Yor Briar, now know as Yor Forger, was a 5'7" ft tall, 27 year old female who is a very beautiful and graceful woman with a slender yet curvaceous frame and fair skin. She has long, straight black hair that reaches her mid-back, with short bangs framing her forehead, and distinctive upturned red eyes, she styles her hair by parting it and crossing sections over her head, securing the bottom with the headband to form two thick locks that fall below her chest. She typically wears a semi-backless red off-shoulder sweater dress paired with black tights and brown-heeled ankle boots. She also wears a white headband and a pair of dangling gold earrings shaped like small spikes. While beautiful, she also has the physique of an assassin with soft skin but also possessing firm toned muscles from her assassin training. She currently resides in Ostania as an assassin under the code name "Thorn Princess" but leads a double life by also acting as a loving wife to Loid Forger and mother to Anya Forger.

Loid has recently been sending Yor plenty of cakes, chocolates, wines, and flowers as gifts with sweet messages like "To my lovely wife" or "To the best wife in the world" with little hearts drawn on them. Yor's figure has been tanking due to her husband's sudden increase in affection and her need to maintain the image of a loving wife by accepting all the treats, resulting in her gaining, at first, noticeable chub around her stomach, thighs, and butt. But now, it’s gotten to an uncomfortable degree where she’s needed to quit being an assassin all together because she’s gotten so fat that she can no longer move quickly or quietly. Yor had been so happy about Loid's affection that she didn’t notice how fat she had gotten until now. She had been receiving compliments from Loid and Anya, saying how cute she looked chubby, but now Yor's embarrassed by her own body and worries that she’ll soon be unable to fit through doors.

For reference of sheer size, Yor’s breasts are now four times the size of her own head, her waist is wide and quickly flares out due to her belly being wider than her shoulders by a fair margin, it hangs down past her crotch, reaching her upper thighs and is considerably large enough to push past her breasts, making them look much smaller than they really are. Her lower half is the largest part of her body, with her hips being a few inches wider than a doorframe, her thighs being thicker than a tree trunk, and her buttocks being comparable to beanbag chairs in size, she takes up a full three chairs at the dining table. If it wasn’t for her previous strength as an assassin, she wouldn’t be able to stand under her own weight and would snap her bones like twigs.

One evening, Yor walked into the living room, a bottle of wine in hand—her third one today—and approached Loid, who was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper. The floorboards groaned under her weight, and she stopped in front of him, placing her left hand on her hip while her right held the bottle. "Loid, be honest…" she started, cheeks flushed slightly from the wine. "All those desserts… look how huge I am. Is this what you wanted? Is this what you like? A wife who can barely walk?" Her voice was playful, but there was a hint of genuine insecurity beneath it.

Loid lowered the paper with a soft chuckle, his eyes flicking up and down her exaggerated curves. "Yor," he said warmly, "you’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. A little extra softness doesn’t change that." He reached out and patted the side of her hip, fingers sinking slightly into the plush fat. "Though, I admit, I didn’t realize the *scale* of the effect." He glanced at the wine bottle in her hand—half-empty already—and added, "But maybe we should ease up on the treats for a bit? For *your* comfort."

Yor huffed, taking another swig before turning around—slowly, her shadow encasing the entire couch—to plop onto his lap. The furniture groaned under the sudden weight shift, and Loid let out an exaggerated "oof" as her backside swallowed his thighs. "Too late for that," she murmured, leaning back against him, her belly spilling over her knees like a heavy, warm blanket. "This kind of fat doesn’t exactly disappear overnight." She fiddled with her earring, voice dropping to a whisper. "Oohhh… what am I going to do, Loid? I have to squeeze through doorways like some kind of jelly donut now."

Loid wrapped an arm around her waist—or at least tried to; his fingers barely met halfway—and kissed the nape of her neck. "You could always lean into it," he teased, squeezing a handful of her hip. "As long as your healthy, I don’t see the problem. Besides…" His voice dipped lower, lips brushing her ear. "I’m not exactly complaining about the extra curves." Yor giggled despite herself, leaning further into him until the couch creaked ominously.

