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Third part in the series that has become a collaboration between myself,  Thicc-Drago, and  Subcutaneous

I hope everyone enjoys! :)


The towering, gilded throne room doors loomed in front of her, imposing and familiar.
Peril wheezed as she waddled the last few paces down the corridor, belly lurching forwards with each heaving stride, tremors rippling through it in heavy, sluggish waves beneath her, sagging sides slapping against the floor where they pooled with every thunderous step. Her chins folded in thick, heavy tiers that swayed with each breath, piled so deeply that they seemed to merge into the sagging collars of rolls that made up her neck. Every time she lifted her head, they bunched against one another, trembling faintly before sliding back down in slow, molten ripples.
Her chest flab pressed forward in two massive, sagging lobes, each hanging low enough to press against her forelegs. The forelimbs themselves were thick to the point of roundness, atrophied muscle long buried beneath soft, quivering sleeves of lard that made her movements clumsy and deliberate. With every step, the upper folds of her legs pushed outward, then slid back into place with a slow, sticky glide as the sagging flab molded around them.
She hadn’t even gotten a nap. Or a second lunch. Or anything sweet. Just this. The absurd marathon Scarlet expected her to walk just to get back to the throne room, her massive gut dragging along the floor in slow, rippling folds that steamed faintly with every step.
Her fattened tail dragged sluggishly behind her, trailing scorch marks where it scraped against the floor, and steam curled from the folds of her gut where they stuck and rubbed, saturated with sweat from the effort of moving her bulk back through the palace halls. Her wing arms lay folded high against her sides, buried deep in the spreading swell of her shoulder fat. Only the thin membrane hinted at their structure; the rest was pillowy from disuse and smothered under billowing, jiggling fat that quivered each time her steps sent shockwaves through her frame.
Her thighs were two thick tree trunks of flab, each one so wide and soft they collided with every step, the inner flesh rolling and bunching until they parted and it could ooze outward in great, rounded bulges like her outer rolls could. The movement was slow and exaggerated, thigh pressing against thigh, then peeling apart with a faint hiss of steam. Peril’s underused limbs trembled under her weight, sides heaving like she’d flown across the continent rather than shuffled a few hundred paces. Her rear was colossal, broad enough to spread from wall to wall in narrower corridors, although it didn’t spread as wide as her gut pooled across the ground. It swayed behind her like a pair of molten boulders, each movement accompanied by deep, slapping squelches as the cheeks collided with each other and her thighs, which rolled outward with no visible definition, wobbling in huge curtains of flesh that folded and overlapped like drapery around her haunches, each step turning into a struggle against the friction of her own bulk.
She paused near the doors, claws scraping against the soot stained floor, chest heaving in slow, deliberate pants. Her legs ached. Her stomach grumbled.
All over one stupid fight.
Not even a real fight, in her opinion. That prisoner had bolted like a leaf on the wind the second she’d lumbered out of the gate. He didn’t stand still, didn’t grovel like they usually did. Of course she hadn’t caught him. And the guards hadn’t done their job either, weren’t they supposed to keep the targets in place so she could set them on fire without having to chase them? If that guard hadn’t been standing in exactly the wrong place, none of it would’ve happened. Honestly, he should’ve been grateful her firescales got him instead of the prisoner.
She grumbled to herself as she leaned against the stone wall inlay with veins of gold to balance, her flank oozing up against and spreading out over the scorch marks left from the many times she’d needed to rest here, sizzling on contact, and letting her gut settle onto the floor in a hot, sagging heap. The real reason she was here, the actual reason Scarlet was making such a dramatic display, was because some sniveling, overpromoted SkyWing got himself crushed under her rear when that slippery prisoner tripped her up during her charge. If he hadn't been standing so close behind her, he wouldn't have ended up as a smear beneath the queen’s champion. His fault, really.
And now she was being summoned. Like a servant. Her stomach let out a long, heavy groan that had nothing to do with guilt. What she really hated about all this was the delay, she should’ve been flat on her side right now, blissfully full and half asleep, not waddling through the palace while her stomach was still embarrassingly empty from the effort of earlier. Worse yet, lunch was bound to be late now.
