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The staircase leads into the Ooku’s heart like the slope of a greedy tongue, and its opening spews pink sweet breaths. Ritsuka shivers. It is warm, it is alluring, it is all his if he wishes for it. It makes his mind dissolve like a ghost in the air, and his legs will drop him into the labyrinth’s jaws.
When he closes his eyes, Kama’s words, murky like aged wine, color his thoughts. The god’s lazy touches drag over Ritsuka’s arms like flames. The whispers sail him through dream and reality, and Ritsuka slips down into the darkness, where the labyrinth is waiting for him.
Where Kama is waiting.
The heat floods his veins and grabs him by his neck. There is no light to see anything, but the aroma leads his feet over the squeaky wooden steps. Red is seeping at the end of the tunnel, soft and vibrant like the red of a torch, and Ritsuka speeds up, drawn like a moth destined to burn.
His mind whispers, but he banishes them to a dusty, forgotten corner. His body twists the muscles of his legs, attempting to slow his steps, but Ritsuka merely flails instead of running. He should slow down, his inner voice warns him. He should wait for his companions.
But if he dares listen, he is afraid the fiery sigil on his hand will cool. Forever. He feels more of his Servants, deep in the—nightmare—paradise’s bowels. Perhaps the walls are devouring them alive, building more of themselves like a nightmarish, malignant growth. Maybe the Command Seal will have chilled when he reaches them. He cannot allow that.
Perhaps he will meet Kama there, and Kama will catch him again, pull him in his sugary embrace, and let him dream of warm touches and starry pleasure.
A gulp that is as cold as ice drops through Ritsuka’s throat. He is rubbing his palms in front of his crotch, and he hopes it might discharge the voltage in his soul. Yet the sparks still fly, and if not for the Command Seal on his hand, he would stop by the wall for a few moments.
Instead, he flies into a world of pink through the gate. His feet freeze. The sweetness in the air is concentrated, primal, and mixed with a fiery aftertaste. “Sake,” he whispers, and his breath disappears in the vapors. His throat dries, and his eyes cloud. Ritsuka feels needy to his core, thirsty for everything. His hands hang limply, his legs sink deep in the mist, his tongue laps the air, but he feels hotter, hotter, hotter…
“You don’t have to move,” he hears his thoughts, soft like white noise. “You have already got so far! No one will blame you if you need to rest for a while. Yes, lay your back on the wall and calm your burning body. No one will disturb you here.”
Ritsuka is sweating, making him greasy in the damp corridors. Sticky. Dirty. Kama has—his forehead brows, but the memories evaporate like the spirits. Kama has done…
Shit. He greedily licks his lips because the only thing he remembers of Kama is that fluttering golden cloth over naked skin. The zipper of his pants bucks, and the click snaps Ritsuka.
He flinches hard as soon as he realizes his back is touching the wall. There is something wrong with them, something disgusting, but he cannot remember. He only knows that his heart claws against his ribs like a beast when he is near them, and his feet need to move before they become mush again. He will deal with himself later.
Moving is not easy when the alcohol piles in front of him like fluffy clouds. It is strong in his nose and stronger in his head. Ritsuka’s body is stumbling, and the thirst in his stomach is sinking lower, twisting him like water turns the ground into clay. His eyes make no difference between the floor and the ceiling, and he stumbles into a wall again. His skin feels ice-burned where it touches the wood, but the Ooku’s breath numbs the coldness. It numbs everything.
Ritsuka is almost asleep when a voice makes him jump on his feet.
“Welcome, my Lord.”
He thinks about raising his hand, but the Command Seal is nothing more than a fake shield. Besides, the voice is pure like silk and pearls, so virtuous that it lights the Ooku’s darkness. He can trust the voice.
“My name is Gao Changgong. I am your attendant in the Ooku.” His slippers beat in a musical rhythm, as hypnotic as the flutter of his dress coat.
Lord. Ritsuka feels the need to nod and the need to correct him. Both cannot be true, and yet they are, and he feels lost and tired again. Instead of words, he offers a handshake. Gao accepts—his skin is softer than foam, and he pulls Ritsuka deeper in the labyrinth’s bosom.
It is all familiar—his voice, his manners, his slim body, and his captivating face, hidden under the mist. “Prince?” Ritsuka asks while he is dragged through the chambers of the Ooku. The word fits the attendant, but the why flees from Ritsuka like a slip of paper in the wind. Many things flee him, all distant from the Ooku’s boundless pleasure.
Gao tugs Ritsuka, and they face each other. His pretty smile curls with a bitter taste of sadness, and he waves to dispel the mist. He looks brilliant now, more dazzling than the night sky and its stars, and Ritsuka wants to drown in his beauty forever.