Closing her eyes, she sighed dramatically. "Ughhh, fine. But dial down the pastries for a while, I’d like to remain large, not *house-sized*." Just then, Anya’s footsteps pattered down the hall, followed by a gasp. "Mama’s eating Papa!" The girl’s eyes sparkled as she pointed at the way Yor’s bulk swallowed Loid almost entirely. Yor blushed furiously, hurriedly shifting—a slow, laborious process—to free him. "N-no, Anya, I was just—ohhh, this is mortifying…"

Loid adjusted his rumpled collar, grinning. "Your mother was just… expressing affection." Anya tilted her head. "With her butt?" Before Yor could combust further, Bond trotted in, sniffed Yor’s dangling belly, and—in a moment of canine brilliance—decided it made an excellent pillow, flopping onto it with a satisfied huff. Yor yelped, wobbling precariously. "Not you too!"

Anya clapped her hands. "Mama’s a couch now!" She scrambled onto Yor’s pillowy lap, nestling on top of her hips with Bond. The assassin-turned-furniture groaned, trapped under her family. Loid chuckled, plucking the wine bottle from her limp hand. "Guess we’re skipping dinner?" Yor buried her face in her hands. "I need some fresh air," she muttered, suddenly standing—or attempting to. Anya slid off with a giggle as Yor rose like a slow-mountain, her midsection bumping Bond away like a furry bowling pin.

She shuffled towards the front door, unlocking it with a struggle—her belly pressed against the frame with an audible squish. "I’ll be right back," Yor sighed, grabbing onto the doorframe and pulling herself through, her fat hips, butt and thighs all compressing uncomfortably as she squeezed through with a grunt. Outside, the cool evening air hit her flushed skin. She wobbled down the steps, each one creaking ominously under her weight.

Loid watched her go, then turned to Anya with a bemused smile. "Think Mama needs a diet?" he asked lightly, ruffling her hair. Anya blinked up at him, then grinned. "No way! More snacks means more Mama!" She flopped onto the couch where Yor had been, still warm and indented from her bulk. "Besides, Mama seems to like snacks too." Loid chuckled, glancing out the open door, watching Yor turn down the street—her silhouette unmistakable, wider than any lamppost she passed.

Meanwhile, Yor shuffled down the darkened street, the cool night air doing little to soothe her embarrassment. "Maybe... a quick jog..." she muttered to herself, lifting one thigh with effort—only for her boot to catch on uneven pavement. With a yelp, she pitched forward, grabbing onto the nearest lamppost. It groaned under her weight, bending slightly as she clung to it, her belly pressing flush against the metal. A passerby gasped, then hurried away. Yor groaned, cheeks burning. "This is so embarrassing..."

As Yor walked, she couldn’t help but feel disgusted with herself, she wasn't even sure she could call it walking anymore, her thighs were so thick that they rubbed together painfully, forcing her to waddle instead of walking normally. She stopped in front of a clothing store, catching her reflection in the glass. Her eyes widened in horror at the sheer enormity of her own body—her belly hanging past her hips, her thighs thicker than the mannequins in the window, her ass so wide it eclipsed the display. "I... I look like a parade float," she whispered, pressing a hand to her flushed cheek.

Tears welled up in her eyes as she remembered the days when she could move like a shadow, slipping through alleyways with lethal precision. Now, just turning around required planning. A soft chuckle came from beside her. "Are you alright Miss? You look like you could use some help." Yor turned—slowly—to see you, a young man who was standing beside her, looking concerned.

Her cheeks flushed deeper. "Oh! No, I'm fine, just... admiring the window displays!" she lied hastily, wobbling slightly as she shifted her weight. You raised an eyebrow at the obvious strain in her voice but decided not to press. "Well, if you're sure. Though, I’d say those tears in your eyes say otherwise." Yor blinked rapidly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "It's just... allergies!"