She gave a snort, nostrils flaring, and muttered under her breath, “Maybe she’ll at least have snacks in there. Something buttery. Something fried.” The thought made her mouth water slightly, despite how full she'd already been going into the arena. That had been hours ago, and she was positively wasting away by now.

She huffed, nostrils flaring at the memory of her most recent meals. Lately, something had been… off. The food still came in glorious, towering piles, but it didn’t taste quite as decadent as it used to. The fat was less buttery, the grease less thick, the frosting on the pastries just a little thinner. She’d chalked it up to lazy, incompetent servants cutting corners, but clearly Scarlet wasn’t riding them hard enough. If she wanted her champion at her best, she needed to make sure Peril was getting the good stuff.

“If she starts lecturing me,” Peril muttered to herself, “I’m bringing up the food. And the lazy cooks. And maybe I’ll tell her she should try charging at a prisoner and see how she does.”
With a heavy sigh and a grunt of effort, she hauled herself back up, although with her gut taking up and overflowing all the space between her limbs and the floor, the line between standing and resting was rather blurred for her, and waddled inside the throne room, the scorched doors creaked open under her bulk, heat bleeding into the chamber beyond as she stepped inside. The familiar oppressive brightness of the throne room washed over her scales like flames, and above her, on the massive, shimmering throne she was so fond of, Queen Scarlet sat perfectly still, her narrow eyes locked on Peril as she entered.
Scarlet’s face was unreadable. Her tail coiled lazily around her throne, her posture relaxed, but her gaze was sharp, pointed. Not theatrical or indulgent like usual. No smirk. No purring greeting.
Good. Peril hated that.
“Your… champion,” she announced breathlessly as she shuffled forward, flanks heaving, sweat sizzling from every part of her body where rolls met stone or where her belly dragged. “Reporting for, huff, whatever.”
Scarlet raised a brow, but still said nothing.
Peril shifted awkwardly in the silence, settling back into her accustomed resting stance, relaxing her legs and letting the built in cushion of her gut take the brunt of her considerable weight, spreading wider across the floor beneath her like melted dough. “If this is about the arena, I already said it wasn’t my fault. That guy was fast. And the gate was too narrow. And those guards were idiots. If you want someone to blame, maybe look at whoever trained them.”
Still nothing from Scarlet.
“And another thing?” Peril’s voice sharpened, face tightening into a petulant frown. “The food’s been off lately. I don’t know who you’ve got cooking for me now, but my breakfast meat wasn’t even dripping. It’s like they rinsed the grease off. And the frosting? Thin. Watery. If you’re trying to punish me by making the food worse, you could at least have the spine to say it.”
Finally, Scarlet stirred.
The queen rose slowly from her throne, eyes still fixed on Peril with the icy poise of a dragon not interested in arguing. “My sweet, blazing champion,” she cooed, voice dripping with syrupy venom, “You’ve become… quite the talonful lately, haven’t you?”
Peril blinked, then scowled, lowering herself slightly with a lazy puff of steam. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Scarlet descended the steps with predatory grace, pacing in a slow arc around Peril’s bloated form, the fattened champion straining against her collars of pillowy neck rolls to keep the lithe, confident queen in her sight, before giving up after coming up against the end of her flexibility a few degrees in, hanging her head lower as the effort of even that accelerated her panting. “You’ve always been a unique creature, haven’t you? Loyal. Dangerous. Greedy.” She glanced down at the rolls of fat ballooning from Peril’s sides, at the wide belly spread across the floor taking up more surface area than four of her guards shoulder to shoulder. “But lately… only the last part seems to remain true.”
Peril’s eyes narrowed. “If this is about one little mistake-”
“You’re too fat, Peril.” Scarlet cut her off, voice suddenly cold.
The throne room fell silent. Even the guards flanking the columns stiffened, eyes flicking nervously toward the bloated hill of a dragoness at the center of the room. Peril resembled a mound of incandescent copper, as if someone had melted some down and dropped a glob of it onto the cold floor.
“You’re too fat to be useful. Too out of shape to catch anyone, too slow to fight, too lazy to fly.” Scarlet’s tone dropped to a low purr, dangerous and final. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going on a diet. And you’re going to start moving again, properly. Supervised, of course.”