“No, my Lord,” he says quietly. “Today, I am a mere attendant, and you are the noble. Now we must hurry. We cannot miss the beginning of the feast.”
He pulls Ritsuka’s hand again, and he—the shogun—obeys the retainer. He cannot remember why he stopped; he cannot remember why the wrongness in his stomach bubbled. It is easier to let the others drag him, to tell him all he needs to do, and forget about all the cares.
His heart flutters like a bird in a cage. It feels there is something wrong, but it speaks too quietly between his ravenous stomach and his clouded mind. The promise of the feast makes Ritsuka drool a little, and he wipes his lips before Gao can catch him. But the attendant only goes forward dutifully, as if he does not imagine Ritsuka could escape.
Why would he escape? Gao is the prettiest thing he has ever seen. His hips sway when he walks. His clothes sway like lilies over water, and the slit shows his black pants, through them his firm ass. A throb makes Ritsuka pant, and he pulls closer to Gao. It is easy to twist the small man, to push him until he cannot move, to peel off his pants and make him moan Ritsuka’s name.
He is the Lord. His body belongs to him.
“We have arrived, my Lord.”
The pure voice douses Ritsuka’s lust, but the thirst remains. Now, it is thick and greasy, filling his stomach up, and he hopes the feast will sate it. Something is mixing with the smell of wine, something hot and heavy, and it makes Ritsuka’s belly growl.
“Lead me in,” Ritsuka orders. His voice is heavier than he has ever thought it could be.
Gao opens a pair of doors and stands by the side. “Please, enter.” He bows. “The others are waiting for you.”
Ritsuka cautiously walks through the door. No, he cannot yet. Gao has earned his trust. “My attendant -” he intends to ask, but a deep voice in his mind snuffs it out. The lord does not ask. “My attendant, I want you by my side. Join me inside.”
He is too precious to be left out. Too pretty.
Gao flusters. He takes Ritsuka again, but this time their roles are reversed. His palm is small like a tea leaf, and if Ritsuka pulls too harshly, he is afraid he will tear the fragile thing. Gao is truly made to serve. “Let us go in, my Lord,” he whispers and lets himself be taken.
The room is larger than Ritsuka has thought. Its ends dissolve in the mist of spirits, so thick that if their hands did not touch, Ritsuka would worry he had lost Gao. It takes a few moments for Ritsuka’s body to sink into the hot fumes, thick like towers of sand. A few breaths dull his senses and suck his unease. The pillars in the corners bend, and the air drains Ritsuka as if he is water to be drunk.
“Welcome, my Lord. We were waiting.” The first voice is deep. Powerful. Pauses cut it like saws cut concrete—wet, loud pauses like the smacking of greedy lips and the gulps of primal hunger. Ritsuka gasps softly. It is all coming from the deepest part of the room, where the wall is only layers of pink air. He makes out only the outlines of a bench, small and wooden, an ornate table shaking under its burden, and a massive, burly man—a small mountain in the enormous room.
His stomach clenches painfully; Ritsuka wants there.
“Indeed. I was starting to worry that little Gao has taken you the wrong way.” The other man’s voice is soft, honeyed like the haze of an expensive, flowery perfume. The mist swirls around his face, not like a shroud, but as if it is an extension of his fluffy, cottony hair. “It would have been a tragedy if you had lost our Lord.”
Gao tugs Ritsuka’s arm when he bows in an apology.
“Don’t tease him, Merlin,” the big man orders. His stately voice drags Ritsuka like a pair of strong hands around his lithe waist. “The Lord is here. That’s all that matters. Come on, Lord Tokugawa, I’m sure you are famished.”
Tokugawa. The name of the shogun. It fits to Ritsuka as the water fits to the dish—or Ritsuka is the water, and the dish is the name, and he is changing to—
A headache erupts in Ritsuka’s head, and the world sinks to black. He grabs his temples and tries to stand still, but his legs are as powerless as sugar in hot tea. He stumbles into the pink void, into nowhere.
“My Lord!” Gao’s voice is cast over him like a net, and Ritsuka clings to it. Ritsuka—Tokugawa—both—everyone—himself—they all melt into his arms, firm and slender like young tree branches. “Are you feeling sick?”
The words mix and thicken like glue. He is, but he is not, but he should not be, but he has a duty… He limply nods. “Thirs-” his body tries to vocalize, but a dry, dusty cough rocks his chest as if he is trying to spew the excess words.