A loud creak interrupted them as Yor’s butt bumped against the storefront’s wall, rattling the glass. She froze, mortified, as the mannequin behind the window wobbled precariously before toppling over with a crash. "I—I didn't even move!" she squeaked, voice cracking. You coughed to hide a laugh, holding up your hands. "Maybe we should step back before you take out the whole display?"

Yor’s stomach growled violently, drowning out any reply she might’ve made. She clutched her belly with both hands, as if she could silence it through sheer will. "Ahaha... I might have skipped lunch," she admitted sheepishly, eyeing the bakery across the street. The scent of fresh pastries wafted through the air, and her mouth watered visibly. "No, no more sweets," she muttered, shaking her head—then winced as massive breasts jostled heavily.

"I suspect they’re not even open," you offered, nodding toward the darkened bakery windows. "They’re probably making tomorrow’s batch right now." Yor deflated slightly—then gasped as the movement made her belly wobble like jelly. "Right, right! Of course! Silly me," she laughed nervously, adjusting her dress where it had ridden up over one hip.

"So… what’s your name?" you asked casually, leaning against the lamppost she’d nearly toppled earlier. Yor hesitated, fingers twisting her earring. "Y-Yor. Yor Forger." She glanced down at her own reflection again, shoulders slumping. "I used to be… lighter." You smirked. "Well either way, you’re still a very beautiful woman. You didn’t get much on the face or arms, that gives you an even balance." She blinked, momentarily stunned by the compliment. "Oh! Um… thank you?"

Her stomach growled again, louder this time. Yor clutched it with a sigh. "I should… probably head home." She took a tentative step forward, then froze as she tripped on her heel—her massive thighs jostling against each other as she pinwheeled her arms. You instinctively reached out, grabbing her wrist to steady her. Yor’s face burned scarlet as your fingers practically disappeared into the soft flesh of her forearm. "S-sorry! I’m usually more graceful than this—well, *used* to be—"

"Don’t apologize," you chuckled, guiding her upright. "You’ve done nothing wrong, Yor." She blinked, lips parting slightly at the casual use of her name. Before she could respond, a familiar voice piped up from behind: "Mamaaa! Papa sent me to find you!" Anya trotted up, her tiny hands clutching a paper bag. "He said you forgot dessert!" Yor groaned as the scent of warm chocolate wafted through the air. "Anya, I *can’t*—"

"Little girl, you shouldn't be out here at this time," you said gently, glancing at the dimly lit street. "Please, go home. Your mama will be joining you soon." Yor hesitated, torn between maternal instinct and mortification. "But—" Anya squinted at you, then grinned. "Mister’s got a crush on Mama!" Yor choked. "*Anya!*"

The paper bag crinkled as Yor instinctively reached for it—then froze, her fingers twitching midair. "N-no more desserts today," she stammered, though her watering mouth betrayed her. Anya pouted. "But Papa said—" "Your papa isn’t the one whose thighs squeak when she walks!" Yor blurted, then covered her mouth in horror. You coughed into your fist.

Anya tilted her head. "Mama sounds like Bond’s chew toy." Yor groaned, pressing her hands against her flushed cheeks. "Why did I marry a man who keeps feeding me?" you mused, grinning. Yor shot you a flustered look. "H-he’s just—very attentive!" Anya nodded sagely. "Papa likes round things. Like watermelons. And Mama now."

The paper bag rustled as Anya thrust it forward again. "One bite?" Yor hesitated, then sighed in defeat, plucking the pastry from the bag with trembling fingers. "Just... one," she muttered before taking a reluctant nibble—only for her eyes to flutter shut as the rich chocolate melted on her tongue. You watched, amused, as her self-control visibly crumbled with each bite.

