Asgore finally gets his costume, but he may have gone overboard on certain aspects of holiday cheer. See how he's entered 2024 right away on Big Stories!

Art by  silver-stag

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Asgore tried sucking in, for all the good it would do him. He knew the poem said "his little round belly shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly," but there was nothing little about his belly. The monster goat had gotten his Santa costume, and despite being upsized three times already, it was still not enough to cover the massive effects of his little cookie binge— possibly because that cookie binge hadn't really stopped. Asgore was certain he would flatten any chimney he tried climbing down— or any rooftop he landed on, for that matter.

He had ballooned into an enormous, parade balloon-sized parody of himself, with reams of fat that were the consistency of cookie dough; it was almost certain that he would need a lot more than eight reindeer to carry him. His gigantic white avalanche of a belly was one plate of cookies away from dragging on the floor, and billowed out in all directions. It was supported by blubbery, trunk-sized legs, matched by a rear so immense and bulbous, it was like a pair of overstuffed pillows trying to escape his red pants. His custom-made jacket was almost useless for covering up, the red velvet and white trim clinging to a sprawling, pillowy chest, the beard he had grown out covering his multiple chins, sleeves splitting at the seams from arms swaddled in lard that stretched out his sleeves, and the rest of his jacket splitting at the seams as it attempted to cover the multiple thick folds of back fat.

"Oof… Well. At least the costume isn't too big." Asgore thumped his belly, sending ripples across his enormous middle, and for good measure, threw out a hearty "Ho ho ho!" It fit him— better than the costume, anyways.