Side Story 2: Isar’s Weight Loss Chronicles

Content warning: This side story was written in the early 2000s and includes themes related to body image. Please proceed with care.

[Context: Before the end of Volume 1]

Berduth 8731, Year 6898, a certain day.

Heaven. The City of Ideals —Shima.

82.

When I saw that number, I was stunned into silence.

“This scale’s broken.” I tapped it, stepped off, then got back on. No change. Still that damned 82.

“It’s not,” said the heavyset uncle-type in front of me, not even looking up.

“It is. Totally busted.”

“82kg? (TLN: ~181lbs) You’re light. I’m 130 (287lbs),” the uncle said absentmindedly, reclining in his chair, palm outstretched, waiting to collect his coins.

I pulled out three silvers and placed them in his hand.

“You’re too skinny. Aren’t you about 170cm? You should be at least 100.”

One seventy? Don’t bully me just because you’re tall and buff. I’m 179.5cm, thank you very much.

One hundred kilos, that’s not a person, alright? That’s a pig fit for the slaughterhouse.

I couldn’t be bothered to argue and slunk away in shame.

When I got home, I was in a rotten mood. I stormed in, ready to vent my frustration on Farthead. But when I opened the door, there was nothing, just a big lumpy blanket on the bed.

Damn Farthead, can’t even make the bed when he leaves!

What?

It’s my place, yeah.

I should be the one making the bed just because it’s my place?

I searched the house. Still no sign of him. I charged back in, seething, and flopped down onto the bed, right onto something round and firm. Pfft, came a soft sound. I jumped up and flung back the blanket.

There was Ruthfel, curled in classic Garfield position, butt up, facedown on the bed, upper lip thin and smushed against the sheet.

He was asleep.

And I had just sat on his head.

He hadn’t even woken up.

What a piglet!

I cupped his butt with both hands and lifted him. His head dangled midair, soft golden hair falling, bouncing gently. His tiny arms drooped down, swinging.

My mood improved instantly.

I placed him back the way he was, kicked off my shoes, jumped on the bed, crossed my legs at the headboard, and grabbed him by the armpits to sit him on my lap. His head rested against my arm.

Farthead frowned, smacked his lips, and instinctively tugged my sleeve under his cheek as a pillow, snuggling closer and continuing to sleep.

I turned his head and pinched his nose. At first it was fine, then he slowly opened his mouth, revealing a few small, pearly teeth.

I tossed him aside and collapsed on the bed, pounding it with laughter.

He curled into a ball and kept sleeping.

I tiptoed over again, pinched his nose and covered his mouth. He began to struggle for air, letting out strange whimpering noises.

I couldn’t hold it anymore. I let go, rolled on the bed, laughing till my ribs ached.

Then I heard his solemn voice:

“Isar. What are you doing?”

I froze halfway through a cackle and looked up.

He was sitting perfectly upright, a mini emperor.

What is this murderous aura.

“Nothing, nothing.” I wiped my tears and retreated.

Behind me, Farthead called out in that signature childlike voice, “You’ve gone too far!”

I ran to the door and pounded the wall, cracking up.

Dinner time.

I cooked, but only made enough for Farthead.

“You’re not eating?” He was so short that he had to stretch his arms out to rest them on the table properly. He was used to this kind of indignity and never asked me for a kid-sized chair. Naturally, I ignored the issue.

“Not hungry.”

“Eat a little. Or you’ll be hungry at night.”

“I’ll deal with it then.”

Ruthfel glanced at me as he cut into his meat, sipping milk on the side.

I’m going on a diet. Ugh. 82kg. 10 kilos heavier than before.

The worst part is that men can’t just announce they’re dieting like the ladies. You can’t just flutter your fingers and pout, “I’m watching my weight, so I’m going to sit out on eating ~”

That night, I stared into the mirror. At first glance, I didn’t even look like someone who weighed 82. But the longer I looked, the fatter I seemed. I grabbed my clothes, tried them on; what used to be roomy now felt tighter and tighter.

Ten kilos. What a terrifying number.

Next day at lunch, Farthead and I napped at school as usual.

“You didn’t bring lunch?”

“I did, but I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten since last night and still aren’t hungry?”

“Nope.”

He didn’t say a word, finished chewing his carrot, stood up, and pressed his forehead to mine.

“Uh, what are you doing?”

“Are you sick?” His two tiny palms cupped my face, soft and cool. He kept his forehead against mine, blue eyes staring close. His slightly puffed cheeks made me want to squeeze them.

“No. I’m just lazy these days. No appetite.”

Next night.

“Still not eating?”

“I’m not hungry.”

I had fully transformed into the matchstick girl (TLN: fairytale by Hans Christian Andersen).

The table was full of food. I was hallucinating; dishes were flying over my head.

“No way. You have to eat.”