As Yor devoured the treat, crumbs dotting her swollen belly, Anya tugged at her sleeve. "Papa says come home now," she chirped. "He made hot cocoa!" Yor groaned, licking melted chocolate off her fingers. "*More* sweets?" She wobbled slightly, her belly swaying with the movement. "I can't even see my feet anymore..."

You chuckled, brushing a crumb from Yor's shoulder—your fingers sinking slightly into the plush flesh. "Seems like your husband's got a theme going." Yor's face burned hotter than the streetlamps. "H-he's just... very enthusiastic about baking ever since..." She trailed off, patting her massive midsection with a sigh.

You nudged Anya along with a playful wink. "Run along, kiddo. Your mama needs to waddle home before she gets *too* comfortable against that lamppost." Yor gasped indignantly, hips shifting with an audible creak from her straining tights. "I *don't* wad—" Her protest died as she took an experimental step, thighs rasping together like two overstuffed pillows.

Anya giggled, already skipping ahead. "Mama sounds like a balloon animal!" The bakery bag dangled temptingly from her grip. Yor's stomach growled louder than Bond during thunderstorms. "Sweetheart, *please* stop waving that under my—oh!" She staggered as her heel caught another uneven cobblestone, sending her careening sideways. Your arm shot out instinctively, catching her—or rather, your hands sunk deep into the pillowy softness of her hips, fingers disappearing up to the knuckles.

Yor squeaked, her entire body wobbling like gelatin from the sudden motion. "I-I'm fine!" she lied, cheeks scarlet as she tried—and failed—to detach herself from your grip. Her belly sloshed against your forearm with an audible *fwump*. Anya had already disappeared around the corner, the traitorous rustle of pastry paper fading into the night.

"You know," you mused, still holding her steady despite her squirming, "if you keep leaning into me like this, people might think we're dancing." Yor froze mid-wobble. "W-we are *not*—" Her protest dissolved into a yelp as her heel slipped again, sending her crashing fully against you. The lamppost groaned in sympathy.

"Yor, if you’d like, I could help you get in shape—" you began, adjusting your stance to bear her weight. Her crimson eyes widened. "Y-you can do that?" A mischievous grin spread across your face. "Yes, but I need to ask some questions first—like, have you always had trouble loosing weight?" Yor blinked innocently. "W-well, I—" Her stomach growled again, louder this time, cutting her off.

Just then, Loid’s voice carried down the street. "Yor? Anya said you were out here—" He rounded the corner, eyes landing on your hands still buried in her hips. Yor gasped, jerking upright—only to lose balance again, her belly smacking against your chest with a muffled *whump*. Loid’s eyebrow twitched. "Who are you?" he asked smoothly, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Oh! L-Loid, this is—" Yor floundered, wobbling as she tried to gesture toward you. "He was just helping me not fall over!" she blurted, her thighs audibly squeaking as she shifted her weight. You chuckled, gently extricating your hands from her plush waist. "Matthew Blackwood," you murmured, holding out your hand. "Your wife was just admiring the dresses over there—I accidentally startled her."

Loid's gaze flicked to the shattered mannequin lying in the display window, then back to Yor's flushed face. "Admiring *violently*, I see," he deadpanned, stepping forward to steady Yor as she listed dangerously to one side. "We'll have to compensate the store tomorrow." Yor groaned, hiding her face behind her hands. "I didn't even *touch* it!"

You cleared your throat, hands retreating into your pockets. "She's, ah, got quite a charm to her." Anya peeked out from behind Loid's legs, grinning. "That man was touching Mama's big butt!" Yor made a strangled noise as Loid's polite smile tightened. "Yes, well—thank you for assisting my *very married* wife," he said smoothly, sliding an arm around Yor's waist—or where her waist used to be—his fingers sinking into the thinnest part he could find.

