(Darathur entered the sanctuary, explains the room, the green marred the sight further, etc?)
(Remember to add mention of other buildings, about how neglected they were. This will make the latter paragraph sting more.)
[Maybe they talk a bit about things.]
[Zartarxis is sadistic towards other races.]
[Characterize both Zartarxis and Drakathur fully.]
It was suffocating. The heat, the buzzing, the way insects constantly swarmed around him – it wasn’t a mystery as to why the post of guardian wasn’t well honored. Yes, the eyes of chronepsis can make as large of a ceremony they want, with all the speeches about how important it was, but in the end of the day, it was still a glorified banishment to a middle of a humid jungle to look after the crumbling ruins of their empire. Drakathur supposed then, that the chronepsis shouldn’t be that surprised at what had happened to Zartarxis. Frankly, if they ever found out that he’s here alone – or as to the why – they would be completely shocked. They should be surprised at what he himself is going to do.
Swarms of cicadas chirped throughout the bubbling swamp, their maddening chorus drilling into Drakathur’s ear holes. The ground was just a step above wet mud, and his paws were completely covered in muck and filth that squelched with each step he took. He found himself constantly fanning his wings and flicking his tail, trying to dislodge the countless insects buzzing around him. Something tried crawling into one of his nostrils, and he whipped his head voilently, his serpentine neck bulging as he did. His dark red scales were slick with moisture and splatted with spots of mud. Already he was miserable, and he was here for only a day. He tried to imagine living here for decades, centuries, millenia. He shivered.
This place didn’t look like the center of a capital city. Muck, mud, and trees with hanging bundles of vines stood everywhere. The only things that suggested such was the half-sunken hall of justice, the statues eyes nearly level with the fetid ground. When the chronepsis arrived all those months ago, this was the first evidence of the magnitude of Zartarxis’ neglect… and transformation.
Eventually, Drakathur reached the domed building in front. He didn’t need to acknowledge the lizard people camping outside the entrance – they knew who he was, and didn’t need to know that he wasn’t here on behalf of the chronepsis.
A thin waterfall cascaded down the roof of the hallway, bisecting it into two. The red stopped there and took a few moments to wash the grime all across his body. As the dragon twisted and curved and rubbed, the sounds of muffled snores reached his ears.
Talons clacking against stone heralded the approach of the dragon. A thin, whip-like tail flicked nervously behind him, and his wings kept shuffling and fidgeting. The thunderous booms of snores rattled down the darkened hallway. Drakathur swallowed down the lump in his throat as he left the encompassing heat of the jungle outside and entered the sanctuary proper.
[Cool air wafted across his scales as he left the heat of the jungle behind.]
It was a wide, circular room with a domed roof stretching high above the two dragons. Centuries ago, the sanctuary was hewn from the finest of granite and marble, sculpted into smooth curves and countless engravings littering the walls. It stood firm after all these years, yet still, the signs of Zartarxis’ neglect were evident even here. The only building so far that remained fully upright and not half-ruined, and likely for reasons more personal than dutiful. Cracks crisscrossed the vaulted walls, and dull stains blemished the semicircular dias jutting out into the domed pool in the middle. Rippling waves of light warbled across the walls. The water, at least, was crystal clear, yet the sight was marred by the gigantic pile of leaves rising in a mound from the center of the pool (swap subject around). It was further marred by Zartarxis himself.
Drakathur trotted forward unto the dias, his claws clacking against the stone, his eyes firmly on the sack of green scales lounging on top of the mass of squashed leaves. He still recalled, many centuries ago at the delegation ceremony, when Zartarxis was still fit. He had possessed a muscular and sleek physique, with a pair of eyes that seemed lively and full of energy. There was this discomfort that Drakathur sensed within him, yet he appeared to take on the duty with all due weight and gravity. The role that Zartarxis was entrusted with was one rarely envied: (hold guard, etc). This often left its marks on the guardians, and it wasn’t uncommon to hear said guardians to shirk their duties. Yet Zartarxis’ transformation was, to date, the most drastic that Drakathur had ever seen.
Zartarxis, to put it frankly, had grown hugely obese.
He was lounging on his stomach, each flank pooling out far to either side like twin avalanches of green-scaled blubber. They rose in a smooth curves to the apex of his back, thick folds wreathing the entire circumference of his form. His limbs resembled oak trees in their thickness, nearly stump-like as they reached out from his lard-choked frame. Blubber engulfed his biceps and transformed them into large, tubular wads of flab that pressed out on all sides and drooped down and unto his thick forearms. His claws looked like tacked-on accessories to his puffy digits, and his wrists had been swallowed up by the encroaching lard of his forearms and paws. Padded cankles dominated his lower legs, granting them the appearance of overstuffed sausages. Yet it paled in the shadows of his haunches. What were once a sleek, muscled and firm pair of glutes had metamophasized into a gigantic duo of trembling globes. His ass was massive, easily the second largest part of his anatomy. They rested like twin massive slabs of meat, bulging out far from his prone form, somehow trembling as he lied motionless. Suet-like ass fat pressed firmly against his tail, molding around the thick appendage to press firmly against one another. Said appendage only resembled a tail superficially: it was more akin to an elongated, stuffed sausage. It stretched out from between his immense haunches, and lied limply like a tubular sack of meat. Its shape was that of a smoothed triangle, the excess flesh pooling against the mound and rising to a domed point. Even his brisket had changed drastically. Instead of a firm curve, a wall of flabby meat surged out from his chest. It split into two distinct mounds that sagged underneath their own weight, lending him a pair of massive moobs. When it came to determining his neck, there was no definition, no indication where said neck started or ended: just a hill of flesh that rose upwards from his body, collars upon collars of thick blubber stacked one on top of the other, until they met his head. His entire face sagged, draped heavy with blubber, fat dangling off it in thick jowls and hefty chins. The sheer accumulation of fat there had forced his eyes to peek out through thin slits, and where it not for the thunderous snores, would’ve made determining if he was asleep impossible. His wings rested limply against his broad back, limp and useless, their arms reduced into wide quivering blobs of scaled flesh. Rolls and folds dominated the expanse of his corpulence, each roll as wide as a normal dragon’s arm and each valley deep enough to lose an entire hand into. Zartarxis resembled more of a mound with dragonic features stamped unto it, then he resembled an actual dragon.