Peril’s mouth would have fallen open if she wasn’t already greedily sucking air into lungs contending for space with her own chest rolls. Her tongue flicked as if tasting the insult in the air. “What?”
A ripple of tension passed through the guards, the sound of them nervously shuffling and armor and weapons clanking as they shifted their weight and looked at one another filling the awkward silence. One of them audibly gulped.
Scarlet’s smile was thin. “Starting today. So I suggest you eat whatever pitiful meal the cooks prepare you, and save your energy for your new exercise regimen.”
Peril stared, flabbergasted. Then narrowed her eyes, grinding out a low, angry growl.
“I’m not some pet you get to walk on a leash.”
Scarlet’s gaze didn’t flinch. “No. You’re something much more dangerous… when you remember who feeds you.”
And with that, she turned back toward her throne.
Peril lay there, stunned, trembling slightly, not from fear, but fury. Her stomach rumbled in protest, already dreading what sad excuse for a meal awaited her.
Scarlet couldn’t do this to her. She was the champion! This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Peril lumbered from the throne room with a sulky heaviness in her gait that had nothing to do with her size. Her mind was still replaying Scarlet’s words, too fat, like a scratch on stone, each repetition more insulting than the last. She was the queen’s champion, her most loyal weapon, the living firestorm who’d flattened traitors without question. And now she was being treated like a hatchling who’d misbehaved at the dinner table.
When she finally dragged herself into her chamber, huffing and puffing, the sight waiting for her only deepened the scowl pulling at her jowls. The buffet table was still there, same fireproof stone slab as always, but where she expected towers of roasted meats glistening with fat, stacks of frosting drenched pastries, and bowls of thick, sweet pudding there were only… plates. Small, measly plates.
The largest dish held a roasted lizard, whole but stripped of the usual puddles of butter and oil, its skin merely crisp instead of dripping. A bowl of vegetables sat beside it, steamed until limp, unseasoned save for a dusting of salt. A few hunks of bread, still warm but not soaked in grease or honey, rounded out the offering. By normal standards, it was a hearty meal, enough to satisfy a SkyWing soldier for an entire evening.
To Peril, it looked like someone had forgotten the actual food.
She waddled closer, belly dragging in slow folds across the scorched floor, the heavy curtain of it swaying with each step. She stopped with a grunt, leaned her weight against the table to steady herself, and gave the spread a glare that could have melted the bread if her scales weren’t already doing the job on their own.
“This is it?” she muttered aloud, tone dripping with offended disbelief. “What is this, snack time?”
Still, hunger won out over pride, as it always did. She tore into the lizard first, crunching through skin that crumbled instead of oozed, huffing her annoyance between bites. Without the lubrication of fat, the meat clung to her tongue, forcing her to chew longer than she liked. She devoured the bread next, grumbling when the crust stuck to her teeth. The vegetables were an afterthought, speared halfheartedly and swallowed more than tasted.
It was over too soon. She sat back heavily, belly now slightly more rounded than before but far from the glorious swell she was accustomed to after a meal. Her talons tapped irritably against the scorched tabletop, the sound sharp in the otherwise quiet chamber.
“That was pathetic,” she growled to no one in particular, though the palace servants just outside the door could surely hear her. “A champion shouldn’t be eating like some grunt in the barracks.”
She shifted her weight to stand, the motion slow and cumbersome as her belly poured forward and slapped against her forelimbs and thighs at the same time, repositioning herself at the slightly less relaxed stance she called standing, as opposed to resting on her gut. Even this “light” meal she was left breathing a little harder, not from being full, but from the effort of moving such a vast, spoiled body that had grown used to gorging, not restraint.
And now, apparently, when she had always been allowed to nap off second lunch until dinner time, she had to exercise.
Her lip curled at the word. Whatever Scarlet thought she was going to accomplish with this “diet” and “movement nonsense,” it was already grating on her. Still, she began the slow, dragging trek toward the courtyard, already imagining how she’d make the guards regret every second of it.

