Hell trembled as Satan’s deep, thunderous voice echoed through his throne room, molten rivers flickering brighter in response to his wrathful roars. The Lord of Wrath had always commanded respect with his towering, chiseled form. His once-sculpted physique inspired fear and admiration, a manifestation of unyielding strength. But now... things had changed.

Satan sat slumped upon his obsidian throne, his colossal belly spilling over his lap, the folds jiggling slightly with each angry huff. His golden-orange skin glistened under the infernal glow, emphasizing the fullness of his once-unrelenting torso. Moobs—rounded, plump masses of flesh—rested heavily on his upper stomach, rising and falling with his labored breaths. A single clawed hand idly scratched at his chest while the other toyed with a massive chalice filled with bubbling molten chocolate.

Standing far below him, a tiny imp in a crisp black suit adjusted his spectacles nervously. He was Satan’s personal advisor and therapist, tasked with the impossible job of calming the Lord of Wrath. He cleared his throat and spoke carefully, his tone measured yet confident.

“Your Majesty,” the imp began, his voice echoing faintly in the cavernous room, “I understand you’ve been feeling more... agitated lately. But we’ve discussed this—managing your anger is key to maintaining control. Perhaps we could, uh, revisit the coping strategies we’ve been working on?”

Satan growled low, his glowing eyes narrowing. “I don’t need no damn soothin' . I’m fine!” he snapped, his Texan drawl punctuating the air like a whip. But even as he barked the words, his massive hand reached to his side for a golden platter stacked with demonically large cheeseburgers, their intoxicating aroma filling the room.

The imp adjusted his tie, cautiously continuing. “Of course, Sir. But... perhaps indulging a little might help you relax. We wouldn’t want another eruption of wrath to, uh, destabilize the circles, now would we?”

Satan glared down at the imp, his horns casting a terrifying shadow over the diminutive figure. But as his gaze dropped, so did his anger. The sight of the food—perfectly greasy, decadently prepared—seemed to soothe him. He grabbed a burger, his claws slicing through the bun as he bit into it with ferocity. Cheese oozed down his chin, and his massive belly rumbled with satisfaction.

“Y’know,” Satan drawled between bites, his southern twang softening, “back in the day, I was cut like a damn diamond. Could crush a soul with just my abs. But now...” He slapped his belly, the motion sending ripples through the enormous mass of flesh. “Now I’m livin’ large. Bigger’s better, ain’t it? Don’t matter how much folks talk; this here is power.”

The imp resisted the urge to grimace as Satan polished off three more burgers in quick succession. “Yes, Your Majesty. And, if I may say, it’s a fine display of abundance and control. After all, indulgence is a sign of dominance in its own way.”

Satan chuckled, the sound vibrating the walls of the throne room. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just enjoyin’ what Beelz gave me when she swung by with all her honey-drenched nonsense.” He licked molten cheese from his fingers and leaned back in his throne, his immense form creaking the obsidian beneath him.

As he reached for a towering stack of infernal cupcakes, the imp allowed himself a small, relieved sigh. Perhaps the anger would subside—for now. After all, even the King of Wrath deserved a little indulgence.