[They had quickly gathered outside to discuss. Execution was the first solution to be offered; after all, he had shirked his duties severely and placed Argonnessen at risk, and not to mention that he mocked their entire race by his sheer girth. This, to Drakathur’s great relief, wasn’t a popular choice: he was still young in dragon years, and the post was known to be hard on those who take it. It wasn’t guaranteed that he had placed Argonnessen at risk. The company settled on threats and giving the green a chance to make up for his folly.]
The changes weren’t just limited to his form. Once, he was an ambitious, energetic young male with a need to conquer and control. Now, he was the pure embodiment of laziness. Rumors spoke that he’ll often lay in the same position for months before demanding his servants to turn him over for him. His scales used to be so shined and so polished that they gleamed in the sunlight. Now, he took about as much care of himself as he did with the rest of his lair. When he had stood and waddled towards the eyes of chronepsis, dribbles of slime and muck had coursed out of his folds and send droplets spraying about the room. Responsibility, something he was chosen for and had proven to be adept with in the past, had became like poison to him. When he was confronted all those months ago, he had blamed everything except himself, for the failure of maintaining the royal hall, for allowing that settlement to exist, for the sheer size he was now. Drakathur had never seen ennui of such total scale and depth before in his life.
To any normal dragon, the sight of Zartarxis would inspire utter disgust and loathing, and many of Drakathur’s kindred did during their unscheduled visit. But Drakathur, as he came to the conclusion, was not a normal dragon.
[As he wobbled about, and to the great disgust of the majority of the company, dribbles of slime and muck would course out of his folds and send droplets spraying about the room. His entire maw and much of the front half of his throat was drenched in a mixture of viscera and grease. And the stench – dear Tiamat the stench. The smell mixed with the aroma of the leaves to create a sickly sour odour that seemed to drilled into one’s nostrils.]
Drakathur stared at the excessively corpulent green. Each thunderous snore the green gave rippled through the very air itself, and sent waves of fat cruising down his turgid mass. Want and need burned in Drakathur’s chest and groin, and he shifted his weight uncomfortably. Ever since he had lied eyes on the green’s immense girth, he was enthralled. He was speechless as the rest of his compatriots chewed out the blubbery green, merely staring at Zartarxis as he squeaked out half-apologies and kept shifting blame. The green had stumbled about, his heavy and encompassing mass quivering and sloshing about as if he contained an entire lake’s worth of water within his scales. The sight was still in Drakathur’s mind that night, then the company discussed their plans whilst they gossiped and laughed about how far Zartarxis had fallen. The image still burned in him weeks later when they all returned home, and the nights thereafter was spent tossing and turning around as vivid fantasies replayed in his mind. Dreams of being engulfed and crushed underneath Zartarxis’ weight, of playing and slapping his wobbling fat, of breeding the immense green and watching his sheer mass rippling with each powerful thrust. He had pleasured himself more times in a single week than he normally did in decades.
Initially, his newfound sexual attraction came as a surprise to him. After all, he didn’t hold a sliver of attraction towards Zartarxis back when he was thin—hell, he didn’t even favor males. But he quickly came to crave the sensation: he had not felt a need as burning in several centuries, and he’s more than willing to relish each and every second of it. Yet, no matter how often he masturbated, the sheer need for Zartarxis’ body remained intense. That was why he was here, only several months since that meeting, intent to finally satisfying the itch.
[He was attracted to the green, but wasn’t sure how to approach, seeing as he had never bed a male before. So he didn’t.]
Drakathur dithered, wondering if waking up the green from up close or from here was preferable, and he opted for the safer option. After a moment spent clearing his throat, and fighting the urge to adopt a noble and regal stance, he spoke: “Zartarxis?”
Only snores met his question. Drakathur cleared his throat once more. “Zartarxis!”
A snore hitched, and a warbling grumble echoed out of the green. His heavy mass rippled and sloshed about as he languidly reached around with his limbs. The slits where his eyes were shuddered as he craned his heavy head up from the collar of fat he had rested against. He craned his maw open, jowls and chins shivering as he did, before the burp blasted out.
It was like a thunderclap. The sound boomed into the surroundings and drilled into Drakathur’s ears, causing him to flinch. His entire face and throat wobbled widly from the sheer force, the congealed mixture of grease and viscera spraying off it in droplets. The great expulse of gas lasted for several long, drawn-out moments before, finally, dieing out. Arousal burned deep in Drakathur’s groin.
“Who-” Zartarxis hacked and coughed, before taking in a deep wheeze, “Dares!?” he finished, his tone as hostile as it was deep and lisping. He lolled his head so one slittled eye stared at Drakathur.
Immediately, Zartarxis stuttered and froze. His paws languidly scrambled for the ground, his fat quivering all over as he struggled to heave himself upright. Drakathur said nothing and merely watched as the corpulent green wheezed and panted with his ascent. Flanks rippled and stretched downwards as Zartarxis rose, folds bouncing and rubbing against one another. His paws sunk in several inches to the compacted mound of scented leaves as he struggled to push his limbs out straight, yet even with his equally-turgid wings pressing down against the ground, his speed was glacial. Jowls and chins wobbled as he panted with an open maw. Eventually, the turgid dragon managed to stand fully upright, his belly wobbling mere inches above the ground. Even from this distance, Drakathur could tell his limbs were shivering underneath his weight.
[Zartarxis is known to be cruel and domineering. How are we to successfully characterize this individual within this fic? And what of Drakathur? Their traits should be somewhat compatible, at the very least.]
[Drakathur’s eyes widened: he had managed to get even fatter than last time.]
