Etna's Totally-Not-Voluntary Diary (Expansion TF)

Etna's Totally-Not-Voluntary Diary (Expansion TF)

Written by: Prinny #8347

(Under protest, dood.)

Entry One – "The Invitation, Dood."

So Etna made me keep a diary.

No really, dood. She kicked open my bunk this morning, shoved a notebook into my flippers, and said, "You’re writing down everything that happens on our vacation, and make it sound epic. I want people to remember this like an ancient legend or whatever."

When I asked why me, she said, "Because you're the only one who can spell 'legendary' right." And then she raised her spear, and I remembered I enjoy not exploding.

So now I'm the official chronicler of Etna and Flonne’s luxurious trip to a fancy new Netherworld spa run by an Overlord no one’s heard of: Lady Pan Cake.

Yeah, that’s her actual name. I thought it was a joke too, dood.

Apparently she sent a golden envelope (with glitter and stickers, no less) to Lord Laharl, offering his "most loyal vassals" an all-expenses-paid stay at her exclusive Spa Hotel. Etna took one look at the letter, screamed something about "finally getting pampered," and started packing.

Flonne got super excited too. She said something like "relaxing is good for the heart and friendship!" Whatever that means, dood.

They even put together a small Prinny squad to come along. Mostly to carry bags, do chores, and refill Etna’s smoothie glass every five minutes. Guess which poor sardine got stuck with diary duty? (Spoiler: me.)

I really hope this place has hazard pay. Or at least a towel big enough to hide behind when Etna gets mad.

Entry Two – "Pan Cake and the Great Escape Bra, Dood."

We arrived today at Lady Pan Cake’s Netherworld.

First impression? PINK. Like, more pink than Flonne’s room on Valentine's Day. Pastel skies, cupcake-shaped towers, and even the lampposts were shaped like syrup bottles. It looked like a sugar bomb exploded on a gothic mansion, dood.

We were welcomed in the Grand Foyer by Pan Cake herself. She’s... uh... well, dood, she’s beautiful. Like, mature-lady-you’d-gladly-clean-the-floor-for kind of beautiful. Classy voice, long legs, eyes that could melt ice. Definitely not your average punch-obsessed Netherworld tyrant.

But then, get this, her bra just snapped mid-greeting. Just gave up on life. BOING. Like it was surrendering to gravity itself.

I swear on my stitching, dood, no one panicked. Not her, not her servants, not even the one guy who got hit by flying lingerie. Her maids swooped in with a fresh top in two seconds flat. I was still staring when Etna elbowed me and whispered, "Guess even top-tier overlords need reinforced scaffolding."

I braced for a duel, but Pan Cake just laughed it off like a pro. "Oh dear, seems even my clothes are too relaxed in the spa." Etna cracked another joke. Flonne blushed so hard she nearly combusted. I was just trying to make sure no one noticed my beak was still open, dood.

Initial impression:

Professionalism level: Ridiculously high.
Boob support level: Could use work.

Entry Three – "Maid to Measure, Dood."

After the welcome event (and wardrobe malfunction), Etna and Flonne were each assigned a personal maid / guide to help them enjoy the hotel. Good idea, dood, because this place is HUGE.

Like, imagine a normal hotel, then add five castles, a mall, a chocolate fountain the size of a whale, and a jungle gym for adults. Then triple it. That’s how big this place feels. We walked for two hours and I’m still not convinced we’ve seen even ten percent of it. Flonne said it’s “an enchanting maze of love and rest!” I think it’s an enchanted cardio trap.

Their maids were polite, well-trained, and didn’t blink once even when Etna asked if there were any hot tubs filled with pudding. Spoiler: There are.

We got offered snacks during the tour, fancy tea and something called melon cake. Flonne loved it. Etna said it needed more sugar. The maid looked offended but didn’t argue.

I turned it down, though. I don’t really like melons. Well… The fruit kind.

The bouncy type? I might be warming up to them, dood.

Entry Four – “Spa Day for the Demon Queen, Dood.”

So, uh… something weird happened today.

Etna didn’t yell at anyone, not once. Not even when Flonne accidentally spilled herbal shampoo into her devil wing polish. She just blinked… sighed… and said, “It’s fine. I’m too relaxed to kill you.”

Dood, I nearly fainted.

I’ve served under Etna for over a hundred years (give or take time loops), and I’ve never seen her this mellow. Usually by this point in a day, three Prinnies are on fire, one’s in orbit, and someone’s been turned into a chair. But now? She’s just lounging on one of those floating massage platforms, sipping juice with a tiny umbrella in it.