Yor whimpered as Loid effortlessly steered her away, her hips brushing against both sides of the alleyway. "L-Loid, it wasn't like that—" she protested, waddling alongside him. He hummed, plucking the crumpled bakery bag from Anya's hands. "I will not have you mingling with strangers in the middle of the night while intoxicated," he murmured, eyeing the half-eaten pastry inside. Yor groaned, belly sloshing as she attempted to push away. "I'm *not* drunk! Get off me, I-I wasn’t done talking to—"

You chuckled, leaning against the lamppost as Loid shot you a warning glare over Yor's shoulder. "Matthew, was it?" Loid's voice was honeyed steel. "I appreciate you keeping my wife upright, but we'll take it from here." Anya tugged at his sleeve. "Papa, Mister was flirting with Mama!" Yor gasped, stabbing her heel down and forcing Loid to stop. "Anya! That is *not*—"

Loid's grip tightened on Yor's hip as she wobbled dangerously. "Yor please, I’m just trying to keep you safe," he muttered through gritted teeth while trying to keep her upright. Yor’s face burned crimson as she gestured wildly—her elbow knocking over a trash can with a metallic clang. "Safe? From *what*? From being complimented? From finding help to my weight?" Her voice cracked on the last word, shoulders slumping.

You took a step forward, hands raised. "Mr. Forger, I meant no disrespect—" Loid cut you off with a sharp chuckle. "Of course not. Though I doubt squeezing my wife's hips was purely medicinal." Anya gasped dramatically, pointing between you and Yor. "Mama's blushing like a tomato!" Yor groaned, burying her face in her hands—only for Loid to attempt to drag her away again, her massive thighs audibly rasping against each other.

Yor yanked herself free and stumbled over to you, her belly sloshing forward like a gelatin tidal wave. "Go home Loid! Take Anya—I'll... I'll follow shortly," she huffed, cheeks flushed with wine and indignation. Loid's eyes narrowed. "Yor, you can barely walk straight. Let's discuss this at—" She wobbled dangerously, cutting him off. "No! I'm tired of being... *handled* like furniture!" Her voice cracked on the last word.

You instinctively steadied her as she swayed, your hands disappearing into the softness of her hips. Anya gasped. "Mama's cheating on Papa!" Loid pinched the bridge of his nose. "Anya, that's not—" Yor groaned, pressing her palms against her swollen belly. "I just need *air*! Can't you see I'm suffocating in my own skin?" Her knees buckled slightly—not from intoxication, but sheer exhaustion under her own weight.

The bakery bag crinkled as Anya pulled out a half-eaten éclair. "Mama needs snacks to feel better," she announced, shoving it toward Yor's lips. Yor whimpered, turning her face away—only for her stomach to roar loud enough to echo off the buildings. Loid sighed, rubbing his temples. "Darling, let's get you home before you *literally* collapse in the street." His hand hovered near her back, torn between touching her and respecting her outburst.

Yor slowly lowered herself onto the sideway, sitting down with a groan that made the pavement tremble. Her thighs spread like rising dough across the concrete. "Just… go home," she muttered, wiping her damp cheeks with the back of her hand. "Matthew may be my only hope at this point." Loid's polite facade cracked. "This man you just met? *Him*?" He gestured sharply at you. "Over your own husband?"

You knelt beside Yor, voice low. "Well isn’t it her body? Her choice?" Loid's eye twitched. Anya gasped, clutching the pastry bag tighter. "Mama's divorcing Papa for snacks!" Yor groaned, massaging her aching thighs. "Nobody is divorcing anyone! I just—" Her stomach growled again, loud enough to drown out her words.

You reached into your bag and took out a sandwich, a healthy, meaty one, handing it to Yor. She blinked at it, then at you. "Protein," you explained simply. "You’ll need it more then sugar." Loid stiffened. "That’s *my* wife you’re feeding." Yor hesitated—then snatched the sandwich with surprising speed, tearing into it like a woman starved.

Between bites, she gestured at Loid with the half-eaten sandwich. "Y-you *did* this to me!" Crumbs tumbled down her swelling belly. Loid’s lips thinned. "I thought you *liked* the desserts." Yor groaned, wiping mayo from her chin. "I *did*, but look at me!" Her voice cracked as she gestured to her massive hips wedged against the pavement. "I can’t even *sit* without spreading like pancake batter!"