“Isn’t it obvious, Gao?” Merlin says. “Our Lord has walked here without a single drop of drink. One cup, and he should be as right as new. Then we can begin the feast properly.”
A murmur comes from the other man, and Ritsuka strains to listen. An insult about obvious insights breaks the clouds, then taunting remarks, and another order for his attendant.
Something ceramic touches Ritsuka’s lips, ceramic and sweet around the edges. The smell is hitting his nostrils. Ritsuka’s face tenses; the liquid spills on his lips and over his cheeks. Even though his lips feel dry like the desert sands, he cannot drink. He must not drink. He does not remember why, but his heart shouts it like a raging voice in a storm. He has duties, he has goals, he has a mission.
“Why do you restrain yourself, my Lord?” Merlin’s voice softens Ritsuka. Ritsuka’s hazy eyes droop, glancing at the robed man. His chubby face is smiling, an eternally charming smile. “This feast is all for you. Isn’t your body begging you to sate your thirst? Do not worry you will make a fool out of yourself. No one here will judge you for anything.”
No judgment. Ritsuka’s body relaxes. He gulps the sweet liquor at once, and it washes off all unease, all sense of duties, goals, or a mission.
He is there to feast. His cock is now uncomfortably stiff against his pants, but his stomach is clamoring even louder. The tiny drink was only a kindling, and now it has flared up.
“My Lord?” Gao’s voice flutters when Ritsuka stands up and licks his lips greedily as a king that has come to take.
Ritsuka barely registers him. “Better than ever,” he replies only because he feels like it. The taste of the sake lingers on his tongue like thousands of dancing spirits. He is not tipsy—his mind is clear for the first time since he has stepped in the Ooku.
He is the shogun, and this is the palace built for his needs. Right now, he needs food.
He can see all the dishes on the table—greasy, doughy dishes that his heart recognizes but his mind does not. It does not matter—a deep, hungry part of him knows what they are, and his greed distills into lust, clearer than the liquor in the thousands of bottles all over the floor.
He will forgive that some of them are drained and empty. A good lord does not prohibit his retainers’ pleasure.
“Back to your senses, my Lord?” The voice is also clearer, much clearer—husky, bass, reverberating like wooden echoes. An exciting voice, much more exciting than Gao’s princely manners. Much more dirty.
“Have I ever lost them - …” A name surges through his mind, like bubbles rising out of champagne fizz, and Ristuka says it with all the confidence of a fool. “- EMIYA?”
The responding laughter is even deeper, shaking the pit of Ristuka’s stomach like a flood, and Ritsuka stumbles towards him. The alcohol is not messing with his mind; he is not that drunk yet (sadly), but the voice is so intoxicating that Ritsuka does not mind drowning in it.
“I’m glad you recognize us, my Lord.” Merlin walks through the mist, and the clouds slide off his body. He is like a part of the Ooku, a ghost that fills the air with indulgence. His corpulent body—wide belly, lush breasts, swaying, delicious hips—makes his cloak tremble like a thinned sheet of paper. An ornate brooch binds its two halves, but Merlin’s gut heaves into it with every step he takes. The sways are hypnotizing, and Ristuka is praying that the clasp breaks so hard that he does but notice when Merlin has walked in his face.
“What is the matter, my Lord?” Merlin’s finger pushes Ristuka’s chin up—it is soft and warm like plush, and Ristuka moans—while his grin looks like a trickster spirit’s. It’s mischievous, cheating, as ephemeral as the dream of a demon. “Do you need more wine to clear your head?”
“You know me.” Ritsuka’s fingers sink when he grabs Merlin’s pudgy arm—he is so plush that it makes Ritsuka feel like he is in a cloudy heaven. “I can’t say no to more drinks.” It sounds wrong, somehow, and it makes it even sweeter.
“What did you—UuuUuURRP! - expect, Merlin? He is ou-UuuRrr Lord, after all.” The belches rattle Ritsuka’s knees. He shakes his arms, but his balance is already lost. Those burps were so laid-back, almost an afterthought, and Ritsuka is occupied with wondering how thundering EMIYA would be if he put in any effort. He must order him to put in more effort.
His thoughts are so whooshy, like a storm swirling in a jar, that he does not care about staying on his feet. One wrong step leads into the next, and his legs drop him under Merlin’s evident double chin.
“My Lord, are you sure you are well?” Gao has appeared behind him, wispy like a fairy of the Ooku, and his warm fingers are meshing with Ritsuka’s. Palms knead into palms, and the sensation makes Ritsuka purr like a cat in a pool of butter.