The courtyard was small by palace standards, but to Peril it felt like the size of an entire kingdom. A perfect little square of sunbaked cobblestone ringed with low walls and ornamental braziers, the air already shimmering with heat and light the way Scarlet liked her palace, even before she showed up. The guards were waiting when she waddled out, their expressions taut in the way of dragons who’d been given an unpleasant task but didn’t dare refuse it.
Peril arrived slowly, each step a full bodied lurch that sent tremors through her sagging, trailing gut. The thick curtain of it fought against her thighs with every plodding step, almost as if it was trying to hold her back like it didn't want to be here either, as if it knew the goal here was to get rid of it, folds bunching and dragging across the ground in long, hissing streaks. Her talons scraped at the stone for balance, and her sides rose and fell with exaggerated, huffy, impatient breaths. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, eyeing the space. “You want me to… walk around this? For what? Decoration?”
One of the guards, avoiding eye contact, replied stiffly, “Orders from the queen. You’re to walk from one wall to the other… and back. Until we say stop.”
Peril’s jaw dropped, then snapped shut in a hiss. “You think this is funny? You think I’m going to waddle back and forth like some-, ” She cut herself off, glaring, not liking the sound of any way she could have completed that description of herself. “Fine. But you’d better have something waiting for me when I’m done.”
Her first crossing was little more than a sluggish, uneven waddle, inching herself forward while her weight swayed from side to side, claws clicking against the stone in slow rhythm. By the second lap, her breathing had deepened into labored wheezes, steam curling off her from every fold between her rolls. Sweat hissed audibly where her belly met the ground, and her fat swaddled tail dragged like an anchor.
As her path had her waddling away from them, one of the guards found his eyes drawn against his better judgment to the sheer immensity of her rear. The twin, rounded domes swayed ponderously with each step, so much blubber shifting and rippling in slow, hypnotic waves. Heat shimmered in the air above them, the coppery hide gleaming in the sunlight. His jaw tightened, and a faint blush warmed his cheeks beneath his scales, mortified by the realization and quickly snapping his gaze elsewhere, only to catch it drifting back again a heartbeat later.
By the third, her pace had slowed to a crawl, neck sagging low, belly folds spreading wider and lower as more and more surface area began to scrape audibly over the smooth cobbles.
She stopped halfway through a crossing, glowering at the guards. “I’m done,” she announced. “Tell Scarlet I exercised. Or I'll come burn you in your sleep. ”
“Queen’s orders,” one guard interrupted, the words coming out fast and nervous, eager to redirect the fiery champion’s displeasure to someone besides himself.
Peril’s eyes narrowed, a thin plume of fire curling from her nostrils. She turned away and forced herself onward, each step a visible battle. Soon, the friction of her gut dragging over the stones began to show: the cobbles beneath her softened and glowed faintly, the heat of her firescales and the grinding weight combining to weaken the rock. By the time she reached the far wall again, the trail she’d followed across the courtyard looked like it had been drawn in molten bronze.
“Alright, that’s enough!” one guard barked, his voice tinged with panic. “You’re… you’re melting the courtyard.”
Peril stopped instantly, flopping down with a sound like a collapsing tent. Her gut spread in every direction, pooling over the already warped stones. She panted loudly, steam billowing upward, eyes half closed in irritation.
“You should… probably move,” another guard offered nervously. “You’re still, uh, causing damage.”
Peril tilted her head just enough to glare at him, lips curling over her teeth. A low, dangerous growl rumbled from her chest.
The guards exchanged glances, then both ducked their heads and backed toward the exit. “We’ve done our best,” one muttered under his breath as they slipped away.
Peril didn’t watch them go. She was too busy catching her breath, and imagining the meal she should have been eating instead.

The banquet hall was glowing with warm, golden light, the air thick with the smell of roasting meats and spiced wine. Platters gleamed beneath polished silver lids, the long tables dressed in fresh linens, each place setting perfect and precise. Conversations buzzed pleasantly under the vaulted ceiling as nobles and high ranking SkyWings enjoyed the kind of orderly, polished feast Queen Scarlet preferred when she wanted to impress her court. Servants glided between tables with practiced ease, refilling goblets and replacing empty dishes before they could cool.
It was going smoothly, right up until the doors shuddered under a heavy thud.