She even smiled at me today. Not in a “you’re-about-to-be-cooked” way. Like, a real smile. I had to hide behind a curtain for ten minutes just to process it.

Flonne, meanwhile, has turned into a jellyfish. I mean not literally, dood, but like… emotionally. She’s just floating from spa to bath to sauna like she’s part of the air. I think she called a crystal chandelier “her soulmate.”

Pan Cake’s spa staff keep saying this place helps you “let go of stress.” But I think it's more like “let go of everything, dood.” If this keeps up, Etna might forget how to threaten people. I don’t know how to feel about that.

Entry Five – “Melon Madness, Dood.”

Okay, so you know that melon cake I mentioned earlier?

Yeah. It’s everywhere.

Breakfast? Melon cake. Lunch? Melon cake. Afternoon snack? Melon cake with extra melon cream. Dinner? Surprise! Melon cake tower, dood.

They even have melon cake-scented soap. I kid you not. I tripped over a soap bar and fell into a wall that smelled like fruit salad.

Etna and Flonne? Gobbling it up. I think Flonne ate a slice the size of her head and didn’t even blink. Etna grumbled about it being “too girly” at first, but by the end of the day she was licking the frosting off her fingers like it owed her money.

Even the staff eat it constantly. Like, you try to ask someone for directions and they’re just stuffing melon cake in their face with one hand while holding a towel in the other. It’s weirdly synchronized. Like a cult. A sweet, squishy cult.

I keep saying no when they offer it to me. I don’t trust anything that comes in fifteen shades of green. Plus, I don’t like melons. The fruit, dood. Just to be clear. (Still a fan of the other kind.)

Anyway, I feel like I’m the only one here not getting cake-bloated. Just me and my scribbles, dood.

Entry Six – “This Might Be My Last Entry, Dood.”

Okay, I’ve been holding this in for a day or two. Maybe it’s the lighting. Maybe it’s the robes. Maybe it's the way she’s sitting on those fluffy massage cushions.

But I think…

Dood, I think Etna’s gaining weight.

I know. I KNOW. I’m signing my death sentence writing this. But it’s my job, and I take it seriously, even if it kills me. Which it probably will. Painfully. With explosions.

But facts are facts, dood. Her butt’s getting... rounder. Like, noticeably. I saw her sit on a stool today and it creaked. Etna doesn’t do creaking stools. She does crushed skulls. Even Flonne kind of blinked when she saw Etna walk by, and you know how clueless she is most days.

I’m not saying she looks bad! In fact, she’s looking more like a deadly hourglass by the hour. But something’s definitely going on.

Maybe it’s the melon cake. Maybe it’s the spa magic. Maybe it's Pan Cake’s whole weird air-freshener-of-complacency thing.

Either way, if Etna ever reads this entry, please tell my ashes I loved them. Bury me in a melon cake so she’ll be too confused to yell.

Dood out.

Entry Seven – “New Appendages, Dood.”

Okay, so today's observation is… weird. I think—no, definitely—that Etna and, especially, Flonne have sprouted boobs. Like, I’m talking actual, round, gravity-defying, “What in the Netherworld” boobs.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not one to blurt out every little detail in front of them. (I mean, can you imagine the explosions if Etna finds out I wrote this?) So, I’m keeping my commentary strictly to these diary pages. Still, I can’t help but notice how their clothes suddenly struggle to contain these curious new “dents.” It’s like watching magic at work, but in a really, really, dangerous way.

Honestly, I’m half expecting a memo to come out saying, “No public discussion of unexpected boob development, dood.” Until then, I’ll keep it between me and the notebook, and maybe my lunch.

Entry Eight – “Strut of the Hourglass, Dood.”

Today, Etna’s walk took on a whole new level of… swagger. It’s like she’s discovered the secret to hypnotic strutting. Her rear, oh man, her butt is now epic. It’s massive, and the outline is almost mesmerizing as it bounces along behind her. I swear, if I stared too long, I’d probably follow it into oblivion.

She doesn’t seem to notice all the stares coming her way, nor does she care. Instead, she’s owning it like the deadly general she is. Meanwhile, the rest of us measly prinnies are left wondering how the heck I’m still alive with so many temptations around every corner.

I’m not sure whether to be in awe or terrified, probably both, dood.

Entry Nine – “A Curious Encounter, Dood.”

Today, something odd happened on our way to the spa. Etna and Flonne passed by Overlord Pan Cake—yes, that same Pan Cake, who once carried herself with all the grace of a mature lady sporting an acceptable bosom and a statuesque figure. We greeted her, as one does, in a formal netherworld manner.

