men agree.

Boucheron going first, Ben waddles behind him practically pushing his entire weight against Boucheron to help him move with his enormous gut getting in the way. His gut soon grazes against the grass outside. Slowly trudging outside, Boucheron is already a large mess of moans as he struggles to walk. His entire body begging for rest and some food, Ben’s own enormity pushing him along is the only thing keeping him going. And behind Ben, Diamant and Mauvier stand behind him —hip pressed against hip— and push him as well. The two men push with all their might, their buried under hundreds of pounds of lard clearly not for show as they manage to push the two titanic men outside, a feat only possible from Boucheron and Ben’s own musculature.

“Stuck…” Boucheron grunts as he comes crashing onto the ground, his stomach cushioning his fall as he struggles to move around. He slowly flails his arms and legs, his limbs struggling to move with his bed for a gut in the way. They fail to even touch the ground, all of Boucheron’s enormity pressed up against his gut. His face sinks into his breasts meanwhile, Boucheron getting a face full of them.

Ben comes stumbling behind him. He surprisingly doesn’t come crashing to the ground, but he has Diamant and Mauvier guiding him, both of the men holding both sides of him so as to keep him steady. “Mmmhh…” Ben groans as he tries to lean into their embrace. “T-touch…” Both men oblige, eager to fondle and grope Ben just as eager as they are to keeping him upright. They push more of their weight against Ben, their stomachs and thighs squished up against Ben’s gut that barely grazes the ground at its lowest point. All three of them close enough in height, Diamant and Mauvier are still able to grab a handful of Ben’s bulging tits, his breasts too tantalizing to pass up. Both men push more of their weight against him, squishing the much fatter Ben in between themselves.

Unable to see, Boucheron can plainly hear the audible moans coming from the trio. “ I-I need… touches…” He whines, desperately shaking his arms and legs but still unable to do anything about his predicament. Boucheron remains planted to the ground, anchored by his monumental gut.

Eventually the other men do come to his help at the very least. “Push…” Mauvier groans out, face wincing as he and Diamant stand on one side of Boucheron and slowly push him up. Slowly, they begin to push at him, all of Boucheron’s enormity wobbling as his body goes back and forth. Boucheron moans as his entire body shakes and jostles, his lard slapping against itself. Ben watches close by his eyes lidded as he gropes what he can of his own enormity at the scene in front of him. But eventually, they get enough momentum and with one final shove they get him up off of his tremendous gut and onto his back.

Where Boucheron ends up pinned once again by his far too big gut, all of it pressing down on him and pinning him arms and legs. But his new position does give the other men better access to him despite looking like an overly sized boulder, which he practically is at his size and position.

Ben slowly comes lumbering over to Boucheron, his heavy footfalls sounding out along with his tired wheezes. And he sits down next to Boucheron, arms resting against what bit of Boucheron’s gut he can with Ben's own size getting in the way. Ben thankfully sits close enough to Boucheron’s arm to where Boucheron can grab and paw at Ben’s own enormity, his plumped up fingers groping Ben’s rivulets of ass and copious thigh fat.

Diamant remains standing. He leans against Boucheron and Ben’s enormity, the two of them comfortable cushions he’s always loved. Both of his hands rest on them, his blubbery biceps squished against the two men as he relaxes.

Mauvier kneels on the ground instead. His ass jutting up behind him, his gut touches the floor from his position. He smiles at Boucheron as he begins to caress and pinch Boucheron’s bloated, blubbery face. Boucheron gets an eyeful of Mauvier’s girth, especially of his still sizable tits and belly.

Ben still seated, he gets an idea as he stares too long into Diamant’s stomach. His legs strain as he slowly stands up. Ben uses Boucheron as a base to stand up, arms sinking into Boucheron’s gut. Diamant also helps him by giving him a hand. He takes deeper and deeper breaths before he finally somehow manages to end back up on his two feet. And lumbering over to Diamant, Ben’s huffs turn into moans as he leans into him. “Want… s-umo match…”

Diamant doesn’t move. He simply ends up smothered in between both Ben and Boucheron’s enormity. Not that he complains; his own fervent pants come out rapidly as Ben pushes at him with all his might. He sinks into Boucheron’s stomach; Ben’s own girth covering him as well as the two of them envelop Diamant’s blubbery self.

“N-nooo fair…” Boucheron whines as Mauvier stands up as well. His body wobbling, he huffs as he goes to the other side of Boucheron. He pushes him once more.

Diamant still stuck between them, he bounces off of Boucheron and pushes back at Ben with all his might. Which surprisingly works as Ben moans and steps back. Memories filled with helping Boucheron, he grabs one hand. Mauvier grabs the other hand.

And both men groan as they tug at him.

Boucheron groans as well, struggling with all his might to get a proper footing. Which he eventually does as he slowly but surely stands up despite his gut in the way. Ben knowingly stands behind Boucheron, helping him by pushing him with his hands, but mostly with his own gut, Ben’s entire morbidly obese figure jiggling as he helps.

And they eventually manage to get Boucheron standing, all four men a panting, wheezing mess.

But they start their sumo match in earnest. Which resembles very little to what the sumos they saw earlier doing. Instead, all four men simply treat it as an excuse to enjoy one another’s bodies; all of them are far too big to properly have a match, even Diamant and Mauvier alone, the two of them larger than even Askr or Eikþyrnir, let alone the rest of the sumos.

