Monster Flex- Part 4

When you're big enough to have a gravitational pull of your own, humility isn't high up on your list- but Asgore is still just happy to be here, and ready to find out it's good to be King. Enjoy!

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Asgore's trainer, Brock Henson, had never worked with actual royalty before. There was some confusion about what his nickname of "Kingmaker" really meant, but he was going to make Asgore a king of bodybuilding— especially when he had so much material to work with. It was almost too much material to work with, actually, and Asgore continued to bulk. No one in his sport had ever had such a huge canvas to work with, but he was going to make it work.

As for Asgore, he took on Brock's advice— it was a matter of balancing his increasing bulk, sculpting the vast brawn he packed on to his now truly monstrous frame into something aesthetically pleasing, staging his body in such a way that showed the strength and awe-inspiring expanse of his own physical presence. It was a matter of winning people over, leading them on a journey exploring every rippling swell of beef on his own body.

It was, in essence, acting like a king, moving with confidence— and remembering his strength wasn't just for him alone. When Asgore took to the stage, he was a spectacle— filling up the space and drawing the crowd in, his own bulk overwhelmed even himself. Every part of his rippling physique was a monument to his dedication— some of the other bodybuilders he competed alongside could fit in the mammoth, tank-tread mass of his thigh muscles and sculpted calves, or sit comfortably atop the peaks of his mountainous biceps. His enormous, engorged mesa of a chest jutted out in spectacular fashion, jostling his arms, framed by bulwark lats that might as well have been the wings of an airbus.

The stage buckled under his mass, while his head was like a cork bobbing on a sea of muscle. Everywhere he looked, his own mass was always there in the periphery, but thanks to Brock, flaunting it was second nature. The medals and awards piled on, and soon he was certainly starting to feel like a King again.

Reporters swarmed him after his stunning victory. "Asgore… you've just won the world record for biggest bodybuilder in the world, how does it make you feel?"

"Oh, heh," Asgore leaned forward to see the cameras and microphones past his own blooming chest. "Well I guess I'm just thinking about all the people back home. I owe it all to my friends back in Hometown— I just want to do best by them, and however much they think all this brawn can be put to use, that's fine by me."

"An extraordinarily humble response after such a dominating win."

"Oh!" Asgore flexed his arm and stood back up to his full height, his face obscured by the forward-surging mass of his elephantine chest, triceps dense as icebergs surging back against his own lats. "I wouldn't say humble. Kings gotta be proud of something, after all— and I think, between everything I've worked for and everything my subjects are working towards— I've got a lot to be proud of."