“’m well,” he says, but it’s muffled because he is pressing his cheeks deep into Merlin’s belly. The wizard’s giggle, harmonious like true music, makes his tubby body jiggle, and Ritsuka shoves his face further into him. “Just my legs’re feeling like jelly.”
“Mm,” Merlin coos him. His finger sways around Ritsuka’s chin and ends on his neck, then draws to his chest. It sizzles, like under a small incantation for fire. “This won’t do, my Lord. Oh, I know! Why don’t you take a nap on your humble retainer’s belly?”
A nap sounds good. His knees cannot hold him straight, so he cannot leave his cottony spot in the middle of Merlin’s belly. He stretches his arms to dig into the supple chub—his shoulders bulge, and his elbows straighten, and he is sinking in Merlin’s gut, but his fingers cannot meet. The wizard’s fingers tread to his abs, and he is rubbing small, lazy circles over Ritsuka’s body. Impish, teasing circles, too high to reach his cock, but close enough to excite him.
It is enough for Ristuka to dive into his pillow and forget everything else.
“Are you sure, my Lord?” EMIYA’s voice is interrupted by loud, even chewing sounds—he is shoving food in his lips, then his teeth click as they rend it, and then it all drops into his gullet. “I thought you wanted to -” A striking slap echoes when he hits his gut, like slapping a bloated, enormous watermelon, and a rumbling, greasy belch erupts. “Ah,” EMIYA pants when he is done, pants lowly and lewdly, “excuse me, my Lord, I had to get it out. Still, I thought you would like to join me.”
Ristuka’s face is all red. Walking, he realizes, feels easier. He drops Merlin, does not notice his little envious scowl. He passes by Gao, does not notice his little eager gulp. Only his newest, sweetest excitement fills his thoughts while the intoxicating air of the Ooku fills his lungs.
“I would love it, my retainer,” Ritsuka laughs while he continues rubbing his abs. He does not have Merlin’s gift; his stomach is gurgling under his touch, and each limp push only makes the hunger in him smolder. “But you better be as good at feeding others as you’re at feeding yourself.”
EMIYA smirks. Ritsuka’s steps freeze when he sees that EMIYA smirks. He wants to drink him like wine, devour him with kisses, and touches, and eyes.
The man’s frame is crushing the bench with sheer size, and the aged wood bends around the black hole of his greed. His arms are chiseled and bulky like ancient tree trunks, his legs are like the immense pillars of a temple. He is naked, and the thick alcohol fumes around him make his skin look as if it is soaked with drops of heat.
As if his gut is wet with a hundred little droplets. They catch the torches’ red flames and toss them in wide arcs, twisting the curves so that EMIYA looks fatter than he is. Not that he needs it. His body is already layers of lard upon lard: his legs are spread along the bench, spread open so that his gut has a place to droop. It is a bloated ball, dark-skinned and so thick that the bench is curving where its bottom part hangs on the wood. His belly button opens like a voracious cave where an explorer might get lost.
“I will do my—UuuuRP—my best, my Lord.” He is eating again—no, not eating. Devouring. Entire plates rise to the challenge of his greed and flood his mouth with food, so greasy that its glisten makes his face shine golden. Entire doughy troops are sacrificed to the triumph of his gut, then drowned in the deluge of alcohol from his private gourd. His stomach stretches to match his gluttony, bloats and quivers like a liquid-filled balloon, and his flabby sides tighten, but there is a bit of an empty bench between his legs. Some space that resists his size.
Ritsuka drops on that thin brink, his face turned to his retainer. They are so close that Archer takes all he can see and fills it with decadent dark skin. Curves to the sides, a bloated overhang down, two round moobs up. The heat in Ristuka’s body grows unbearable: he twists and jerks, grabs, touches, and yelps when the lard gives in, and he starts sinking.
“Should I ask if you like-ah!- the view, my Lord?” EMIYA makes so many noises—so different noises, soft like pants and rough like belches. Ritsuka tilts up his head at the right moment: he is in front of EMIYA’s lips. The musical moan rubs his ears, but the sheer force of the blast ruffles his hair until it is tattered around his face.
Ritsuka’s back snaps like a whip, and if he were one speck of dust taller, he would have pummeled EMIYA into a kiss. Instead, his face rams into his juicy, firm moobs, and the flesh fills his mouth.
He bites, and the pecs jiggle. EMIYA’s deep grunt mixes with the beating of his heart. EMIYA throws his head back, but Ritsuka cannot see it—he sees only the vast desert of skin that steadily engulfs him when EMIYA’s pecs jiggle around his face.
