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Prompt of the Week - Week 108
🕑 Added 2022-08-19 16:04:53 +0000 UTCTAGS: Extremely Big Lop, Wish Fulfillment, Hyper/Mega Hyper, Implied Growth
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Coming home to an empty house had become a regular exercise, yet at no point did this make it anything close to tolerable. The only reason he kept going, the only reason he hadn’t yet gone through some sort of mental breakdown, was precisely the monotony of it: the loneliness wore him down, crushed him underneath its merciless heel… but it could be worse. One of his coworkers was living in what amount to a cupboard under a flight of stairs; he at least had his own place.
His own, very empty, very dusty place. He’d given up trying to clean it after it became clear that no amount of elbow grease would do anything to keep the copious amounts of dust from settling in all the parts of the apartment he didn’t use; such was the price for getting something as cheap that thing was: most of it was now empty space, left abandoned as most of his business was conducted within the bedroom and a small chunk of the living room.
Nevertheless, he powered through. It was all the Garchomp could do, after all; no real way out until he was done with that contract and he could afford to start looking elsewhere for a job that wouldn’t suck the life out of him, somewhere that he might actually have some luck in finding decent companionship. Trying to socialise when his batteries were drained from work at any given point had turned his social life into a barren wasteland, occasionally pockmarked by a few oases’ worth of game nights or the odd bar hop.
Still, he came home every day to an empty house. No matter what he did, no matter who he was around, no matter how much he wanted to bring someone with him, he just didn’t have the energy for it, regardless of how much he wanted the opposite to be true. It was an unfortunate reality he’d become far too accustomed to, and as he turned the key in the front door, William prepared himself to swing it open to reveal yet more empty space.
It was thus with some degree of surprise that he saw someone on the other side when he opened the door. So surprising, in fact, that his brain flatlined and simply refused to process what he was looking at; the possibility of home invasion, thwarted at the exact right moment, just didn’t occur to him, nor did any reasonable option surface to serve itself up as a replacement. Instead, the Garchomp merely recognised that there was, indeed, someone inside his house, someone that wasn’t him, and someone that appeared to take up most of the frame now that he bothered to take a closer look.
Much like his work entailed scanning documents for valuable chunks of information while discarding the rest, so too did William’s social protocol eventually become roboticized for maximum efficiency: take a look at whatever person he was interacting with, then break them down into tiny, bite-sized bits of information that he could later repackage into an easily-pigeonholed whole.
Height, apparent age, facial structure, hair, clothing choice, species. Sometimes weight if it swung in any direction badly enough to be noticeable, most definitely never anything further, as that risked stepping on toes. Usually, this allowed him to get a good grip on how that person looked, allowing him to pick them out from a crowd if need be; it was sometimes more complicated than this, depending on how “mundane” one looked, but for the vast majority of cases, he’d get there, sooner or later.
This would not be an issue here.
Staring down at him, and very much staring down at him, was a Lopunny. It was impossible to tell whether they were leaning down slightly or were just reaching to the ceiling, their posture being masked by… the rest of them. There was no real way around it, he was looking at someone whose size was such that his brain’s normally well-practiced series of steps short-circuited and defaulted to one, three-letter word, on repeat until it was all he could think of.
Were he in any fitter state, the Garchomp would’ve perhaps catalogued the Lopunny based on an ascending order of sheer size, starting at their height: impressive, yes, but it wouldn’t be the first time he saw someone close to ten feet in height, nor would that even be the tallest he’d seen some people be. Granted, Lopunnies didn’t usually become that tall, but it wouldn’t be a one-of-a-kind scenario if that were the case.
Their height, however, was the least of his concerns. Most importantly, given how they were right there in front of his face, perfectly level so he could smush his head in between them, were two breasts of a size William had never quite experienced in close range before. If he had to put a number to them, he would fail; if he were to give them a name as a descriptor, he would choke on his own aroused thoughts instead of saying anything at all. What he knew was that those things covered most of the Lopunny’s body down to beyond the waste, had an indecent amount of backboob to them, and were leaking so copiously that he felt the cream splattering onto his shoes.
Really, that last bit was the worst one, given how he quite liked those shoes. And the pants that, too, ended up splashed by dairy. It seemed that even in her “resting” state, doing nothing but looking at him, the giantess was capable of expressing so much of her productivity that it was most likely only properly counted in gallons; the more probable scenario was that her body simply couldn’t hold back everything it made, resulting in copious leakage and an increase in breast mass over time.