Mauvier makes sure to constantly squat, his powerful legs enabling him to duck and avoid all of Boucheron and Ben’s poor attempts to grab at him. He lunges at the others whenever he can, his arms trying their best to grab as much of Ben and Boucheron as they can as he gets a face full of their guts. And to Diamant, he has much more of an even opponent, the two fondling each other, Diamant’s hands resting on Mauvier’s ass while Mauvier likewise touches his overflowing tits and gut. Diamant doesn’t bother with a proper stance like his new memories remind him off. He instead simply stands normally and allows himself to be grabbed. He adjusts his own bulk before grabbing the others, pulling up his mawashi and flaunting his large, sagging gut that makes walking a bit difficult with it blanketing his knees. Diamant does refuse to budge as Boucheron and Ben lean against him and fondle him, everything but his face smothering in bulging fat. Boucheron struggles to move with his gut in the way, but he tries his best. His stomach practically keeps him anchored to the ground. He does still manage to get a good handful of all the others. Especially Ben with how massive he is, Boucheron enjoying how massive his arms are, Ben struggling to lift them much more than the rest. Especially as Ben is large enough to take up almost all of an actual sumo ring on his very own, both his gut and ass jutting far out behind him. Though his size doesn’t stop him from moving, his limbs burning up with each movement. But the sheer determination of his three partners keeps him going. As it does to the other three, all four of them completely content.

The four stay together, enjoying their imitation of wrestling. Moving and shuffling around, they practically resemble a massive pile of lard as they try their best to hug and fondle one another at their larger sizes. None of them even notice the doors to the building closing shut. Or how the portal back to Askr slowly dissipates, their only way out now gone. Not that they’d ever want to leave; all four of them are just as eager to stay and enjoy each other like all the rest of the men.

________________________________________

All four of them also fail to notice the figures above them, three men atop of the building they came out of.

“Another successful job,” Askr pats his gut as he gazes down upon the quartet. “If I say so myself,”

“They’re rather big though,” Eikþyrnir comments. His eyes are still appreciative of their sizes despite his comment.

“They must have all really wanted this then. But no matter, it’s time for their proper greeting, don’t you think?” Askr gestures towards the person in front of him.

Ryoma standing at the edge of the building, he simply remains quiet as he gazes upon the four men. His own mind affected by the magic, he enjoys his size if his own groping is any indication. Ryoma only moves upon command.

“Go on then,” Eikþyrnir commands as Askr summons a portal right next to Ryoma, both of the gods offering their magic unto him.

And Ryoma obliges. He jumps straight off as instructed, his own red with gold trim mawashi flowing in the wind as he cannonballs directly into the portal that opens up right below him. His long mane of hair billows behind him as he begins to have an incandescent glow to his entire being. Ryoma disappears for an instant, his hefty figure teleporting as another portal opens up several feet beneath where he disappeared and a few feet in front; the newly summoned portal transports him right above the four men.

And all four of them cushion Ryoma’s fall as their own figures begin to glow where their sacred seals once were. Dust rises off of the ground from the impact. And the glow dissipates with it, Ryoma left the only one once the dust settles. Well, not quite. Ryoma stands atop the now flattened sumos, the new additions as flat as a paper. Their expressions one of minor shock, the blushes displayed on their faces betrays their enjoyment.

Another portal appears beside them as Ryoma slowly steps off of them. And Ryoma heads off upon being dismissed, his brain focused on finding Kaden and enjoying his beloved Kitsune’s own girth.

Askr and Eikþyrnir waddle through the enlarged portal. Eikþyrnir carries a large chest in his arms, the massive piece of seemingly antiquity dropped to the ground.

“Let’s begin,” Askr bends down and reaches for Boucheron, the bovine god clearly eager to hold the new addition with the most massive gut, no matter how flat and squished down his current situation.

Eikþyrnir reaches and grabs Mauvier. And despite Mauvier’s equally same situation as the rest of his partners, Eikþyrnir appraises the man for his dedication to training, Mauvier’s bulky lower half still ingrained in his mind. “Time for your initiation,”

Hanging them in the air for a short while, the two divine beings eventually slowly fold up the two men, their flattened bodies easily obeying their accustomed hands. Bit by bit they fold Boucheron and Mauvier like clothing. Boucheron takes much more time, his body flattened into a bigger pile than Mauvier who ends up gently placed into the chest, Eikþyrnir folding him so as to have his face at the top.

And Eikþyrnir reaches down once more for Diamant, nodding to himself upon seeing the strength Diamant still possessed despite his rather blubbery form. “Can’t have you four be separated now, can we?”

Askr finishes folding up Boucheron, placing him in the chest right with Mauvier before reaching for Ben, Askr’s technique of folding exactly the same as Boucheron’s face ends up on top. “Come on now, I know you're going to take me awhile,”

Eikþyrnir puts Diamant with the rest shortly after Askr begins with Ben. The two obese sumos for beasts work together to fold up Ben, so much of himself to go around when flattened from how massive every single part of him was. They go by quickly, but folding him still takes time, Ben taking up as much time as the rest despite being worked on by the two porcine sumos. But nonetheless, Ben ends up gingerly placed inside the chest as well.

“Welcome to your new paradise,” Askr and Eikþyrnir both say with a smile, the four flattened and folded men content as the chest closes on them, Diamant, Mauvier, Boucheron, and Ben as well in paradise indeed.

#fat emblem #male weight gain #my writing #ssbhm #feeder emblem #fat fiction #maleweightgain #buff emblem

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