“Dear Silver,” Zartarxis slurred out, tilting his head forward and causing his neck-rolls to bob in unison. Technically, Drakathur could reprimand him for not bowing as he should, but frankly he believed that motion to be impossible for Zartarxis, and he’s not here on official business anyways.
“I have-” A great snort, followed by a hoarse wheeze. A rumbling groan stuttered out of the green’s immense gut. “Impeded local… excavations and…” Another wheeze, as the first of the hidden muck started dribbling out of his folds. “Eradicated several parties-”
“At ease, Zar,” Drakathur finally spoke, his voice firm and loud.
Zartarxis stared for a moment, before his limbs buckled and he collapsed unto himself. A loud yet muffled thud echoed in the room, followed soon thereafter by wet sloshes and slaps as his folds impacted one another. Flanks surged out in great heaving bulges of trembling flesh, green scales stretched even tauter across his spilling form. He shook – dear Tiamat, the green actually shook - on the spot, his mass gyrating and shaking about as if a pond being subjected to an earthquake. A series of loud rumbles groaned out of his gut, followed shortly by a sharp toot, before the fart thundered out. It came as a stuttering series of expulsions, gas pushing through the engulfed mass of his rear, his rump shuddering and shaking as it happened. It was wet and raw, lasting for several long seconds before it stuttered out. Zartarxis wheezed with trembling cheeks, clutching the sides of his moobs as he tilted his head again. “Deepest apologies, Wise one,” he said, his flesh still trembling and quaking.
“There’s no need to apologize, Zar,” Drakathur answered, trying hard to keep his voice level. “I am not here on behalf of the eyes of chronepsis.”
Zartarxis relaxed – as much as that was visible – at the words. A snort rippled his face, and he peered at Drakathur through thin slits. “Then what is your business here?” he rasped out, irritation just barely bleeding into his voice.
“To offer a deal,” Drakathur replied, still watching as the last of the quivers finally died down. “Clearly, the... situation merits some reevaluation.”
“Under what light?” he asked, his tone gaining an edge.
“Under light of the sheer number of explorers and raiders pilfering the land. There’s so many of them it would be quite difficult to deal with for any normal dragon,” Drakathur said, fighting back the urge to add that it would’ve helped if the guardian could actually fit into the ruins to begin with. “You are clearly overwhelmed.”
[Zartarxis cocked his head, jostling his jowls. He took in a deep rasp before speaking, “It… has become difficult lately.”]
“I am not overwhelmed!” Zartarxis nearly growled out the words as he eased his maw out. Abruptly he stopped and resettled into his relaxed position, his mass rippling from the motion. “I’m merely prioritizing targets.”
“Indeed,” Drakathur replied quickly. “And my deal would allow you to eliminate more targets with better efficiency. After all, not every incident requires your personal intervention.”
[There could be a reversal of roles. Drak begins as dominant, and ends submissive, whilst the opposite is true with Zar. Zar inspected Drak’s body and tentatively agreed to the request. Maybe they have some chit-chat as they foreplay, and they gradually grow to like the other.]
[“And I certainly didn’t think that I would ever be able to breed a willing dragon again,”]
[Zar would never admit to this. He is capable, dominant, the best. Nothing is too difficult. Maybe he tries to mount Drak, but the sheer weight and volume of his lard makes it impossible? Zar demands that he inspects the red’s body first before acquiescing to the request. This move establishes who’s the dominant dragon in the room. Maybe Zar makes more and more humiliating demands as it becomes clear that the red is completely smitten. Maybe the red’s maw gets stuck in between his moobs – Drak was in heaven the entire time. Zar likely realizes the power that his girth has over Drak, and he’s conflicted – it does feel good to have this amount of power of an eye of chronepis, but he’s still salty about being this massively overweight. Maybe, after hearing how pathethic the red becomes, Zar becomes more dominant and haughty about his weight to the red, commanding Drak to worship his body. Maybe Drak ends up, feeling humialted and concerned if the eyes found out about this, his rear pushed out underneath Zar’s. They are ass-to-ass. Here, Zar finally fucks Drak, a massively powerful thrust gauging deep into Drak’s entrance and causing pain and joy in equal measure as he roared out in pleasure. Each thrust was deep, powerful, with a long and slow draw out, the tension building before Zar thrusted back in with the sheer force of an avalance. This feels completely wrong to Drak – here he is, being claimed by a green who has grown immensely obese, but the tabooness just makes it all the more exciting. The red cums multiple times, being extremely overstimulated and sensitive, before Zar released a massive load unto the red’s ass. Maybe Drak crawls up next to the green, Zar drapes a heavy limb over the red, before releasing a loud belch in the red’s face, which causes a whimper and another orgasm in the red. Zar asks, unprompted, for better quality meals when Drak comes back the next time, to which the red agrees. The green then gently licks the red’s head as a sign of affection as they cuddled for a while, before telling him to get lost. As the red shakingly walked out, his rear legs nearly faltering behind him, the green immediately falls back to sleep. Regret and shame burned in Drak, but he felt fulfilled and quite happy.]
[Romance and shit.]
[Drak is genuinely attracted to the green’s aspects besides his weight, and this flattery takes Zar a bit by surprise. He’s touched by the comment.]
[Maybe Zar was somewhat of a troublemaker, yet a rising prodigy, and the eyes wanted to see how he’ll handle the post in addition to getting rid of Zar. Zar himself knew this. He therefore despises the eyes for dumping him here and letting all this happen. Zar would agree to anything that would enable his laziness further. He stopped caring. All this effort led to naught. He would, at first, dismiss the red’s compliments as flattery, until he is convinced otherwise. Then he’ll be quite touched. Drakathur would have to convince Zar that he’s serious. Zar would likely ask if this is a joke, some cruel game they’re playing, and Drakathur insists that it isn’t. Drakathur is here on behalf of himself, and not the eyes. Zar is likely silent for a few moments, mulling over this.]
[They should be compatible in some shape, way or form.]