Somehow, though, this still wasn’t the most notable part of the Lopunny’s form. That honour had to go to her gloriously oversized rump, two gargantuan asscheeks jutting out from behind her, melting down into a pair of thighs that were each wider than the Garchomp himself was wide; put together, the whole arrangement was just slightly bigger than the car he’d just gotten out of, and most definitely heavier by a very wide margin. It was a wonder how the floor didn’t just cave in the moment that titaness made a single motion, but there it was, intact as always, serving to hold up… whoever she was.
“Finally!” the Lopunny spoke up, her voice surprisingly melodious for someone that looked like they should sound bassier than the back half of a piano, “I was starting to think my precious little snuggle-sweetie had gotten stuck in traffic! Come in already, dinner’s in the oven and I need you to leave your clothes in the wash before I get it out!”
… the wash? He didn’t have ‘a wash’, he took all of his clothes to the nearby laundromat and spent an uncomfortable amount of money and time making sure the colours didn’t mix. Granted, he wasn’t sure if the house didn’t come with its own washing machine (it had been a while since he stepped into the backroom accessible only through the bathroom), but… wait, why was he thinking about the bloody wash?! At a time like that!
“I’m sorry, who are you?!” was the only thing the Garchomp could think to ask, the words coming out of him strained and strangled, more chopped into bits and broken up than anything coherent.
In response, the Lopunny flinched. It was difficult to tell whether the expression she wore was one of surprise, bafflement, or a combination of those two with some disappointment thrown in for good measure, but whatever it was, it vanished just as quickly as it appeared. To replace it, a warm, inviting smile, one that seemed to say “Come hither” as the giantess leaned down even further and extended her hands towards him.
“My little little snuggle-sweetie’s been worked so hard he can’t even remember lil’ ol’ me!” she cooed, bringing William in for an extremely tight, extremely warm hug, “Honestly, you had me worried for a second there! Now hush, I made that mac and cheese you love and you’re gonna sit down and enjoy it!”
William would very much have liked to have said something, but alas, a face full of tit and milk made it slightly more difficult than usual for him to reply with anything that made a modicum of sense. As much as he wanted to turn around and demand to know who that Lopunny was, or how exactly they found out his favourite dish was homemade mac and cheese, the bigger question at hand was whether or not he would be able to make it to the kitchen without suffocating.
The bun’s embrace was so constricting that he could barely breathe, yet he didn’t feel like fighting it; it was as if his brain’s natural instincts had been overridden by the unnatural softness, the tender touch, the feeling of warm fur on his rough skin activating every neural pathway that had been left to rot thanks to his touch-starvation. No matter what he consciously wanted to do, his mind refused to abide by it, instead forcing him to remain as he was: firmly locked inside a cleavage too large for him to wriggle out of it.
At the very least, he could move his head; not much, but it did let the Garchomp take a closer look at what sort of damage had been wrought upon his apartment now that the invader had taken it over… only to find nothing of the sort. Quite the contrary, as the whole place was not only far cleaner than it normally was, but also lighter, as if more light was flooding into it than it should; he had just walked into his home some ten years prior, when it was presumably inhabited by someone who actually liked being there, and he had no idea how or why.
The reason, it would seem, would make itself evident the closer he looked, as eventually, William began noticing objects he didn’t own on furniture he hadn’t bought. Shelving and dressers, set up to make the place look homelier, propping up a series of pictures, taken by some unknown photographer, of himself… and the Lopunny. He didn’t want to believe what he was seeing at first, especially since he was reasonably certain the blood flow to his brain was being cut, leaving him without an adequate oxygen supply, but it was unmistakeable: someone had made photo edits of himself and the bun, most likely the latter all things considered.
And not just regular edits either: he could see a variety of different pictures, most of which depicted him in his old, worn-out suit getup, having apparently been given a much-needed sprucing up, and the Lopunny wearing a wedding dress. She looked stunning in it, he couldn’t deny it, but the more he thought about it, the more disturbed he became with the implications: had this woman barged into his home to fantasize about having married him? If so, why him? Surely, someone like her could do a lot better.
Looking closer still, having to pull his head from the embrace of a cleavage too hot and heavy for him to deny, revealed other photographs, presumably of their honeymoon or other supposed trips that never happened. In every last one, the theme was always the same: she was big, he was small, she was carrying him, and he looked dreadfully embarrassed, but in a good, awkward way. Every last picture, and the worst part was that William couldn’t even say that it was that wrong; were those photographs depicting reality, he would have posed like that.
