And now for something new. After doing so many longer pieces, I decided to challenge myself with something shorter. I haven't done one of these in a long time.

Enjoy.

Waffle is  Gil
Toriel belongs to Toby Fox

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“Just what do you think you’re doing, Waffle?”

The stern voice of Toriel turned Waffle around, and the small gray cat found himself staring at the robed legs of the goat mother, a blush rising to his gray cheeks. His green eyes were lost in the purple that spanned his vision, the tight fabric that accentuated the hourglass curve of voluptuous hips, and thighs thicker than he was wide. The same cloth betrayed the plump stomach beneath it, the fullness of her pudge on display for him, every bit of fluff and fat pushing back against the robe that strained to contain it. Climbing higher saw the bottoms of heaving breasts bulging nearly a foot out, more than enough to hide her face and the frown that likely graced it. Their round undersides rose and fell with her shallow breathing, threatening to burst from her dress if she took in too much air. He would have loved to see that happen, were he not in trouble with her right now.

Waffle’s eyes shot to his feet, embarrassed. But her large toes demanded his attention, the tiled floor shaking with the impatient tap of a massive white foot wider than himself. He hid the empty pie tin behind his back. The aluminum was still warm to the touch, little crumbs falling from the edges.

“B-But it was so delicious, mother.” That was no lie. Her latest pie was amazing; soft, sugary, and incredibly sweet, just like Toriel, though it wasn’t the cinnamon and butterscotch pie that he and his waistline had grown to love. It was something entirely new: pecan. He shouldn’t have touched it, but when its mouth-watering aroma filled her house and his nose, it lured him in with a flood of memories, visions of a past life on the surface, a familiar taste on his tongue welling up with the promise of honey-glazed goodness. He thought one bite couldn’t hurt. So he tried one. And another, and another still. Before he knew it, every bit of crumbly, syrupy goodness was trapped his belly. The only signs of its former presence were the lingering smell, the crumbs on the floor, and the honey on his lips.

The goat mother was unmoved. “While I am happy you approve of my recipe, you knew that pie was not meant for you.”
The cat’s ears drooped, but the sound of fabric told him to look up. That’s when he saw robed arms crossing over her chest, ample breast spilling over them, more white than purple fluffing up at the top.

“You what this means, my child.”

Waffle gulped. “Th-The wall?”

Toriel nodded gravely. “The wall.”

She took him by the hand, pie tin falling from the other, her snow white palm swallowing his in her grip as she led him briskly out of the kitchen. He struggled to keep up with her long stride, his own feet nearly flying off the ground with her wide steps, his raised arm tugged by a hand larger than his head. Were it anyone else, he would have been afraid of what they might do with him, but the hand guiding him into the living room, the firm, motherly squeeze assured him that she would always love him, no matter what he did.

The warmth of the fire brushed his face as they entered, the gentle flicker of its reds and yellows casting shadows on Toriel’s luscious backside. He could see the darkness dancing on his goat mother, their steps the enticing sway of overflowing cheeks. He could watch her move all night long. Her being so tall – and himself so very small – had its perks. But the dance ended, and Toriel stopped, the soft light of the gently crackling flame guiding his eyes the rest of the way to the wall.
The wall was just that: the wall of her living room, the empty space across from her reading chair. On that wall were black marks, horizontal lines neatly drawn in pencil, marking something he couldn’t see from where he stood. The goat mother’s hand let go of his, and rose to her hip; his fingers felt cold without her to hold them. Knowing that he had to walk there without her made him feel terrible for upsetting her. But he stepped forward, and then craned his neck to see what was printed at the top:

Waffle: 4ft.

The chubby cat put his back to the wall, blushing at the number written next to his head: 3.5ft.

For the first time, he saw the furrowed, red eyed glare of Toriel rising over the mounds of her chest. Her large eyes held no anger in them; only concerned sorrow, and disappointment. “You know the rules, my child. I can’t allow an ill-disciplined boy to run around in this house.”

Waffle pursed his lips, and nodded regretfully, whispering, “I’m sorry.”

The sound of fabric creaked in his ears as her shadow spread across the floor and the wall, swallowing him as heavy breasts and an outstretched arm sloped forward to meet him. The cat’s view of strained cleavage was blocked from his sight by the goat mother’s hand that cupped the whole of his head, his knees buckling under the weight of her gentle touch. That’s when he felt the sensation – a split second warmth like the jab of a dozen needle sharp teeth digging into his stomach.

The cat clutched his plump belly, made fat by the sweet treats Toriel stuffed in him daily, already regretting the pecan painfully churning within. The sick feeling gnawed at him, his hand grasping for ill-fitting shirt. But when his fingers dug for room that was never there, he quickly found it. The cat’s eyes darted to his paunch, wide with shock, his hand trembling. He felt, and saw the roundness of his middle wasting away, more of his feet exposed to his sight, the rising groan fabric above him the squealing of nails on chalk.

Toriel’s other palm stroked her growling stomach, not bothering to hold back the tide of purple spilling over her thick fingers, or the widening belly that frayed her robe. Her curves only grew exaggerated as his diminished; thighs fought for the little room she had left, succulent hips and overflowing buttocks rising as warm dough, her breath quickening with the wide chest that filled without falling, white fur spilling from tearing seams, drowning the voiceless whimpering on her lips. All before the hand that touched his head pushed down.

The weight of her palm and the cat’s clothes grew heavier, bending his neck even lower. More of the floor crawled up and out around his feet gradually, his view of the goat’s swelling legs falling to her shins, before the discomfort ended. The hand and its heaviness lifted, and Waffle found himself staring up at a living mountain, Toriel, whose body and breasts stretched to the sky, filling the room no matter which way he looked. Turning his gaze earthward rewarded him with massive, clenched toes that could swallow his head between their fat, fuzzy digits.

That’s when he pulled his head back, and gasped at his newest measurement: 2ft.

Toriel shivered, her plump cheeks turning a shade pink as she rose, her mouth trembling in its attempt to keep her voice firm. “You’ll get this back when you have behaved yourself.” A hand idly ran over her overfull stomach, caressing its plumpness, the blush he couldn’t see running deeper. “I believe you’ve had your fill for the day. Go to your room, and think about what you’ve done.”

The thin little cat held up his pants, nearly tripping over them as he trudged wordlessly around the corner. When she was sure he was gone, a guilty smile crossed her lips.

“My sweet child, why did I lie to you?” the goat mother whispered, pressing her engorged and sensitive breasts and belly against the wall. “That pie was for you; I knew it was your favorite. You even told me so.” She trailed off as a stray finger grazed her wide chest, pleasure welling in her eyes. “Misleading you is so wrong. Why must punishing you for it have to feel so good?”

Waffle leaned against the wall, letting his pants fall so he could clutch his fluttering heart. “You’re so big now, Toriel,” he purred. “I can’t wait to make you even bigger.”