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"It fits," Blaze muttered to herself, her voice muffled by the sheer volume of her own plush cheeks. "It is a perfectly tailored royal tunic. Therefore, by the laws of physics and imperial decree, it must fit."

She exhaled, or at least tried to, but her lungs immediately encountered the absolute, unyielding wall of her newly expanded form. Much to her chagrin, the purple coat was doing less "fitting" and more "holding on for dear life," stretched completely taut across a massive, wonderfully soft-looking frame that had utterly transcended its original dimensions.

How had this happened? Blaze paced; or rather, shifted her immense weight with a rhythmic, pillowy sway; as she recounted the disastrously comfortable sequence of events from the night before. The pre-coronation anxiety had been agonizing, leading her to clear out the royal kitchens' finest pastries. In her stressed, sugar-induced haze, she had held a Sol Emerald and made a passing, harmless wish to look a bit more mature and curvier for her subjects.

The Sol Emeralds, possessing a rather literal and overly generous sense of humor, reacted to her cosmic stress-eating by completely supersizing her.

"I asked for a more commanding presence," Blaze whispered, giving her incredibly wide, patterned hips a experimental nudge. “Not to become a localized gravitational anomaly.”

Yet, as her white-gloved hands sank into the plush warmth of her newly exaggerated figure, a traitorous blush crept across her face. It was... shockingly comfortable. Every movement felt weighted, soft, and undeniably powerful. There was an undeniable, secret thrill to being this incredibly massive.

"But the coronation is in twenty minutes!" she panicked, her eyes widening as she caught her reflection. "What will the court think? What will the guards say? I am the Empress, not a parade balloon!"

She gripped the edges of her straining coat, desperately trying to pull the fabric over a midsection that refused to be contained. Pop! A seam near her collar gave way.

Right at that exact, agonizing moment, the heavy oak doors to her dressing room creaked open.

"Your Highness, the high priest requests your presence for the final—"

A royal attendant froze in the doorway, eyes darting from Blaze’s tiny, flustered face down to the massive, undulating expanse of feline royalty that took up three-quarters of the room.

Blaze instantly stiffened, throwing her head back with as much regal dignity as her double chin would allow. "Do not say a word," she commanded, her voice trembling slightly as her colossal form gave a soft, involuntary jiggle. "The tailoring is simply... avant-garde. Now, go fetch the imperial girdle. Or a forklift."