But… it wasn’t true. He wasn’t married. He didn’t know Beatrix. And he certainly didn’t know how he knew that she was named Beatrix, nor how her birthday was on December seventh, and how her favourite treat was just caramel ice-cream loaded to the nines with chocolate sauce. Probably went a long way to explain her figure; the Garchomp was suddenly beset by a number of very visual memories of how the bun had been like when the two began dating, back when she was smaller than him.
The Garchomp slapped the side of his own head, shaking it as vigorously as he could without losing consciousness. Clearly, something was wrong: he wasn’t supposed to have these thoughts, these memories that were not his; he was William, a bachelor, someone whose longest-lasting relationship barely hit its first trimester before the two had to go their separate ways over career opportunities. He wasn’t William, husband, especially not to someone who he’d be lucky to get a word in edgewise, let alone marry.
Yet despite this, he distinctly recalled everything leading up to that moment when he turned the key in the door, as well as how it differed from a life he used to know. He distinctly recalled every moment spent with Beatrix, from the start of their relationship when they accidentally tripped over one another in a movie theater and spent a few minutes apologising to one another, to the precise instant where she said “I do” and their lives were just… better. He remembered all of it. He remembered not remembering as well, creating a confusing tangle of proto-emotions that never had the chance to fully form before their inherently confusing nature self-destructed them.
All William knew was that he was surrounded on all sides by his… wife. His wife, who put him down on a chair inside a kitchen dining room he didn’t recall ever setting up, lit up by a skylight that definitely wasn’t there, and shouldn’t be there given current construction codes. His wife, who gave him one final smile before turning around to recover the mac and cheese from the oven, whereupon she, entirely on purpose, gave him a year’s worth of ass in just a couple of seconds.
On purpose, because he knew that was the case. Once again, the Garchomp had no idea how he knew this, only that it made sense; much like he didn’t remember learning about the capital of half a dozen random countries, yet could point them out without thinking, he knew that Beatrix was deliberately putting herself on display… and not even for his sake either. Him being aroused by her was just a bonus; his wife was very much in love with herself, not to mention the changes she’d gone through ever since the two were officially together.
They couldn’t have guessed that William’s spunk and Beatrix’s congenital hypertrophy would interact in such a manner; they certainly had no idea that her body was capable of going to such extremes without any sort of negative side-effects, though once they realised this was the case, their sex life went from merely healthily active to nearly frenzied in its intensity and frequency. It felt like every night, the two of them would keep the neighbours up for hours at a time; Beatrix was insatiable, wanting to know just how far she could take herself before either it became a genuine hassle, or her form refused to grow further.
Plus, she worked from home, so it wasn’t as if she was sacrificing anything by growing like that. Hells below, it gave her a reason to go around naked without needing to worry about whether or not it was indecent; the two of them saw one another in their birthday suits often enough that having attire on had become the exception. That is, of course, assuming any of this was real, and not just some deranged hallucination his brain cooked up after he was no doubt involved in some horrific car crash.
It couldn’t be real. No matter how many memories he could draw from seemingly nowhere but the thin aether, William knew this couldn’t be real. When Beatrix turned around, left the mac and cheese on the dinner table, then arranged a series of chairs to serve as a barely-functional seat, he knew for a fact that it had to all be in his head. Because he couldn’t possibly have ever been married to this woman; none of it happened, and he was just imagining it.
Now, why he would imagine this was still up for debate. One wondered why, if given the chance between her and going back to the same old boring humdrum, he would pick the latter; certainly a great many things could be said about it, assuming that was the case, none of which the Garchomp was willing to think about. It wasn’t about his wife, it was about reality and asserting it; he wasn’t married, he didn’t share years of happy matrimony with that beautiful giantess, and that was final.
He was William, he was a boring office worker, and no one wanted him. No one but Beatrix, that is; the Lopunny had been the only one there to look past his front and actually bother to try and know the real him, the one behind the suit and tie. She was the only one who put in the effort to see him as something other than a corporate drone, fit only for data entry and naught else. And that was what he loved about her: her boundless, infinite capacity for friendship and warmth, given freely to anyone who would even show the most remote of interest in it.
Was it any wonder he chose to marry her? Was it any wonder he spent a good three years being head over heels for her, enough that, when he finally popped the question, she just laughed and asked him what took him so long before they went and kept the neighbours up a few more hours? Because it wasn’t a wonder to him; in fact, as far as William was concerned, this was just the natural state of things.
He belonged there. And nowhere else.