Anya tugged at Loid’s sleeve, whispering loudly, "Papa, Mama’s getting *angry*." Loid sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Yor, I *never* meant—" He froze mid-sentence as Yor began to tear up, her lower lip trembling. "Let me find happiness in my own way," she muttered, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand—only to smear sandwich grease across her cheek.

You offered Yor a handkerchief, which she accepted with a sniffle. "Thank you," she murmured, dabbing at her face. Loid’s jaw tightened. "This isn’t about sandwiches, Yor. It’s about *trust*." Yor’s grip tightened around the handkerchief. "Trust? You *ballooned* me like some kind of—of *project*!" She gestured wildly at herself, her belly jiggling with the motion. Anya gasped. "Mama’s a *water balloon*!"

Loid exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yor, I *never* forced you to eat anything. You *enjoyed* every bite." Yor’s cheeks flushed crimson. "B-because I wanted to make you happy!" Her voice cracked. "And now I’m *trapped* in this... this *body*!" She choked back a sob, her shoulders shaking. You rested a tentative hand on her shoulder—only for Loid to step forward, his voice dangerously calm. "Remove your hand. *Now*."

Anya clung to Loid’s leg, wide-eyed. "Papa’s doing the scary voice," she whispered. Yor sniffled, wiping her nose with your handkerchief. "Loid, stop—he’s just being kind." Loid’s glare could’ve melted steel. "*Kind*? He’s exploiting your vulnerability!" You raised your hands placatingly. "Mr. Forger, I only want to help—" "By *what*?" Loid snapped. "Feeding her sandwiches in dark alleys? Telling her she’s beautiful while she’s *crying*?"

Yor wobbled to her feet, using the lamppost for support. "Loid, *enough*," she hissed, her belly swaying dangerously. "I’m not some porcelain doll you can—*hic*—keep on a shelf!" The wine finally hit her, making her stagger. You caught her elbow instinctively—only for Loid to wrench her away with a growl. Yor yelped as her momentum sent her crashing into him, thankfully you pulled her back, saving Loid from being crushed.

Anya clapped her hands, oblivious to the tension. "Mama’s dancing with both of them!" Loid exhaled sharply, adjusting his grip on Yor’s hips. "Darling, you’re *drunk*," he muttered, trying to steer her toward home. Yor swatted at his hands weakly. "I’m *not*—I just... I can’t *breathe* like this..." Her voice cracked as she gestured to her straining dress buttons.

You helped Yor to sit back down on the curb, ignoring Loid’s glare. "Easy now," you murmured, pressing a water bottle into her hands. Yor took it gratefully, gulping down half the contents before wiping her mouth. "See? *He* gets it," she slurred, pointing at you accusingly. Loid’s eye twitched. "Yor, please—let’s discuss this when you’re sober."

"Mr. Forger, if you truly love your wife," you said carefully, "you’d help her feel comfortable in her own skin—not argue while she’s distressed." Yor hiccuped loudly, nodding emphatically. "Exactly! This is *my* body!" She gestured dramatically at her swollen belly, nearly toppling sideways until you steadied her.

Loid exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers flexing at his sides. "Fine," he bit out. "If you want *his* help so badly, then go ahead." He turned sharply, grabbing Anya’s hand. "Come, Anya. Your mother needs... space." Anya pouted, glancing between Yor and the forgotten pastry bag. "But—" "Now," Loid said tightly, dragging her down the street without looking back.

Yor sniffled, watching them go with glassy eyes. "I didn’t... mean to push him away," she mumbled, her belly rising and falling with each shaky breath. You squeezed her shoulder gently. "He’ll come around. Right now, you need to focus on yourself." Yor hiccuped, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "H-how? I can’t even *stand* without—" She wobbled precariously, her thighs squeaking against the pavement.

