The Demonwine Fountain

(Disclaimer: Any acts of transformation, expansion, or mental altercation have been consented to by the owners of the characters affected. Any acts depicted are meant as explorations of the fetishistic psyche, hold artistic merit, and are compliant with the TOS of Patreon).
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Commission for Xill'kah
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Xill’kah raised a hand and ushered his servant to move faster with a lash of teal energy. His claw smoked with the smell of sulfur, where the spell had erupted from his fingertips. He blew the acrid wisps away like a cowboy cooling the barrel of a freshly unloaded revolver, and reclined into the assortment of pillows stacked high on his throne. The litter carrying his royal personage was made from black stone, and gilded with strips of blue soul iron that pulsed and wailed in the jungle darkness. He leaned to one side, elbow supported by the arm of his throne, and rested the meat of his cheek against his knuckle. He groaned and cursed the tedium of the whole expedition, apparently finding the demonwine fountain he desired was a more difficult and lengthy endeavour than he had been led to believe. He decided he would flay his chief scholar upon returning to his castle for making him endure something so common as boredom.

“Faster, or I’ll cut deeper with my next lash,” Xill’kah warned, his lazily extended claw glowing cyan. The brutish demons carrying his litter took the message to heart, and doubled their pace, earning them a reprieve from their master’s whip.

Xill’kah was an enormously fat demon. He had been spawned plump and wicked, and his rise to power swelled him further into the self-made Machiavellian tyrant he was today. His skin was covered in short royal blue fur, punctuated by slashes of teal that also coloured a small patch that lead from his lower belly to his crotch. His ears were long ovoids sat between his proud, onyx horns. He had a small nose consisting of a barely noticeable ridge, with horizontal shark-like nasal slits. When these features combined with his overly wide smile of triangular teeth, they made a predatory impression that kept most lesser demons from questioning his orders.

The pallbearer with the searing cyan wound resembled a larger version of Xill’kah. It was even fatter than him, but typically moved with a sluggishness that had to be beaten out of it. It was less intelligent, barely capable of thinking for itself; in Xill’kah’s mind it was purpose-built, if a little bit clumsy. By contrast, the impish creatures fluttering overhead were smaller, mischievous, and quick-witted though poor in self-preservation instincts. If Xill’kah himself didn’t destroy them for their occasional disobedient gibbering, they often ended up blown to smithereens through their poorly thought-out plans anyway. Both the brutes and the imps were made in his image, they were extensions of his own flesh. He felt no more guilt punishing one of them than he did trimming his fur, or filing his claws.

Xill’kah snapped his fingers. One of his imps descended. It was made to wear a golden scarf, partly to appease its own ego and partly to remind Xill’kah not to destroy it. It had a scroll case tied to its hip. When commanded to, it removed the case from its bindings and unfurled the black parchment to reveal its contents. It read aloud from the red letters glowing softly against the underside of its face.

“According to our scouts overhead we are nearing the coordinates provided by your contact, Lord Xill’kah. There is a clearing ahead, the trees appear to grow thicker and more violent the closer we get to it.”

As the imp spoke, a particularly angry vine took a swipe at one of Xill’kah’s brutes. It was one of the two which served as his vanguard, who cleared the way through the dense forest for his throne-bearers. The fuchsia bark cut deep into the brute, splitting his flesh and spilling his vital fluids. The wound was deeper than the one Xill’kah inflicted on one of his carriers, which he took offence to. How dare some plant outdo him in doling out lashings to his own minions? He decided this wouldn’t do, not at all, and raised his claw.

“Remind me to have a word with my source about the nature of this forest, and his forgetfulness. He ‘said’ there would be no beasts or rival demons. Which there are none, I will give him that,” Xill’kah drew upon the dread power deep inside of him. A marble of cyan appeared at the tip of his outstretched index claw. “But apparently murderous horticulture was something he thought I did not need to know about.”