But he can hear, oh so much he can hear! The pants quicken the longer he sucks on the firm nipples, the harder he chews on the supple, flabby former pecs that sag into his mouth. Moans deepen as he paints an erect, plump nipple as though his tongue is a brush, and EMIYA is his canvas. Breaths flail and resound as his chest blossoms and limps—inhales and exhales.
Ritsuka’s throat is dry, tired, but he keeps sucking as if he could snatch every drop of alcohol from him, and it would be enough. He does not notice that his hands are rubbing his cock through the pants—nor that it is chafing like a fire spindle until EMIYA’s huge hand falls on his shoulder.
“You didn’t answer the question,” he groans in a needy voice. “Tell me, my Lord, can I make this better for you?”
’Don’t move,’ Ristuka wants to say, but the grip tightens, and his curiosity wins. He wants to see what EMIYA has in mind.
His moob wetly plops out of Ristuka’s mouth. Ritsuka turns his head up limply and pants as if all his air has suffocated in his blood. EMIYA’s face is hazy, scrambled, and Ritsuka needs to blink a few times.
His greedy smirk clears up first, then his eyes focused on the table, then the tired sweat on his cheeks—or that is more spirits, intoxicating him into debauchery.
“You tell me, EMIYA,” he orders. “How can you make it better for me?”
“Has your imagination finally run out, my Lord?” Merlin’s bubbly laughter escapes him. “Forgive me, but I didn’t think I would see the day.”
“You said it yourself, didn’t you?” Where one voice is air and water, the other is earth and fire, stable, smoldering. “The labyrinth has sapped our Lord’s strength -”
“I did, I did.” The fumes whirl as Merlin surely waves his hand, and his essence coats Ritsuka. It feels strange, being weightless, as if he is falling to the ceiling. He has half a mind to protest, but the magic is thousands of petals sweetly oiling his body. Warm, too warm for Ritsuka to consider rebelling.
Not that he needs to rebel—he has the power, and they are merely retainers, but they are more experienced. Trustworthy.
The magic ends when Ritsuka’s feet reach the floor, and Merlin continues, “I just hoped he had the mind to start with those tight pants. He must know it will feel much better when they are off. And if it is too much of a chore, you can always ask dear Gao to -”
He cannot finish; one pull takes Ritsuka’s belt away. Two pulls, his pants are gone, then his boxers.
EMIYA’s lips thin into a vulgar grin. “Fine for a start, my Lord. And the shirt?”
Ritsuka’s fingers race between his small pecs, and the clothes woosh over his lithe frame like a canopy. “It’ll take too much time.” It is not a lie, not when all fibers in his arms need to freeze, or he will grab his cock. He feels naked, small between EMIYA and Merlin, like they two would devour him alive.
“You can’t wait that long? My Lord, it’s barely a minute.”
“We can enjoy that minute.”
Merlin nods—Ritsuka catches that in the corner of his eyes. He raises his hand, and again, Ritsuka becomes nothing but pleasure, floating until Merlin drops him on EMIYA’s thighs.
They are face to face now, gut to small, puny abs. Ritsuka’s cock is trapped between their bodies, sinking into the cave of EMIYA’s navel. The hollow hole feels tight around it, wide and far too deep…
It is as if EMIYA can read his mind because he asks another bass question. “Anything else, my Lord?”
Ritsuka knows the answer—and he knows that EMIYA will do it even if he does not ask. “Eat,” he still orders. He wants it to be his responsibility and duty. All in the Ooku is his, even when it feels like he is but a puppet passed around.
EMIYA reaches for the largest dish on the table. Two slices of it, one in each hand. He is holding them above his mouth, and gooey cheese drips in oily threads into his throat.
“How much should I eat, my Lord?”
Ritsuka whimpers a reply.
“How much?” EMIYA repeats. The dish is so hot that it slowly edges into him, soon to fill his mouth with naught but toppings.
Ritsuka shakes his hips. EMIYA’s mass of a gut jiggles heavily, and he demands his answer a third time. “How much?” It is slow, crushing and frying Ritsuka like a volcano’s fire.
“Until you can’t!” Ritsuka cries, thrusting into EMIYA’s gut. The dry, harsh friction hurts, but his hips snap and rut so deep in EMIYA’s lard that he pushes his stuffed stomach.
EMIYA’s eyes roll back, his mouth opens wider, and he groans, “And then?”
Ritsuka jumps for EMIYA’s belly, rutting into him again. His cock it’s rubbing the skin dry—instead of crying out, he orders through bitten lips, “You never get to that point.”
He will feed the man himself if he must, but he will not let EMIYA’s mouth stop chewing. That is his duty in the Ooku.