The distant scent of chocolate drifted from the abandoned bakery bag, making Yor’s stomach growl audibly. She groaned, pressing her hands against her swollen belly. "*Stop* it," she hissed at her traitorous appetite. You chuckled, retrieving the bag and holding it just out of reach. "Temptation’s a cruel mistress, isn’t she?" Yor whimpered, reaching pathetically for the pastries before dropping her hand with a sigh. "I’m *pathetic*."

You shook your head, taking her hands in yours—though your fingers barely wrapped around her plump wrists. "No, Yor. You’re human. And right now, you’re exhausted." Her lower lip trembled. "But what if... what if I *can’t* go back to how I was?" You tilted your head. "Then you adapt. I will be able to help you lose weight, but nothing can reverse this fully."

Yor sniffled, staring down at the street between her spread thighs. "Loid wants me like this," she whispered. "He—he *likes* it." You frowned. "Does *he* decide what happens to your body?" Yor blinked, as if the thought had never occurred to her. "I... suppose not." She shifted uncomfortably, her belly pressing against her knees. "But I *like* making him happy."

"You can make him happy *and* be happy yourself," you countered, brushing crumbs off her swollen belly. "Would you be willing to come with me? Let me see what I can do?" Yor hesitated, glancing toward the direction Loid had stormed off. "Anya will worry..." she murmured, though her fingers twitched toward the sandwich wrapper.

The bakery bag rustled as you tucked it away decisively. "First step—no more midnight snacks." Yor groaned, her stomach protesting audibly. "Easy for *you* to say," she grumbled, rubbing her aching thighs. "These didn't appear overnight." You chuckled, offering a hand to help her stand. "That’s true, so… would you like someone to watch over you?"

Yor hesitated, then grasped your hand with surprising strength—her fingers sinking into your palm like warm dough. "J-just for tonight," she conceded, wobbling upright with a groan as her belly settled heavily between her thighs. "But I’m not… *sleeping* with you!" You blinked, then burst out laughing. "Yor, you’re married. Why would I ruin that?" She flushed crimson, her hips creaking as she shuffled forward. "Right! Of course! Silly me—"

The streetlights flickered as you guided her down the sidewalk towards an apartment building, Yor’s breath coming in labored puffs. "You—*huff*—live here?" she wheezed, thighs chafing with every step. You nodded, holding the door open. "Indeed! Don’t worry, I don’t have any roommates—or sweets." Yor groaned, squeezing through the doorway with an audible *squish*. "Good," she muttered, patting her protesting belly. "Because if there’s cake, I *will* eat it."

Inside, Yor collapsed onto your couch with a relieved sigh—only for the wooden frame to creak ominously. She froze mid-sit, cheeks flushing. "Did I—?" You waved a hand dismissively. "It won’t break. Trust me, I built it myself." Yor exhaled, sinking deeper into the cushions, her belly rising like dough over her lap. "Still… I should probably—" She shifted uncomfortably, the couch groaning louder. "—*not* move," she finished weakly.

"Yor, I know this isn’t what you want to hear," you said gently, crouching to meet her gaze, "but you are still *you* under all this." She blinked rapidly, fingers twisting in the fabric of her stretched dress. "Am I?" she whispered. "Because when I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize myself anymore." Her stomach growled again, softer this time—less hunger, more exhaustion.

You grabbed a mirror and held it up to her face. "Look. Same eyes, same lips—do you see you? Or are you looking at what’s beneath?" Yor hesitated, touching her flushed cheeks. "I... suppose I’m still here," she admitted quietly. "Hmm… I suppose you were also right about not getting fat on my face." You chuckled. "You aren’t fat, Yor. You’re *soft*—there’s a difference."

Yor groaned, rubbing her aching thighs. "My arms are soft… the rest of me, well… I think morbidly obese may be a more accurate description." She shifted on the couch, making the wood groan.