Peril knew about this feast hours ago, of course. She’d smelled the preparations drifting through the palace since midday, and a messenger had even come to her chamber to “respectfully inform” her, per Scarlet’s orders, that she was not to attend. That had been the final push. She’d already planned to crash it the moment she heard “no.”
The massive doors groaned as she shoved them open, the chatter dying instantly. She filled the frame like molten copper spilling into a mold, scales softly incandescent. Her gut was sagging and oozing across the polished floor beneath her, the emptiest it had been in as long as she could remember as she waddled in with slow, thunderous steps. The nearest buffet table loomed before her, long, groaning under the weight of delicacies, and she didn’t slow down.
Scarlet’s eyes narrowed from her seat at the head table, but before she could speak, Peril surged forward with surprising force. Her mountainous body rippled and wobbled in great, heavy waves, momentum carrying her into the buffet like a living siege engine. The table buckled under the impact, wood groaning, dishes clattering and sliding toward her as her folds slammed against it with a wet, smacking thud.
The queen’s voice rang sharp, but with a brittle edge. “Peril. Step away from the food.”
Peril ignored her entirely, already maw deep in a towering cake. Her chewing was loud, unrestrained, wet smacks and squelches punctuated by low, greedy grunts. Every part of her immense body was in motion, waves of fat undulated across her sides and chest, countless rolls, no longer distinguishable as neck, brisket, or shoulder, sliding and folding over each other as she devoured mouthful after mouthful. Grease and frosting smeared across her copper scales, bubbling faintly where it met the heat of her firescales, the air now laced with both sweetness and the acrid scent of scorched sugar.
Somewhere in the chaos, her mass surged forward again, another ponderous shunt that crushed the middle of the buffet under her sheer weight. Plates and platters splintered under the impact, their contents tumbling into her waiting maw or piling up against her rings of neck rolls. She stuffed pastries whole into her jaws, not bothering to chew fully before cramming in the next, streams of syrup and cream running from the corners of her mouth before charring or igniting to cascade down her many folds like molten sugar magma.
By the time she’d reached halfway down the table, the nobles were wide eyed, silent, caught between horror and fascination. Peril, for her part, was oblivious, lost in the trance of endless, gluttonous indulgence, a mountain of molten copper and lard consuming everything before her as if the feast had been prepared for her alone.
Scarlet’s fixed smile was stretched thin now, her voice carrying just enough to keep up the appearance of control. “Ah my champion, I see you got my invitation.” Scarlet purred through clenched teeth, as if there was any casual statement she could make that would save face and appear in control of her gluttonous monster.
Peril didn’t hear her. Didn’t care. Butter bubbled down her brisket, sticky frosting clung to her bulging chest rolls, and the table’s far end tipped toward her, sending the last of the dishes sliding into her greedy reach. She ate with complete abandon, occasionally punctuated by a belch like a deep, resonant cannon shot that jiggled her titanic jowls and shivered her waist spanning neck rolls. Food debris and grease clung to every wobbling inch of her, settling into the countless valleys of her flesh.
From her seat at the head of the hall, Scarlet’s smile was a mask stretched thin as silk. Her chin rested lightly on one claw, posture regal, but her eyes, sharp and calculating, followed every grotesque ripple of her champion’s body as it heaved and surged across the banquet table.
She’d known Peril could be unruly, but this… this was something else. A living furnace, molten copper hide blurring beneath the layers of wobbling flesh, tearing into her banquet like an unstoppable avalanche. The air was thick with the cloying sweetness of burnt frosting and the acrid sting of charred meat, trails of smoke curling up around the flabby mountain of dragon. Nobles glanced between Scarlet and the spectacle with uneasy, darting eyes, wondering if they should laugh, clap, or run.
Scarlet kept her tone even, coaxing the nobles with idle comments and feigned amusement. "Our champion is… spirited tonight." The words tasted of ash, but she could not afford to let them see her slip. Peril was supposed to be her creature, feared, adored, dependent.
Yet watching her now, Scarlet saw the flaw in the leash she’d tried to tighten. Peril wasn’t cowed by scarcity, instead she was emboldened by discomfort and losing what she’d been spoiled into believing was her right. If a “diet” could be flaunted so publicly, so loudly, what else could she realize she could disobey? And if she learned she could ignore Scarlet for food, what would stop her from ignoring her for anything she wanted?