The marble grew in size, floating above the demon lord’s head. He spoke a command “eviscerate,” and the orb burst apart into a thousand streams of razor sharp wire. They swarmed the tree which had injured his servant, and gave it a death by a thousand cuts. An ancient, powerful tree, which had potentially stood for centuries, became a pile of glittery sawdust on the forest floor. Once the obstruction was dealt with, Xill’kah mercifully sealed the wound of his forward brute and then commanded his host to advance.

“I don’t understand, master.” The imp with the golden scarf asked. It tilted its head, studying its master for something.

Xill’kah groaned. “That’s not very specific. I tried to make you with some semblance of intellect, but apparently I got bored half way if the amount of things you don’t understand is any indication. What is it, in particular, you don’t understand. Imp?”

“You destroyed that tree so effortlessly. Why not clear the entire forest, surely that would be within your power, oh master?”

Xill’kah laughed. “Because then I might destroy my prize. And then I would have wasted all this travelling for nothing.”

“Master! We’ve found a way into the clearing!”

The pole-bearing brutes followed the lead of their kin. Through a natural tunnel through the roots of a fuchsia tree thick as a fortress wall. They came out into a clearing, where the grass was pink as cotton candy, and channels in the ground ran with blood red liquid. At the centre of everything was the source. A generously proportioned figure with a lion’s head, and a mane carved out of pink glass. Its eyes glittered, at first glance made from the same glass, but a skilled eye could tell these were diamonds made from soul matter. The lion’s hands were cupped and overflowed with a faintly sweet smelling wine. It didn’t matter how much spilled over its claws, it replenished as fast as it flowed out, causing the demonic liquid to pour over the lip of a bowl placed at the lion’s feet. Xill surmised that it must have been the reason for the forest’s tenacity, the energy empowering the soil.

Xill’kah vanished from his throne in a puff of red smoke. He reappeared at the foot of the statue, laughing triumphantly. “Here it is! At last, the Demonwine Fountain of Lord Bach’aarus!” He snapped his fingers. “Bring me my goblet!”

An imp flew hastily to deposit a golden, ruby encrusted goblet in Xill’kah’s hand. His fat fingers coiled around it, as though he were wringing a neck. He placed it into the flow of crimson wine and let it bubble over, he could feel the power contained within just by the way it ran over his skin. It smelled sweet, overpoweringly so, and as he drank the goblet dry he felt its saccharine flavour coat his mouth.

“Mm, now let’s test the vintage of this so-called all powerful demonwine, shall we?” Xill’kah pointed at the brute he lashed earlier. “Here, a reward for your service.” He shot an arc of magenta lightning from his claw. The colour intrigued him, it was different from his cyan magic. It continued to arc across his skin, little bridges of hued lightning, crackling even after the energy had been expended.

The brute, a larger, hairier mirror of Xill’kah himself, went wide-eyed and moaned. He gripped his stomach with both claws. It ballooned to twice its size in a matter of seconds, and it showed no signs of stopping. The brute tried to rub its stomach, enamored with the feeling of becoming enormous. Though its expansion was short-lived. Just as the demon servant began to fully enjoy itself, its limbs plumped up out of sequence. Its right hand grew to the size of a person, while its left thigh bulged even larger. Its left butt cheek overtook the right, and its body swelled like a collection of disparate balloons until they synchronized - making the demon a hot air balloon of rampant magic - and burst.

Xill’kah watched the demon’s horns strike a tree, they had flown off the bursting brute like champagne corks. The only proof of his servant’s existence was a pool of cyan goop, layered with rolls of shiny blue skin. The remnant scraps reminded Xill’kah of an unpitched tent, so he laughed. “Couldn’t hold his magic, what a shame.”

Xill’kah tried to take another sip from his goblet, but smacked himself in the face. He was about to growl and misdirect his anger to one of his minions, before he noticed how swollen his right hand was. “I… but I expended the magic, why is it still building?” He said, confused, and unleashed an arcstorm of magenta lightning skyward. His hand deflated, for a second, then one by one his fingers puffed up like sausages straining against their casings.