[Maybe Drakathur only knew how to strike deals, and not how to court another male.]
[Or maybe the ending is a tad more wholesome, in which the green asks how it was, and if he’ll be back. Then the food request, and the affectionate lick. Maybe he offers the red to stay over, to which the red declines, citing work that needs to be done, but he’ll try his best to get back as soon as he can. Mostly it’s a dominance and control, asshole-ness thing, but there should be sparks of genuine care hidden throughout. Maybe Drak’s confession of earlier makes Zar’s heart a little soft. Remember, there can be spells and psionic influencers, so Zar should consider that as well. The dominance is nessecary, but that doesn’t mean that Zar can be completely heartless or not show some affection to the red. The green went to sleep with a massive smile on his bloated face.]
[Gradually, Zartarxis’ demanour shifts over the story. He starts off as uncaring and indifferent, but as the two interact, he starts opening up to Drakathur.]
Drakathur bit back the need to ask whether the ‘standing up’ part of the task was the hardest step. “It has become quite clear to me as well. What I’m about to offer has not been approved by the chronepsis, but what they don’t know wouldn’t slay them.”
A heavy chortle stuttered out of Zartarxis, his front-half shuddering as his cheeks creased with a smile. “A personal… exchange, then? What do you offer?”
“An errand dragon. I’ve got an ambitious young male that wishes to prove himself to me, and in turn, to the chronepsis. I’ve struggled with finding him a suitable task, but I feel having him take on your more physical duties would alleviate your stress greatly.”
The green was silent for a few moments, idly tapping a claw against his brisket. Drakathur waited, trying hard not to display his nervousness, trying to focus on the soft jiggles of Zartarxis’ chest.
“This is a trade, yes? What must I offer in return?” Zartarxis finally slobbered out, his eyes glaring through the thin slits.
Drakathur took in a deep breath and tried to calm the butterflies in his stomach. He leveled his gaze with the green, before he finally said: “A night of passion.”
Zartarxis froze, his pudgy digit stuck half-way in the air. He opened his maw, closed it, before opening it again. “T-this, sorry, what?” he said, disbelief and confusion coloring every syllable.
“You’ve heard me, Zartarxis,” Drakathur said, his voice firm and level. “For that helper, you’re going to let me breed you.”
The green’s eyes widened so wide that, for the first time, his (irises) were actually visible. “T-this is a joke, surely,” he sputtered out.
[Alarmed, angry, stunned, thoughts in overdrive, etc.]
“Am I laughing?” Drakathur said bluntly, shifting his weight ever so slightly to resemble an aggressive stance. (Be insistent, but not aggressive.)
Zartarxis gaped like a fish for a few more moments, before his gaze drifted down to the pool below. “You wish t-to mate with me?” he asked slowly.
“Yes. Tonight, if you want to have that helper.”
The green remained gazing at the ground, clearly in shock and trying to take it all in. Drakathur sat down on his haunches and waited. They had the time, and he’s willing to give the green all the time in the world.
(“Y-you’re being serious,” the green said, maw partially agape. “This is preposterous, humiliating,” his voice became louder and sharper. “You expect me to whore myself-!?”)
(“No, of course not! We are merely scratching the other’s back-”
(“By letting you mount me!?” The words felt like a sharp spear being driven into Drakathur’s chest.
(“No, I… I can see I’ve committed a grave mistake-”
(“Grave indeed!” He snorted and gave a sharp belch. His gaze sharpened as he looked over the red’s body. “Is this some excuse to mate with me?”
Drakathur expected to be yelled out of the chamber. “No, I merely offering a gift as repentence for my forwardness. You see…” He stopped, mentally scrambling for softer words. His throat felt dry as his heart thrummed in his neck. He had never tried to court another male before. With a swallow, he continued. “Your…” Girth? Mass? “Visage has inspired in admiration and appreciation-”
“Stop, stop.” Zartarxis narrowed his eyes, somehow thinning his slitted eyes further.
“Is this,” Zartarxis began, idly tapping his chest as he spoke, “Because of my… girth?”
Drakathur dithered for a moment. He stared at the glowering green in front of him. One half of him, the experienced negotiator with all his pride, wanted to disengage, apologize and leave. The other yearned and burned for the touch, for the feel. “Yes,” he finally answered.
The word echoed in the room, leaving behind silence as the syllable faded away. Zartarxis returned to his silent deliberation, tracing circles with his claws on his brisket. Eventually, the green raised his heavy head and stared at Drakathur. To the red, it felt as if he was being evaluated.
[The green stared hard at Drakathur, his eyes roaming the lithe form of the red, eyes roaming his body with an intensity behind them that made the red felt like he was a bug being examined.]
“You would truly… want to breed… this?” The green gripped one of his moobs and shook it, sending ripples cascading throughout his flesh.
Decades of training and experience was the only reason he didn’t visibly shudder at the sight. His maw felt as dry as the deserts of Acuing*. “I understand this may strike you as peculiar, but-” He stopped himself. Took a deep breath. “Yes.”
A chuckle pushed out of the corpulent green, yet otherwise he remained silent. A pregnant silence descended upon the room, only broken by the intermittent muffled groans and bubbling of his gut. The silence felt like a leaden weight that enveloped Drakathur, pushing him on all sides.
(“How do I know you’ll honor the agreement?”
“You have my word,” he answered, meeting the green’s stare.
Zartarxis looked back down to the ground. When it came to the members of the eyes of chronepsis, these kinds of verbal promises are honor-bound, lest they incur the wrath of Tiamat herself.)
[“Alright, fine,” Zartarxis finally answered. “But you shall not penetrate me under any circumstance, understand?”
[“Yes,” Drakathur replied.]
“Very well,” Zartarxis finally answered. His eyes was still downcast, staring somewhere in the space between the pool and the mound. “I’ll be… your consort for tonight.”