Scarlet’s talons tapped softly on the table, mind turning even as her lips kept the same serene curve. No, this wouldn’t do. It was too dangerous to provoke a creature like Peril into thinking rebellion brought rewards. Better to rewrap the chain in silk, to keep her bloated and complacent, belly deep in the pleasures only Scarlet could grant. And with the look of that belly, the rewards would have to be piled pretty deep, Scarlet added with derision.
The nobles didn’t need to see a contest of wills. They needed to see a queen utterly in command of her monstrous champion, feeding her, shaping her, adored by her. Even if that meant abandoning the foolish notion of trimming her down.
Scarlet’s gaze softened, outwardly, at least, as she watched Peril’s greasy, scorched bulk drag yet another half of the buffet toward herself. Yes, she thought, eyes narrowing slightly, better to be the one she needs than the one she resents.


The cushions beneath Peril crackled audibly as she sank deeper into their fire-scorched embrace, her vast copper form spilling outward in every direction. Her gut covered more of the floor of her chamber now, mounded and soft, rippling gently with each slow breath, pooling around her limbs in a smothering blanket of motionless indulgence. Her forelegs rested atop its wide expanse, elbows buried deep in warm, quivering flab.
Steam curled lazily off her from beneath her belly and around her folds, not from exertion, she hadn’t moved all day, but from the simple act of existing, now constantly smothered beneath layers upon layers of plush, overfed dragon.
Across from her, a fireproof silver tray sat nearly licked clean, the remnants of three stuffed pastry platters, a scorched honeymeat roast, and several butter-drenched breads already congealing into sticky puddles. Another tray was already on its way.
She didn’t speak. Her mouth was too busy.
The servant, wearing thick leather gloves that were still scorched, visibly sweating, and moving with extreme caution approached with the next tray, carefully inching it toward the closest edge of her immense forearm fold. Without waiting, Peril leaned forward, or as close as she could to the concept, with her copious collars of pillowy neck rolls pushing up against her bulging chest flab and dragged the tray the rest of the way with her comically small clawtips that were nearly all that were exposed of her sausage like talons being subsumed by sleeves of blubber. Her gut sloshed forward in response, flattening further outward as she resumed her meal, shoveling bites into her maw with efficient sloppiness.
There had been no more talk of any “diet” since the feast. No more orders about walking, or laps, or guards nervously coaching her to move faster. The courtyard had been repaired in silence. Scarlet hadn’t mentioned the disobedience, not once.
Instead, there’d been dessert trays. Extra butter. Frosting so thick it had to be spooned into her mouth. And silence. Beautiful, indulgent silence. Not one nagging comment about her weight.
Somewhere behind her flabby shoulder, one of her servants shifted. She didn’t bother turning. “More bacon,” she huffed through a mouthful of pastry. “And tell the cooks the pancakes need more syrup. More. Not less.”
Her tone was that of a queen in her own right.
Scarlet had come to her room the day after the feast, not in vengeful fury, but with that pleasant, too sweet voice. Peril hadn’t apologized. She’d just pouted, dragged herself up enough to sit upright, and said, “If I’m gonna be your champion, I’m not doing any more of that awful exercise stuff. That’s not my job. You want fire, not fitness.”
Scarlet had smiled. Agreed. Promised she’d “find another way” for her to be of use.
Peril hadn’t asked what that meant. She didn’t care. The important part was, she’d won. She’d gotten her way. And now the trays came faster than ever.
She paused only long enough to let out a thunderous, greasy burp, her chins and jowls trembling with the force of it, and then dug back into the tray without hesitation. Grease clung to her neck rolls, frosting bubbled on her gut where it had splattered and sizzled, and a sticky glaze had permanently settled between the countless folds that now covered her like a living blanket.
Her wings twitched lazily, trapped beneath her bulk. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d stretched them.
She didn’t need to.
Scarlet still called her “champion.” The food kept coming. And Peril, in her vast, burning sprawl of a body, felt no desire for anything but more.