Satisfied, EMIYA hums. He shoves the two slices into his mouth, barely chewing—he loudly smacks his lips, and an enormous bulge edges into his stomach, crashing in and making his navel one wisp narrower.
“Oh, oh, good!” he moans, and he slaps the side of his gut so loudly that it resounds in Ristuka’s stomach. “Did you feel that, my Lord?”
Ritsuka nods. He felt everything: how EMIYA’s gut still quakes like cake; how his navel squished his cock; how his bloated stomach is pushing out the rest of his body to make room for itself.
How his dick had stirred up under his flabby rolls and it now is firmly pushing into Ritsuka’s balls.
“Repeat,” Ritsuka orders, almost wordless. It is all he can do in the Ooku.
EMIYA does not hesitate. Slices disappear into his gullet: two at once, then three, until it is all gone. He snorts then, hotly ruffling Ristuka’s hair, and grabs his gourd. It is heavy; he holds it with both hands, and he does not drink as much as he tilts it to his face and floods his body with volume. His stomach is turning lumpy as the balls of dough soak in the wine and mix in it. They are so close that Ritsuka can smell the sugar in the wine; too much sugar added so the drink slogs like syrup.
“Can you remember,” Merlin says like background music to the glutting spectacle, “how much you used to restrain yourself, EMIYA? I never thought you had it in yourself to harbor such greed.”
A memory like that comes to Ritsuka, a smaller EMIYA, hazy like a shadow. Trim, tiny, nothing like the sprawling titan now. He would never gorge on greasy food or sugary drinks, especially not until—
A rough, choking gurgle comes from EMIYA’s gut. “Oh, for-Urpfhhhh!-’s sake!” He makes a stifled belch, and starts rubbing the top of his stomach. It is more pronounced than the rest of his gut, jutting out with wine and dough. “Merlin,” he pants between the words—or makes words between the heavy, blocky pants, “you can stop teasing me about that.”
“No!” Ritsuka ruts into Archer’s tight navel, making his bloated gut shake and kicking another moan out. Ritsuka’s shirt sticks to the throne of gluttony, glued to the sweaty layer, and when Ritsuka pulls back, he hears a hissing, tearing noise. “I want to hear more.” The two EMIYAs are too distinct in his head, impossible to meet like distant mirages, and he wants to know how one has flowed into the other.
“There’s nothing more to hear.” Archer’s word is absolute, more absolute than the word of the shogun. Ritsuka has to take that power from him. Take it through pleasure: such is the way in the Ooku.
“There is,” he replies, and he pushes EMIYA’s gut. It displaces the lard, making it bubble out, and compresses the already tight stomach. EMIYA’s face scowls, his cheeks freeze, and the next belch makes the bench quake. “Besides, you’ve still got food to eat. Don’t stop to talk.” There is a paper-thing ghost between them, one that sags closer to Ritsuka’s skin and clings around him like a sweat-doused wrap.
The order comes out more harshly than he expected; EMIYA groans and reaches for a massive handful of food that goes into his throat, then into his ever-growing gut.
“You heard the shogun.” Emboldened, Merlin laughs. It is stronger than before, reaching to tickle the empty pit of Ritsuka’s stomach. He likes how the laughter sounds. “It took him the longest to enjoy the Ooku’s pleasure. Can you imagine what a fool he has been? A proud, heroic fool that rejected the godly indulgence of the labyrinth.”
The voice is rhythmic, following EMIYA as he goes through the food.
“The first floor? He used to be the face of restraint there.”
A loud smack of lips.
“He was more sneaky than an Assassin to avoid killing attendants. Didn’t raise his swords one time.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever cared for needless bloodshed, Merlin. It’s easier to -” Ritsuka grabs his gut, twists, and squeezes a lardy roll. An order: EMIYA moans and shoves food into his mouth.
“Ah, yes, easier.”
Chew, chew, gulp. Merlin’s voice drips through the butterfly net of noise.
“That’s what you said when you first faced Lord Kama, is it not? It simply was easier. That is why he let you sneak past him instead of fighting you—because you both would rather do things the easy way.”
Hearty, greasy stomach gurgles. The sprouts of a rattling belch.
“You took the easy way through the next floor, too—and Lord Kama approved again. Because you lied through your teeth until it had become a truth for the Ooku—that you were a loyal retainer of the great shogun. And on this floor -”
EMIYA does not belch; he roars. The hot air assaults Ritsuka as if thousands of sandstorms ravage his face and hair. His hands grip to EMIYA’s gut as the power of the roar makes it quake: it starts firm, filled with gas, but then softness starts sagging, melting into Ritsuka’s fingers.