“Sire, perhaps you should call for aid. It would be a trifling matter for us to contact a specialist to drain your energy, so that you do not-”

“Before I WHAT, minion? Before I pop like a human child’s balloon. Do you think I'm so feeble, do you think my beautiful skin is so papery that it can be torn so easily!?” Xill’kah snapped before the imp could finish.

Xill’kah heated up from the pit of his stomach. The wine had burned on the way down, and smoldered in his stomach. By casting a spell he had lessened that heat. But casting around the clock was lunacy, no one could manage such a feat, even with a rapidly multiplying source of power like the demonwine. He grit his teeth and made the executive decision to not cast a single spell. This power was his, he WOULD contain it, no ifs or buts. He briefly considered the price of failure and vanquished it from his mind’s eye.

The goblet cracked under pressure from Xill’kah’s ballooning hand. The swelling spread to his wrist, then along his arm, making it fatter and unwieldy. It resembled the way a hose stiffened when air or water was forced along its length. When the bulging reached his shoulder, it knocked him off balance. He felt woozy, the pleasant after-burn of alcohol in his throat and gullet transcended to a broil. His beautiful, shiny blue skin flushed pink where it was thinnest. His belly button, under his arms, at his joins, the edges of his cheeks.

“Sire, please, let us help!” A brute showed their support, enraging Xill’kah. How dare his own flesh and blood, his MINIONS, show sympathy. They had no right to look down on him like that! He roared and burst him like a grape, earning the demon lord a brief reprieve from the wine’s effects. It lasted all of two seconds, before Xill’kah’s left facial cheek made his left eye squint, and his right ass cheek exploded in size like a deployed parachute. He roared, angrily, spouting pink flames in outrage.

“Perhaps we should find a sharp branch, and let the pressure out gradually?”
“No, he would burst! We clearly need to find something to squeeze him.”
“And risk splashing the US with that infernal wine?”

Xill’kah left the ground, and rotated in the air like space debris. With every three dimensional rotation, his body evened out, until he had the proportions of a planetary model of the solar system, with thick puffy limbs jutting out at odd angles like a starfish. His buttocks had expanded behind him, and his breast in front of him, giving him the appearance of something like a hot air balloon married with a parade blimp.

Pink flames gushed out of his ear holes, his nostrils, and wine dripped from his nipples and navel. He burgeoned to fill the clearing, eclipsing it, while the maelstrom inside of him - which bore light through his thinning skin - lit the blackness with the magenta of his forthcoming doom. He hated to admit it, but despite realizing his destruction was fast approaching, the sensation was not unpleasant. Though he would take that secret to the four winds with him when he popped. That was inevitable now.

Blown up to the size of a king’s airship. Xill felt his body shudder, and vibrate. It tried to pulse bigger, while branches from the trees that made up the clearing poked dangerously into his taut hide. He huffed and puffed, drunk on the seductive power inside of him. It was so aggressive, so bright and fiery, he lamented being unable to tame it. But the pleasure he experienced being its container, even a momentary one, almost made up for the shame he would endure from what came next.

“I… can’t… contain it…” Xill’kah’s eyes went wide. The tension snapped. He grew steadily, then quickly, then too fast for his pink-washed skin to handle. The great demon overlord swelled so big in seconds, so viciously, that it felt like he could have crushed it under his mass. But he was also delicate, and wispy thin, like a soap bubble. He experienced one last rush of power that made his mind go blank, drunk, and scattered. Just as his body did.

The explosion was beautiful. It incinerated everything except the fountain, leaving it on a rise in the middle of a fifty foot crater. The imps and remaining brutes had escaped before their master popped like the egotistical balloon he was, and depending on their mood, would resurrect their master later.

The Fountain of Bach’aarus overflowed into the crater, and over time, it would create a lake of volatile demonwine, ready to entice the next arrogant fool.