Relief poured through Drakathur’s veins as a weight receded from his withers. Near instantly, arousal enrupted all across his body as the fact became clear: the deal has been agreed to, and he’s going to fuck this incredibly obese dragon. As he pushed himself unto all fours, he could feel the tip of his cock already pushing out of his slit.
[He tried to be regal, to be proud. But how can you maintain dignity with what you are saying, with what you are going to do?]
“Then it is agreed upon,” Drakathur pronounced as he entered the pool. The water was cool to the touch, and quickly, the red dragon was submerged up to his wither. He walked through the pool, eyes firmly on the wheezing greeze, reaching the mound and trotting up till he stood before the green lard-ass.
[He suppressed a flinch as the cool water met the tip of his cock.]
Zartarxis looked up at the red dragon, panting with an open maw, a ripple racing down his cheeks and roll-addled throat with each breath. Heat wafted off Zartarxis and pushed firmly against Drakathur, the warmth enveloping him like a heavy blanket. Slowly, he walked around to face the green’s massive ass. He found his mouth suddenly as dry as the desert.
Before him was a mass of green-scaled flesh, like an ocean of blubber, spreading out before him in a heavy pear-like shape. He was the widest just above his hips, his flanks surging out on both directions like a landslades of blubber, lending a distinct pear-like shape, engulfing the surroundings in their greed for space. Muffled groans, gurgles and squelches rumbled out of Zartarxis’ gut, the sound almost akin to a large couldroon bubbling and boiling. A huge pair of haunches flanked the massive collar of fat serving as the base of his tail, the haunches trembling with each wheeze the green gave. Shaking, Drakathur stepped and stood over Zartarxis’ tail, having to spread his limbs far apart to allow the massive appendage space underneath him. Drakathur realized, with a powerful shudder that caused his cock to throb painfully, that Zartarxis’ tail was as big as him: the green was wider than three normal dragons standing shoulder-to-shoulder, and with how far his flanks surged out, would likely be as wide as four.
A green maw, the sight nearly blocked entirely by the massive jowls and neck rolls, lolled around so that the one squinting eye rested firmly on the shivering red. Fold-riddled fore legs were tucked in the best they can, paws resting on the languid moobs surging out of his brisket.
A soft growl thundered out of him.
“I won’t mount you,” Drakathur said, matching his sight. “I merely wish to… touch.”
A snort rippled through the green’s mass. “Proceed.”
[“I…” A deep, slobbering rasp, before Zartarxis continued, “I can’t lift my tail.”]
The words plucked at something deep within Drakathur and only fanned the fire of lust prickling through his entire soul. With a rumbling purr, Drakathur leaned forward and placed a paw on one of his haunches. Immediately, his digits sunk deep within the suet-like flesh, green scales dimpling hard underneath his touch as the mass of ass fat wobbled and undulated. It was like pressing into liquid butter: flesh molding around his digits, bulges of green scales bulging out between his outsplayed digits, sinking deeper and deeper into the flesh.
(Drakathur stepped to the side of the stuffed tail and sat down, his dick throbbing in the air just below his abdomen. He gently reached out with both paws and touched Zartarxis’ one haunch. His digits sunk into the plush blubber of Zartarxis’ one ass cheek, the fat dimpling underneath his paws and bulging out between his outsplayed digits. He was in awe of the sheer size of the cheek, easily wide enough to encompass both of his. Keeping his claws arched back lest he nick the flesh, Drakathur started playing with the haunch. He touched it all over, gripped parts of it and rolled it between his pads, lifted up the heavy sack of meat and let it fall down with a wet slosh, the entire haunch wobbling from the action. It was like a sack of liquid with how it quaked and rippled. Soft, gentle slaps let the mass tremble from each light blow.)
“That’s okay,” Drakathur said suavely, slowly kneading the haunch and watching each and every languid jiggle. “We’ll find a way.”
Zartarxis huffed, before a sharp belch erupted out his maw and jostled his face and neck. Drakathur’s dick was fully engorged by now, the tapering appendage leading pre-cum out of its orifice as angry veins pulsed with each rapid heartbeat. His dick throbbed and twitched as he placed his other paw against Zartarxis’ other haunch, the momentum from his move causing waves to languidly travel up through the green’s vastness.
“You’re massive,” Drakathur breathed out, kneading the swollen mounds of dragon ass and watching as the alternating ripples undulated throughout Zartarxis girth. “Immense. Colossal. How do you move about in the swamp with such soft ground?”
[Zartarxis might not react well to teasing comments, especially so early on in the encounter.]
The green snorted and did his best to look indignant with drooping chops. “I’m… not that big,” he said softly, yet there was a lack of conviction in his words. “And I don’t. I-I travel with my flight.”
Drakathur chuckled, his penis bobbing with need. “With such a pair of wings?” He nodded towards the clump of fold-riddled meat called Zartarxis’ wing-arms.
“Y-yes! I am not helpless!” Zartarxis sputtered out, his frown nearly drowning in the excess adipose of his face. “It’s just… difficult and exerting. So I-” His maw snapped shut as he gave a guilty look at Drakathur.
A smile unsheathed the red’s teeth as he started to inch forward, taking wide steps around Zartarxis’ tail and slowly transitioning his paws to instead rest on the green’s lower back. “So you do what?” he asked, his tone utterly innocent.
(Maybe Drakathur waits until a bit later before starting to crawl unto the green’s back.)
Zartarxis remained silent for a second, before he let out a soft sigh. “I… I use a ring of levitation...”
“How many?” Drakathur asked, knowing full well that the green must be several times heavier than the maximun weight a single ring could lift.
A pause. “Four.”
A strong pang of arousal flared throughout Drakathur, and he drew his fore limb back and slapped Zartarxis’ haunch. The wet slap resounded throughout the chamber as Zartarxis yelped, as his haunch wobbled and sloshed about wildly, large waves of fat cruising through his vastness to jiggle his neck. A sharp belch rattled out his roll-slathered front as he glared at the smiling red. “W-w-warn me next time!” he rasped out.