But here’s the twist: When we first met her, Pan Cake had a regal presence. Now, Etna and Flonne have overtaken her in height and, dare I say, maturity. Both of them now resemble true, sophisticated ladies—while Pan Cake… well, Pan Cake almost looks like she’s shrunk, as if she’s been left behind in the styling department. Her once-decent bosom is hardly noticeable now, leaving her looking almost childlike in comparison.

What’s even more unsettling is the way she said, with that slightly off tone, “Enjoy my netherworld.” There was something ominous in her voice—something I couldn’t quite pin down. As if she knew more about this strange transformation than she let on.

I mean, seriously—what kind of magical spa are we in, dood? Every day brings a new mystery, and I’m running out of clever ways to describe it without getting Etna to smack my head off.

Entry Ten – “The Booty Awakens, Dood.”

Today might be the best day of my life, dood.

Etna scheduled a massage, and I, loyal diary scribe, and totally innocent observer, was ordered to watch and take notes “for royal record purposes.” I thought she was joking. She wasn’t. So there I was—front row seat—to Etna stripping off her towel, flopping face-down on the table, and letting a maid go to town on her backside.

For nearly an hour straight.

We’re talking deep kneads, squeezes, circular motions, and Etna just lying there, moaning like she was melting. I’ve never seen her like that before. Etna’s always been the punch-first, flirt-never kind of succubus. But today? Today she ascended. I might have ascended too hearing her moans, dood. 

I feel like I should be arrested for writing this, but she told me to document everything.

So here I am.

Entry Ten-Point-Five – “Expansion Event, Dood.”

Okay okay okay, I was too distracted in Entry Ten to properly document something important. That massage? It wasn’t just relaxing, dood. It was productive.

Etna’s butt grew. Like, visibly. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but no, those cheeks were puffing up like rising dough in an oven. Her thighs and hips joined the party too. It was like watching a spell unfold, except all it cast was dangerous curves.

When the massage ended and she got up? It didn’t shrink back. That new volume? Permanent. Glorious. Terrifying, and most importantly: Permanent.

Oh, and the maid offered her a “frontal massage” in a few hours. Etna said yes immediately. I have a bad feeling… Or a good one? I can’t tell anymore.

Bonus note: As we left, her now massively generous backside bumped into a side table and sent a whole silver tray crashing to the floor. She just giggled and shrugged like it was nothing. My job is to document every moment. This counts, dood.

Entry Eleven – “Boobalicious Betrayal, Dood.”

Today, Etna told me to follow Flonne into her massage.

Now, normally this would be awkward. Flonne’s the angelic type. Sweet, pure, sparkles every five seconds. But the spa? Yeah, it doesn’t care.

Flonne laid down, robe open, and the maid didn’t even pretend to be subtle—went straight for the chest and dood… what a session. That was a full hour of methodical, focused boob kneading. I watched history being written by hands of magic. The results? Flonne’s chest went from “cute and modest” to “explosively bountiful.”

Triple the size at least.

When she sat up, I almost dropped my notebook. Her hair was glowing. Her face was flushed. Her figure was… massive. Divine. Dangerously divine. She stood, wobbled like a baby giraffe, and then—because fate hates me—tripped forward.

Boobs. My face. Full force.

I saw nothing. I heard angels. I tasted melon cake.

13/10 spa experience. Would recommend. Would die again.

Entry Twelve – “Nothing Happened (Except Everything, Dood)”

Today was a “rest day,” dood. No massages, no tours, no surprise pudding saunas. Just Etna and Flonne going back to their rooms to relax a bit.

Yet, somehow, it was the most distracting day yet.

I mean… have you seen them lately?! They’re not just taller now, they’re towering succubus goddesses with legs for miles, hips for days, and chests that jiggle with every breath. Their butts wobble like they’re made of enchanted pudding, and when they walk, it’s like watching two earthquakes in slow motion, dood.

They just exist now on a different level. I’m not even sure they qualify as Etna and Flonne anymore. They're like… Etna² and Ultra-Flonne. Super boss versions of themselves.

And the craziest thing? They still haven’t said anything about it. No “Hey, I feel a bit heavier,” or “Are these towels shrinking?” Not even a raised eyebrow. They just giggle, stretch, and complain about snacks like normal.

Oh, and when they entered their room? They tripped. Both of them. At the same time. It was synchronized sensual slapstick, dood. They fell right onto each other in a pile of limbs, curves, and fluff. It was like something out of a very illegal Netherworld fashion magazine.

I wish I had a camera. And maybe a parachute for my soul.

Entry Thirteen – “Butt of Doom, Dood.”

Today, I made a mistake.

A terrible, glorious mistake.

