June 2024 Sketches- Incineroar and Rocket Raccoon Epilogue

Another pair of epilogues for Incineroar last seen in January of 2022, and Rocket Raccoon from November 2022, with Rocket gorging on earth food and Incineroar finally growing too big for the ring. Enjoy!

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Incineroar had believed for years now that bigger is better— how could it not be? After his career's revival as the pokemon wrestling champion, fueled by an awe-inspiring surge in his size and power years back, he had gone from strength to strength. Now, no one could challenge him, which did make the fights a touch boring. He always tried to add his usual flair, but when everyone else was so outmatched compared to the moving mountain that was himself, he had to look elsewhere for his entertainment— mainly, to chase ever bigger goals in the gym. Growing stronger, bigger, and bigger still, Incineroar thought there would be no limit to his growth— until one fateful day, when he took a lumbering step onto the ring, and his feet went straight through the boards.

It was a surprise to no one but Incineroar; he was the size of a tank, perhaps even bigger. His legs were thick and hard as concrete pylons, thighs rippling as Incineroar tried to free himself without doing any more damage, or overflow the ropes. His back alone was like a sprawling brick wall, swells of muscle packed densely against his swollen lats hard as stone and pushed out wide to make canyons look narrow in comparison. Round, monstrous biceps tensed, triceps like the treads of a tank surged as his pecs billowed out like an avalanche. Huge billowing stacks of muscle were fighting against one another for room, his bulbous, mountainous delts and shoulders eclipsing his head. He was almost drowning in muscle, his arms propped up by the thick bulwarks of his lats.

Incineroar grunted, trying to think fast— he was due for a rematch against Machoke, and now he had to think about reinforcing— and perhaps widening— the stage. He sure as Hell wasn't going to let that has-been win on default.

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Rocket Raccoon may have to change his name; after his introduction to all the junk food produced on earth, there was no way that any rocket could carry him. He had been gorging himself on every sugary treat and greasy piece of fast food he could find on Peter Quill's homeworld, and he had not given a single care to how fat he had grown— in fact, he had grown to such a size that he almost reveled in it, felt as if, the bigger he grew and the more food he devoured, he had almost accomplished something. 

It did take some getting used to, his constantly expanding, blubbery mass; wherever he looked was his own, vast body, spread out in all directions. His all-consuming gut had taken up several square feet, sprawled across the floor and covered in thick reams of grey fur. His belly buried his legs in a landslide of fat and his arms, so swollen with lard they were now wider than they were long, could barely move without wobbling, with love handles the size of lesser creatures pressing them up from below, and sheer waves of fat coming off his marshmallow-soft chest pinning them down from above. His cheeks and multiple, wheel-sized chins now made up the majority of his face, and the rolling layers of fat that dribbled down his back, piling atop his monumental rump, were smothering something that, as far as Rocket could tell, could very possibly be a couch, a car, or the whole of the Milano he had flattened without noticing, when he was finally plopped down here.

He kind of hoped it was the Milano; Quill and the others would make much more use getting him more food, after all.