“My apologies, Zar,” Drakathur said with a sardonic voice and bow. “I am merely… admiring the sheer volume of your ass.”
Zartarxis snorted, wobbling his face. “J-just don’t s-slap without warning,” he wheezed out. Drakathur wasn’t sure, but he swore that the green’s face was a bit… darker in color. “S-s-sensitive,” Zartarxis continued.
The red felt the urge to tease the green further, but he buried it. “Very well,” he said softly, patting the swollen mound of ass flesh. “I’ll warn.” Drakathur then shifted his weight, pushing in with both paws just above the hip of Zartarxis. The green’s lower back was just as soft and butter-like as his ass, with the red’s arms sinking up past their wrists into the fat, and wide collars of rolls stretched across the scaled expanse. Just a slight valley, an ever so smooth, depressed line of flesh, indicated where Zartarxis’ spine ran. Drakathur took a moment to gaze over the green, searching for any hint of muscle definition, any tuat curve of flesh. All he saw was sagging mounds of blubber.
Drakathur gripped the spilling fat of the green’s lower stomach, careful that his claws didn’t nick the flesh. Hot, butter-like fat trembled underneath the layer of smooth scales, and he took a moment to fondle it as he pondered. Where, did Drakathur wonder, was this? The lower-rightmost part of his underbelly? Or would you call this part of the flank? Where did his flank and stomach stop and start? Do traditional anatomical definition still apply to a dragon so overfed, so hopelessly obese that he’s more flab than dragon, or was he simply so corpulent that new definitions had to be invented? As Drakathur played with the fat, kneading the flesh in his digits as ripples quivered across the vast and creased expanse of belly, arousal throbbed painfully from his engorged member and all the way across his body.
For the first time in centuries, a whimper bubbled up through his maw.
[
A rumble stuttered out the mass of flesh underneath the red’s paws, and he felt something churn beneath it. “Drak!” Zartarxis slurred out in alarm. The red barely had enough time to dismount before a loud burble exploded out of the green’s ass. It was a slow, rattling fart, the gas pushing its way past the engulfing tail and ass fat, each wet bubble jiggling his haunches and tail. It sounded like an ancient beast awakening from deep slumber. Wisps of off-colored smog wafted up between his haunches and tail, trailing lazily up into the air. The sharp tinge of acid tickled Drakathur’s nostrils. After a few long seconds, the gaseous expulse died out.
“I…” Zartarxis wheezed in a deep breath, before continuing. “I-I just ate…”
]
(“W-w-what are you doing?” Zartarxis asked as the red started climbing unto his back.
“Enjoying your flab,” he responded non-chalantly. Zar snorted and peered at the red, yet said nothing.)
He slowly worked his way up, fore paws traveling further up Zartarxis’ mass as his hind knees finally impacted the green’s haunches, sending a ripple cruising past his fore paws. His penis brushed past the base of Zartarxis’ tail, causing a sharp shock of pure euphoria to blast throughout his veins. He had to stop himself from mounting the green right now and to start fucking the crease between one of his haunches. Slowly, he climbed on top of Zartarxis, all four of his footholds wobbling and sliding from underneath him. He planted himself firmly on Zartarxis’ back, his cock pressing deeply into the green’s lower back. He sunk within the plush fat, the warmth and silk-like softness making his eyelids heavy. Zartarxis was wide enough for him to sleep on, with room to spare!
“Oh, please, make yourself comfortable,” came the sarcastic rasp from Zartarxis. “It is not as if there’s enough weight on me already.”
“Would you like me to stop, then?” Drakathur asked, pausing on the green’s back. He felt the fat slipping and trembling underneath his elbows and heels, and felt just how deeply he indented into the green’s back. His cock throbbed were it pressed against Zartarxis’ back, the way the scales slid underneath his urethra sending shocks of pleasure tingling up his spine.
A soft grumble came from the green. “No,” he finally said, shifting his front. The motion sloshed down his body, thick flesh swaying turgidly as it followed the motion of the wave, his stomach sloshing from side-to-side as the motion finally dissipated somewhere just before his haunches. Drakathur could feel himself bobbing as the motion crossed underneath him. He forced back the moan as the sweet and sour scent of his arousal wafted up to his nostrils.
Soft gurgles and groans rumbled through the flesh and vibrated into Drakathur as he crawled further up the green’s back, wobbling and shifting with each wobble of the ocean of fat beneath him. As he neared the base of the widest roll of what could be called the beginning of Zartarxis’ neck, a whisper reached him throughout the gurgles and sloshes. “I’m huge…”
The red chortled and drew his fore limbs out to hug as much of Zartarxis’ back as he could. “Yes, you are,” he said with a grin. Another snort wobbled the green’s face, yet still he said nothing, just staring straight ahead at the wall.
(Research wing anatomy.)
Drakathur turned his attention to Zartarxis’ wings. Normally, due to the rigors of flight, the elongated ‘arms’ and ‘biceps’ would be the most heavily muscled parts of a dragon. This, of course, assumed that said dragon hadn’t been completely sedentary and stuffing his maw full for centuries. The consequences of which would likely resemble what the red was seeing now. Flabby, crease-riddled tubes of flesh was all Drakathur saw, their elbows reduced to a fold between two bloated tubs of meat. A hefty chunk of fat rested partially on them, surging from the large collar of fat that served as the base of Zartarxis’ huge neck. His wing-arms pooled on the green’s back, merely blobs of undefined and smooth flesh. The elongated ‘fingers’ that stretched out between each span of membrane had no definition whatsoever; they were more akin to overstuffed sausages. The membrane of his wings tuckered into multiple folds of their own as they tried clutching to flesh that had grown several times wider and pressed into itself at multiple positions. The only thing that hinted at where his wings normally attached to his shoulders was a wide roll of fat that began at the base of his wings and ran down his flanks to somewhere just behind his chest.
Carefully squirming his digits underneath the appendages, Drakathur squeezed and caressed the bloated wing-arms, trying to feel their weight as he tried lifting them. Damp heat engulfed his digits as the blubber molded and oozed in his grip.