I ran into Etna’s butt.

Not on purpose! I swear, dood! I was just waddling down the hall when she turned too fast and BOOM—cheek to beak. It was like being hit by a spring-loaded gelatin wall. I bounced halfway across the hallway, flailed through the air, and smacked into a towel rack.

And get this, I didn’t explode. Miraculous.

But the impact did get Etna’s attention. For the first time in days, she looked mad. Really mad. She grabbed her spear like the old Etna, narrowed her eyes…

…and dropped it.

Just fumbled it like it weighed a thousand tons. She grunted, raised her foot to punt me like the traitorous volleyball I apparently am… and slipped.

Next thing I know, she’s butt-first on top of me. Again. This time with extra jello physics.

She didn’t even yell. Just sighed, flopped onto her back, and muttered something about missing bath time. She didn’t even finish punishing me! Etna! Not finishing a punishment! What kind of alternate Netherworld am I in, dood?

Something’s not right. But I’m too buried in hips and confusion to figure it out.

Entry Fourteen – “The Bra That Broke My Brain, Dood.”

Okay. I’ve been holding this in for a while, but I gotta talk about the maid.

The one assigned to Etna and Flonne? She’s not just a guide and spa assistant—she’s also their personal tailor. I didn’t think much of it at first. I figured, you know, rich folks like having matching robes and fancy towels.

But then today… Oh sweet sardines, today…

She brought out a new outfit for Flonne. Said she needed a swimsuit for their “final spa soak.” And dood, I kid you not, the bra alone could fit the entire prinny squad inside it. And we’re seven prinnies! Seven! That’s a tactical unit, dood! We could pilot that thing like a battleship!

And Flonne? She put it on. And it fit.

She didn’t even blink. Just twirled in the mirror like it was the most normal thing in the world while her chest jiggled like two hyperactive water balloons. It looked like she was smuggling twin mattresses under her top and somehow pulling it off like a fashion icon.

Meanwhile, I sat there trying not to drop my notebook or my soul. What am I even supposed to say at this point, dood? Words are failing me. Physics is failing me. That bra might be sentient.

End of entry. I need a cold bath.

Entry Fifteen – “The End (?) of the Line, Dood.”

Today’s our last day at the spa, dood. Supposedly. Etna and Flonne both looked… sad about leaving. Like kids being dragged away from the world’s tastiest candy buffet. They spent the morning lounging one last time, then ordered us prinnies to pack up their stuff.

Which, let me tell you, was weird. Etna never lets anyone pack her stuff. Especially not her underwear. She’s usually super picky—like, “touch this wrong and you explode” picky.

But today? She just sort of… gave up.

I watched her try to pack her own bag three separate times. Each time, she stumbled over something. Her hips knocked into the dresser. Her boobs knocked over her mirror. She dropped her robe, bent over to grab it, slipped on a towel, and landed in what I can only describe as a succubus centerfold pose—Legs out, butt high, face flushed, and a quiet “urghhh” like she just lost to gravity itself.

She didn’t even yell. Just kind of moaned in defeat and waved us over like, “You do it.”

And you better believe we didn’t say a single word, dood. We just nodded, picked up her stuff, and packed in absolute silence. Because we all knew that if anyone dared say anything, she might try to kill us… and then fall over again.

I don't know what's happening to Etna and Flonne. But if packing a bag is now considered a high-risk activity, I think we're way past “This is fine” territory.

Tomorrow, we leave.

Assuming their hips still fit through the exit door.

Entry Sixteen – “Curves, Curses, and Carriages, Dood.”

So… uh…

Today everything went straight to hell in a bra-shaped handbasket, dood.

It started normal enough. We were summoned to the Grand Atrium for a “farewell ceremony.” Fancy words, fruit fountains, and chairs that looked like dessert sculptures. Etna was already grumbling that she wasn’t ready to leave, and Flonne was wondering if she could “bless” the hot tubs one last time. I was just trying not to trip over my own shadow.

Then Pan Cake arrived. Looking… different.

Smaller. Slimmer. Flatter.

She stepped out in a sleek black dress and heels, and for the first time, I realized just how much taller and curvier Etna and Flonne had become. They dwarfed her now. Like, I’m talking twice her height, with hips that needed their own postal codes and chests that defied every law of reality, physics, and possibly war crime treaties.

Then she smiled and spoke.

"Thank you for your stay, my dears. And thank you especially for being such... spectacular victims."

Everyone froze.