My stomach hurt so bad.

“Isar, are you listening to me?”

So hungry. So hungry.

Ruthfel scooped a spoonful of sweet corn, brought it to my mouth. The smell, the color. One by one, the golden kernels gleamed.

Corn!!

I’d never found corn so seductive.

I gulped.

He pinched my cheeks and shoved the spoon in.

I chewed in agony, and then couldn’t stop.

Half an hour later, I was sprawled over the table, groaning.

Ruthfel, smiling with curved eyes, said, “Good boy.”

I nearly hurled a fork at him.

And so, this diet attempt was ruined. I gave up and stopped weighing myself entirely.

Berduth 8731, Year 6899, a certain day.

Heaven. Sancta Faylia. Hall of Splendor.

“Why aren’t you eating?”

“Not hungry.”

“Eat a little, or you’ll be hungry later.”

“Really not hungry.”

“Baby, if you don’t eat, you’ll run out of energy halfway through.”

“We aren’t doing it then.”

Lucifer froze, then smiled. “Alright. Let’s take the night off.”

I had proudly ascended to 92kg.

I’m 179cm, 92kg.

Lucifer lifts me so easily every time. Does he not realize he’s carrying a full-grown pig?

Two days later at noon, Academy of the Seventh.

“I heard from your teacher you weren’t feeling well today. Are you okay?”

Lucifer and I sat on an academy bench. He was currently obsessed with Demon Realm literature and devouring it like candy.

“I’m fine.”

“You haven’t eaten in two days.”

“Not hungry.”

Lucifer closed his book and looked at me.

“Isar. You can’t lose any more weight.”

He scooted closer and pinched my thigh a few times. “It’s all skin and bones.”

“None of your business.” Starving and irritable, I slapped his hand away and flapped my wings, flying off.

God, I miss my old body, that 72kg of perfection.

But nightfall was my breaking point. Under Lucifer’s relentless force-feeding, I gave in again.

Later, when we did it in the chair, I sulked, saying nothing. Even my moans came out with a scowl.

“Been in a bad mood lately?”

Lucifer swept his gold hair back. His half-slid robe had fallen to the chair, exposing his bare chest pressed tightly to mine.

Foreplay ran long that night. Inevitably tender. He kissed me again and again. I forgot my troubles, threw my arms around his neck and pushed down hard.

Lucifer exhaled softly, guiding my hips as he moved in and out. His mouth didn’t stay idle, licking and whispering by my ear the whole time.

How intimate.

A beautiful man and a fat pig. A love story that must be told.

“Wife, I’m at ninety-two now. What do I do?” I said, on the verge of tears.

“Ninety-two?” he asked.

“My weight.”

“That’s why I keep telling you to eat more.”

“Ninety-two and you want me to eat more?!”

“You think that’s fat?”

“Isn’t it?!”

“I’m ninety-nine,” Lucifer smiled. “If I had only four wings, I’d weigh three or four kilos less than you. That’s nothing though. You’re already very slim.”

“Yeah but—wait, wings?”

“Mhm. You forgot you added a pair? One pair of wings weighs about eight to ten kilos.”

Sweat…

More sweat…

So basically, I freaked out over nothing.

Am I a pig?

Argh.

“You’re making a classic mistake,” Lucifer said, steadying my waist as his movements slowed but plunged deeper. “Thinking the faster you go, the better. But that only tires you out and doesn’t help much.”

I inhaled sharply, instinctively shoved him a little.

“Isn’t this better?” he smiled.

“Mhm.” Breathless, I gasped, sat back down. I looked up at Lucifer, cupped his face, rubbed his cheeks. Not as soft as the Farthead version, but visually perfect.

“Wife.”

“Who’s the wife right now?”

I ignored him.

“Wife, I’ve never seen you so beautiful.”

Lucifer blinked. He actually turned away slightly awkwardly.

“Thank you.”

Wait….is he being shy?

If I could write an elementary school essay one day, titled The Person I Most Respect / Admire / Love / Idolize / Feel Close To, it would go something like this:

My wife’s name is Lucifer.

He’s very handsome, tall, with a great figure.

He’s knowledgeable, elegant, noble, and his skills in bed make you drool just thinking about them.

I live with him in the Hall of Splendor in Sancta Faylia, and I have no plans to leave.

Wife says that angels don’t die. We live long, long lives, so long that even death cannot separate us.

Because my wife is the Vice Regent of Heaven, Heaven’s most beautiful man, and God of my heart.

God is the sun. The sun is round.

“Wife,” I said, grinning wickedly, “I want to leave a sun on your face.”

Before Lucifer could turn, I bit his cheek.

Yes, I’m absolutely certain.

That we can stay together every day. I can throw tantrums, hear his laughter, and cling to him.

We’ll always be together, living here.