“You fly with these?” Drakathur couldn’t resist saying out loud, marveling at the sheer volume of adipose dangling from the limbs.
A snort caused a ripple to cruise down the back of Zartarxis’ stack of neck rolls. “Of course,” he slurred out, staring straight ahead, unable to roll his head back far enough to gaze at the red.
“They look more like ornaments or jewelry than… wings,” Drakathur said, now patting and palpatating the appendages, in awe of the several-inch thickness of their adipose.
Something tensed underneath Drakathur’s touch, and he ripped his paws away in alarm as Zartarxis’ wings started flaring out. The motion was slow and languid, the flesh wobbling and rippling wildly as they pushed themselves out. Slowly, the wings unfurled themselves out to display a wingspan that still easily outspanned the width of his girth. The sight would’ve been somewhat impressive for Drakathur if large and rounded sacks of quaking lard didn’t hang from the biceps and forearms.
“Does…” A deep wheeze. “Does jewelry fan themselves out, Drakathur?” Zartarxis rasped out, his wings beginning to shiver.
“No,” the red answered, carefully gauging the length of the green’s wingspan. His impressive wingspan seemed to be the only thing unaffected by his excessive weight gain. “But they don’t let you fly, either.”
[Maybe this happens after Drak compliments Zar?]
A huff, before Zartarxis’ wings reared up, then flapped down. It was a lurching, heaving motion, the acceleration of the flap leaving a lot to be desired, but it had the effect. With the sound of wind forcibly pushed, a great gust of air washed over Drakathur as errant leaves were sent spiraling through the air. The force was so strong that, just for a moment, Drakathur thought he was going to ascend with the green. Then Zartarxis’ arms hit his flanks with a loud, wet slap, followed soon thereafter by an equally wet belch.
Deep, raspy wheezes filled the air as the ripples cruised throughout the green’s mass, his wings shivering were they lied limp against his flanks. With another snort, Zartarxis spoke first.
“Before you ask, yes, normally I’ll have my rings on before trying to fly,” he rasped out, his words punctuated by sharp inhales. “I’m aware of my… heft.”
Drakathur shifted his weight as his tail flicked the air behind him. “That was… impressive, all things considered,” he said, patting the side of the corpulent dragon.
Another belch rippled Zartarxis’ row of neck-rolls. His next words were slow, spiked with threat. “I do not need to be insulted by your baseless flattery.”
The red was somewhat surprised at the tone. “Baseless? Your wingspan remains just as impressive as it was at the coronation - number, correct?
A moment passed. “You remembered?”
“Yes. Even back then, I thought your wings were quite wide and strong. Your attempt now, without the aids, only served to reinforce it.”
Zartarxis was quiet for several long seconds. “I see,” he said softly.
Drakathur felt the need to clarify. “Yes, it is obvious that your… girth is quite attractive to me. But don’t feel that I’ve come here just to satisfy my lust on your blubber alone.”
“Which number am I?”
“The first. Male, that is. If you count the females-”
“Your first male?” Incredibility filled the raspy voice. “I’m your first?”
For a second, Drakathur didn’t know what to say. He stammered. “Y-yes. You’re the first. I… I’ve never tried mating with males before.”
It was quiet for several moments. “Huh,” the green finally said, sounding surprised.
“I just didn’t know how to approach you. How to greet you, what I should do…” Drakathur trailed off. Why was he so forthcoming with this personal information? He knew there wasn’t any suggestion spells here. “And with your assignment I just thought that you were… beyond my reach.”
“But you felt it only appropriate to visit me now after you’ve learned how fat I’ve gotten?”
Drahthur shifted uncomfortably on the wobbling back-fat. “Yes and no. Yes, your added girth made you more attractive to me by a tenfold, but I didn’t visit earlier because I simply didn’t know where you were stationed at. I’ve asked, but the chronepsis didn’t want to give me the information.”
“And this deal was just a way to get me to agree to this without all this emotional devulgement?”
The red felt as if an arrow had slipped straight into his heart. Zartarxis had hit the nail square on the head. “H-how did you come to-”
“Easy. You’re a red, and tend to be proud and stoic. Furthermore, a member of the chronepsis, which only further emphasizes unattachment.” A moment passed. Then, in a voice tinged with forlorness, “We’re a lonely race.”
Weight hung heavy on Drakathur’s withers. For once in his long life, he was rendered speechless.
“You could’ve just… talked to me,” Zartarxis finally said from behind the fold-riddled pillar of his neck. “I… would’ve appreciated that.”
Slowly, the red nodded. “Yes, I…” The words slipped out his throat. “I’m sorry.”
A silence descended unto the room. It was so quiet that Drakthur could hear the soft gurgles and squelches of Zartarxis’ stomach.
“That’s okay,” Zartarxis finally said. A soft rumble emitted out of his gut, vibrating just below Drakathur’s hind paws. “You were saying about my wings…?”
Drakathur took a moment to rally himself, somewhat confused at the warm feeling filling his chest. “O-oh, yes, they are impressive in their width. You must’ve had plenty of aspirants.”
A deep chuckle rippled the green’s mass. “I wish. My station was so low they’ll rather associate with humanoids before daring a glance in my direction. This”-he patted his brisket, sending wobbles throughout his form-”changed little. Or so I thought.”
Heat bloomed in Drakathur’s cheeks. “I-I see.”
“What about my neck?” Zartarxis said softly, shifting his neck and jostling the many folds wreathing its girth. “Go on. Touch it.”
[Maybe the above happens when Drakathur is in front, facing Zartarxis.]
[“I mean, they’re… interesting,” Zartarxis said with a giggle, grasping one with a swollen paw. “They’re nice and soft weights that dangle a lot when I fly. Plush too, perfect for warming my paws.”
“You don’t sound too upset about your girth?”