She went on to explain it all—her real plan. That her Netherworld had a built-in effect: The curvier a woman becomes, the clumsier and more useless she gets. It was the magical quirk of her realm, one she herself was cursed to suffer. Some witch—jealous of Pan Cake's beauty i guess—cursed her to grow more... voluptuous every single day. Slowly sabotaging herself with her own excessive assets.

But Pan Cake was smart. She figured out how to pass the growth on to others. And oh boy, dood… did she ever.

"Etna. Flonne. You've been wonderful. Beautiful, bountiful and utterly broken by beauty."

Etna’s eyes went wide. She finally—finally—seemed to notice herself. The towering legs. The wobbling, shelf-sized chest. The hips that swayed like twin wrecking balls. Flonne blinked, touched her own boobs like she hadn’t realized they were the size of pumpkins until now.

"Wait… is this really me?!" Flonne gasped, squeezing herself and making a sloshing sound I will not describe further, dood.

Etna growled, "Victims? You think we’re just some cursed donation boxes for your boob spell?!"

Pan Cake just chuckled, delicate and smug. "Oh, not just that. See, I’ve had my eye on someone for a while… Lord Laharl. He’s bold, powerful, and flat." (She actually fluttered her eyelashes when she said that, dood. I wanted to throw up.)

"But to get close to him," she continued, "I had to eliminate his most loyal defenders. You two. You can't fight like this. You can barely walk. So thank you for making room—literally—for me."

Etna looked like she was about to explode. She summoned her spear, Flonne her staff—well, sort of. Flonne’s arms jiggled so much the staff slipped, bounced off her knee, and flew into the fruit fountain. Etna swung her spear… and lost her balance mid-strut, slipping on her own hair and landing tits-first on a podium while her butt knocked over a throne.

Pan Cake just clapped. “So elegant. I should sculpt that pose.”

Then she turned to her maids. “Pack them up, please. All of them. Far, far into the outskirts. Somewhere quiet.”

We tried to resist, dood. Honest. But what can you do when you’re a 10-pound penguin with peg legs and you’re being scooped up by muscle-maids like a sack of laundry? Flonne squeaked helplessly. Etna snarled and actually managed to rip off her own bra and panties while flailing.

Good show. Zero threat.

Now we’re in a carriage. All of us. Seven prinnies and two colossal, sultry, utterly useless demon ladies squished together like overstuffed marshmallows in velvet robes. Etna hasn’t said much. She’s just sulking. I think she’s realizing the more she tries to move, the more indecent things happen. And Flonne? She’s humming to herself and trying not to fall off the seat every time we hit a bump.

I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t know what Pan Cake’s going to do next.

But I do know one thing, dood:

We’re in huge trouble.

And not just because of the boobs.

Entry Seventeen – “The Final Dump, Dood.”

Welp. They did it. Just like that.

Pan Cake’s maids tossed us out like stale cake, right into the middle of Nether-nowhere. No ceremony, no goodbye, no last fruit cocktail. Just whoosh, carriage gone, dust in the air, and us lying on the grass like discarded party favors.

Flonne tried to chase after them—bless her heart—but made it about three steps before her overloaded top half dragged her into a somersault. She ended up face-planted in the dirt, legs kicking, halo slightly crooked.

Etna didn’t even try. She just… watched. With this unreadable look. Except when she glanced over at Flonne’s… um, massive blessings. She stared long and hard. I mean, we all did. Even the birds paused to look.

But let’s focus, dood. We’re stranded.

Return spells? Blocked. Magic scrolls? Jammed. No cell signal either—not that we had it, but Flonne tried waving her staff around like a reception bar. All around us was just grass, trees, and seven extremely confused prinnies. Oh, and two dangerously sexy, gravity-challenged demon ladies.

And then we saw it.

A hut. Old, creaky, kind of spooky. The kind of hut you’d expect to find an old witch in, or possibly your doom. I swear it wasn’t there a minute ago. Like it just popped in with a magical boop. Super subtle.

Etna squinted at it. Flonne said something about “fate’s mysterious blessings” (I think she’s still dizzy). With no better ideas, the two of them decided to investigate the hut.

Of course, they made it five steps before tripping over each other, and landed in yet another full-body tangle of curves and moans. Like a living statue of fan service.

So while the other prinnies are peeling them apart (carefully, dood—no one wants to get smothered by accident), I’m writing what may be my final diary entry.

There’s a hut. There’s a mystery. There’s no way back.

And worst of all… if we don’t fix this soon…

Laharl might get married.

shudders violently

I don’t know what’s inside that hut. But it better have answers. Because the fate of the Netherworld—and more importantly, our dignity—depends on it.

This has been Prinny #8347, loyal chronicler of Etna’s bouncing downfall.

To Be Continued... dood.