Ritsuka rams his crotch into EMIYA and pushes deeply into his navel. He feels stuck to his retainer’s skin, locked in place to the enormous sphere until he has brought EMIYA to waste.
“Don’t dare te- …!” EMIYA’s stare is murderous, furious, but Merlin’s magic has lifted the gourd to his lips. The stream of alcohol starts—EMIYA’s eyes open wide, in shock bitter like vinegar, then doze in pleasure as he starts gulping to fill himself.
His lips are still curved in a scowl, but his cock is growing firmer, pushing Ritsuka to the edge of his knees. Ritsuka grins, grabbing with his hands. He starts with rabid jerks, pulling the dark skin of the dick, and the more it twitches, the more EMIYA’s face darkness with lust. It makes EMIYA’s fat body jiggle and quiver, his ass thrash on the bench, and his gut squeeze Ritsuka’s cock.
“Tell me,” Ritsuka orders Merlin, and EMIYA moans a reply but cannot stop feeding his gut with sweet alcohol.
“I thought he would have picked the easy choice again—he would have skipped past me to reach Lord Kama. That is why Lord Kama came in person and gave him a choice.” Merlin’s voice deepens like a war hammer’s echo, and he tilts the gourd to flood EMIYA with more wine. “He proposed that EMIYA fought him there, or he went through the floor the proper way.”
Ritsuka’s ears sharpen. EMIYA does not respond, not even a grunt.
“He gave up.”
EMIYA’s chugging picks up speed—he is drowning the story in noisy gulps and lewd groans. His gut is bloating before him, a sloshy, enormous bed of wine, which is pushing Ritsuka out. Out of his lap. Out of his throne.
Ritsuka’s body is slipping from EMIYA, so much excess, buttery mist between them that the ginormous man feels oiled up.
The shogun will not stand that.
“Gave up?” His hand grips EMIYA’s shoulders—tight packs of muscles and veins that cannot fit in his grasp—and smashes his cock into EMIYA’s narrowing navel. His legs contort like rubber, he embraces his retainer, his heels sink in bulbous love handles. “How?” he barks the demand as his touch creeps closer to EMIYA’s thick neck.
The other hand still teases EMIYA’s cock, but with the gut in the way, each stroke feels shorter than the previous. Ritsuka makes sure to jerk until his grip sinks in EMIYA’s belly apron—until it pushes his overfed body.
“The first gulp convinced him that it was easier to sink in the Ooku’s pleasure than to fight against Lord Kama and himself at once.”
There is a snappy tone in his voice that Ritsuka does not understand, but he needs not care. He is consumed by sensations and images, as emphreal as the morning after the dream.
“That is how he became the Ooku’s hero and that is why he has not stopped enjoying himself ever since.”
Ritsuka’s throat dries, and he pounds EMIYA’s gut harder. “Has not stopped ever since,” he repeats, and his face is glazed with lust. Growing, devouring all he has before him. Ritsuka imagines, oh, he imagines it all so vividly!
He imagines EMIYA small, before it had begun. “So lithe. So restrained,” Merlin adds his small details to the thoughts. How hard had it been at first? Had he thrashed and flailed and thrown kicks while his arms were shoving food in his mouth? “So greedy.” Had his stomach taken control immediately, pinning him to the bench until his greed had run its endless course?
“Shut—shughh!” EMIYA tries to speak between the gulps. He cannot, he should not, not when the story is rushing to its best part.
“Drink,” Ritsuka grunts. He is small, made of sharp lines instead of delicious curves and bulky ridges, but his arms bubble, and his back flexes. He is pushing up against EMIYA’s shoulders.
EMIYA’s cock springs up like a trap, now released, and EMIYA groans when it slaps his fat underbelly.
It happens only because EMIYA wants it: he tilts his neck slightly, and the stream in his throat speeds up like a hasty current. The room for Ritsuka’s cock quickly disappears—the navel is growing tighter, squeezed by the quivering volume that fills every edge of EMIYA’s guts. Ritsuka kicks his feet in the air, his fingers whiten, and he tries to rut while his shoulders keep him up and EMIYA down.
And Merlin narrates all the while. “He has always been that stubborn. Tsk-tsk!” he clicks his tongue. “Never learned to take all the pleasures around him. It is almost surprising he took to his role as fast as he did.”
The rest of the words come like images. Clear, concise images, so real that Ritsuka feels like he is watching a performance. EMIYA is growing under him, growing stuffed, not fat, but Ritsuka can see it all happening.