Zartarxis gave a chortle, another shudder going through him. “Far too late for me to do anything about it. I’ve just accepted it. But…” His face’s coloration darkened as he squeezed his moob. “With all of your attention, I’m… reconsidering things…”
A sharp tingle shot through Drakathur’s spine and into his groin. “W-what do you mean?”
The green lifted his swollen moob, then let it drop down with a muffled slap, his brisket rippling from the motion. A smile creased his bloated cheeks.
“I meant that I’m… starting to favor this,” he said, bobbing his moob in his grip. Another free paw went to his neck-rolls, and he started to shake and jostle the folds. “I’m so… jiggly. Heavy all over, a massive, heaving ball of lard and heat.” He closed his eyes as he hugged his bulging brisket. “Is that really so bad?”]
[“This one time, I completely crushed an adventurer. By accident, of course, Back then, I only had two rings, and as you can imagine, hauling all of this”-with a smirk, Zartarxis slapped his flank, his turgid flesh rippling and wobbling all over as he let out a wet belch-“is quite difficult, and at some point, when I was flying above the interloper, panting my lungs out, my wings gave out, and I dropped like a rock. Right on top of him. I didn’t want to admit it to myself back then, but it felt great,” he said, still smirking as he played idly with one of his moobs.]
[“Oh yes,” Zartarxis rasped out, before a sudden burp thundered out his swollen face. “Breed me, Drak. Take this massive lard-blob of a dragon. Make me wobble. Worship me.”]
[With a massive, thunderous burp, Zartarxis started to flap himself upright. Large wads of flesh shifted and shunted outwards as he craned himself unto his hind legs, thick folds surging out to hang down towards the ground. Great ripples of fat jostled his form, folds bobbing and bouncing in large waves, his fat quaking like an ocean in an earthquake. His moutanious belly remained stuck firmly to the ground as he shifted positions, folding into itself and forming deep, canyon-like valleys in his flesh. His moobs dangled down and trembled with heft, and his haunches drooped down to hang like swollen mounds that trembled inches above the floor. He was truly immense.
Another deep burp thundered out his maw before he languidly spread his stubby fore arms wide open. “C’mon, there’s a lot of me for you to explore.”]
[“To be frank, it’s comfortable resting my head against it.”]
[Zartarxis keeps his rings hidden underneath a moob.]
[“I was… angry and spiteful at what had happened. I took it out on the giants, on my servant, just… everything. I only felt better when my stomach was stuffed to bursting. But at first, I hated being this unwieldy blob of meat. Then, gradually, I started seeing it as a way of being spiteful in and of itself. Just being this massive fat ass was like a spit in the face of the chronepsis.” His face hardened. “I savored those expressions, for I knew, that was all I could ever do to them. Disgust them.”]
[His tail-tip slid across Zartarxis’ broad backside, occasionally slapping his haunches or worming in between the creases of his tail and haunches. Even his wings reached down and pressed against the green’s back, kneading the fat with his wing-thumbs.]
[Drakathur was somewhat attracted to Zartarxis even before his massive weight gain, but felt uneasy at trying to start a romance with him as he had never tried with another male before.
(Wing-arm-fat play, before the red dismounts the green and starts playing with the green’s neck rolls. Getting an idea, he sticks his maw into the green’s cleavage and starts squirming and playing with it, and remember the muck!
Zartarxis snorted once more, and took a deep wheeze. “By Tiamat, you’re disgusting,” he said at the snuggling red below.
Drakathur pulled his maw out and gazed back up at the green and merely raised an eye-ridge. Zartarxis met his gaze, before wavering and looking away with a deep, dark green spreading across his jowls.
Zartarxis was the first to break the silence. “So what now?”
(They discuss shit, before eventually deciding that Zartarxis should roll unto his side and Drakathur should press out all the gas before he could safely mount the wheezing green. Belly fucking occurs.)
[Approaches, dialouge, Zartarxis pissed, but Drak reasons with him, promises him an errand dragon to do all his stuff, but in return for something: to let him fuck him. Zar eventually agrees, and the first task is to push Zar unto his side for better reach.]
(
“How close to the floor does your stomach hang?”
A whimper. “A few inches away.”
)
(The ripples raced down his neck, rippling past his collars of fat and down the expanse of his fold-wreathed back, slowly cruising through his mass for several seconds before finally dissipating somewhere by his stomach.)
()
(Drakathur should be careful, lest one of his flatulence burns a hole in his groin.)
(Drakathur wormed his maw into one of the folds (or in the crease between his moobs), hot air from his exhales blowing back against him. He lapped at the depths, pushing his snout in deeper as he squirmed, his tail jerking behind him. His groin bucked once, twice, as he moaned and explored the sheer vastness and depths of the green’s body.)
(Tried to mount, soft suet-like thigh meat nearly bringing him to climax. Forced himself away, looking down at the pool, fighting back the climax. Yet still, he can hear the sloshes, the groans and bubbles of the titanic green’s stomach, the rattle of his belch. The heat wafting off the green still pressed firmly against Drakathur’s body, and he had to marshall each and every scrap of willpower to not shoot his load all across the mound and pool. He took in deep breaths as, gradually, the tension lessened. An uncomfortable tightness rested in his groin, nearly painful.
“Something…” A deep wheeze. “Wrong?”
“N-no, nothing,” Drakathur said softly, almost breathlessy.)
(Drakathur starts fucking the belly folds, goes completely wild and ejaculates within the folds. Zartarxis, who had been up to this point less than enthusiastic, has a mind-breaking orgasm and starts fondling himself, having experienced pure bliss from all the sensations. He pushes out a burp, then looks at the red, and burps again, before pleading that the red starts exploring his body. He does, then he is begged to slap his fat, before begging him to mount him. Hind leg scene goes here, red struggles to find the spot, having to play hot-or-cold with the green, before he found the spot and goes to town. Epilogue starts here, after they lie against one another, and the red promises to be back and with treats the next time, before the red has to leave since the green’s stomach rumbles and he declares that his third breakfast is coming soon. The red leaves, feeling completely and utterly fulfilled.)