He is gripping his shoulders - “How fast, EMIYA”? The shogun does not ask, the shogun gets, but EMIYA’s mere groan is enough to make him lose it. “You—I remember it, how you were still muscly but nowhere near this enormous.” Ritsuka’s fingers shiver; the muscles buckle under his weight, and his veins shift like tectonic plates, but it has bubbled up enough to hold all of him. “You couldn’t handle me like that.” It is as if he is doing a push-up against a rock, a boulder of human origin.
“My Lord!” EMIYA sloppily groans, and alcohol spills from his lips. Pinkish, tingling brook descends down on his face, drips off his chin, and makes a pool between his chest and gut.
“Shh!” Ritsuka orders—asks. “You just drink and focus on getting them bigger.” His elbows are shaking now, trying to hold his weight, but he ignores the pain budding in them. It’s all about priorities.
“Those babies weren’t that big, either.” Ritsuka remembers toned muscles flexing after a fight, sore shoulders honing tender pecs. Now - “Now they’re bigger than my head,” he marvels openly. One hand moves as he tries to tease a budding nipple, still erect. He wants to grab it, and its petal is so close, but Ritsuka’s other arm breaks down, and Ritsuka quickly grabs onto Archer’s body for balance. He can only talk. “Can I lift them, or they’ve grown too big for that? Oh, but then they’d be even better for burying my face in them—there are so many bits I could not lick.”
Another groan rocks EMIYA. His body snaps back, and his gut smoothens, the liquid quickly sloshing to fit the new posture. It’s like Ritsuka’s cock is sinking in a water bed while his arms are grabbing bulky, sturdy rocks.
“And! That! Belly!” Frantic rutting breaks Ritsuka’s voice. His hips, his arms, his waist—they all burn up just to shake EMIYA’s gut. “EMIYA,” he moans, “I remember your abs. Sculpted, tight abs—the stuff heroes dreamed of! And now!” Pant. “You’ve gotten!” Pant. “The biggest gut ever!” Ritsuka is shaking now, quivering. EMIYA’s empty, hedonistic stare is drinking him alive as if he is in the jug, along with the alcohol, and he is sinking in the massive pits of his stomach.
As if he’s one of those gulps that ever so slowly sink through his thick neck.
“I did!” EMIYA roars. It jolts through Ritsuka’s spine like distilled spirits, jolts through his brain, and blinds him as his cock erupts cum in EMIYA’s navel. The white liquid squirts up, and Ritsuka’s shirt is now sticky, stained with his own seed, warmly clinging to his abs. He can’t see how EMIYA drops the gourd on the bench, how he arches backward—
How his gut heaves forward, how his massive cannonball throws the shogun’s little frame, and Ritsuka is stunned until he drops on his ass.
When his eyes open, he sees a titan. “I become enormous.” His hands, thick and beefy like shelves, support EMIYA’s bloated, gurgling, obese gut. “I became greedy.” His fingers sink in a sea of lard, comb through vast lands of flesh, then drop it and grab it again. The ball is hypnotizing, smooth, and even waves edge through his flesh.
“I did not stop eating, fucking, getting fucked, getting fatter, belching, growing until my gut was begging for mercy and begging for food!” Cum is dripping from his belly button, Ristuka’s cum. EMIYA shoves a thick finger in it, then pulls it out and slathers his cock with the sticky liquid. “Do you know why, my Lord?”
It is useless. Ritsuka’s lips are frozen, murmuring praise, murmuring questions, murmuring wishes. He is already grabbing his own cock, warm and sticky but rising for the occasion.
EMIYA is faster. The strong, thuggish grip he’s got on his gut tightens. He squeezes out a white-hot moan, and a white-hot blast of pre shots in Ritsuka’s legs. The salty smell sinks in the sweet air, and the last of Ritsuka’s voice is gone.
“Because this is the floor of intoxication. Here men come to drink themselves into oblivion and forget all else. Here you come if you care for nothing but feeding your body.” He lazily tugs his cock, now placid but still inhumanely large, and the traces of his cum mix with Ritsuka’s. He drops on the bench, his legs open, like he is the greatest throne, and jerks his base. “And now I ask you, my Lord—are you willing to join us forever?”
One half of Ritsuka’s mind is filled with static, and the other gets to answer. Forever. It hurts in the thickness of his cock, as if he is pent up by some limit put on him, and although he just came, he feels like he needs to shoot his seed once again. His ass is itching for sensation, his angular body is begging for nourishment, his cock is burning for relief.
This is the true gift of the Ooku: mindless, mind-destroying, endless pleasure until he needs nothing else.
“EMIYA,” he orders with the confidence of a king; the statuesque man snaps, licking his lips, and his muscles tense to fulfill the order, “sit down.”