Pan
Another bio, this one for Pan. Pan is... Well, he is basically the garbage dump and heater for Sasuke's house. He's as dim as a burnt out lightbulb and as gluttonous as the draolf himself, but he just wants more food. All he cares about is eating, and if that eating means that he is used as heating... Well, so be it.
Pan didn't know what day it was, what time it was, or even what season it was outside. He hadn't seen the outside in so long, or for that matter much of anything in a very, very long time. He couldn't tell what year it even was, as all that he could see, and had seen for an indeterminate amount of time, was his own fat. His cheeks had swelled up to swallow his face what felt like an eternity ago, and save for a hose that went from his mouth to some tank, as well as a separate hose to provide air to his fat-entombed lungs... There was no way to even tell where his head was from the outside. There was just a divot in a sea of adipose, just like the location of his arms, his legs, and even his long, ringed tail. There was another hose as well, this one far larger and tucked underneath his tail, but Pan... Well, he never paid that one much mind, as that one wasn't feeding him. No, there was nothing left of Pan from the outside, but inside there was still a little something left. The red panda wasn't entirely alone, as he did have a pair of goggles over his eyes that let him watch television, but that was the only stimulation he got these days. Thankfully for him, that was really all the simpleton of fat and more fat needed; Pan's mind had gone to mush years prior from his own diet of daytime reality shows and a near-endless stream of calories. Eating had always been his biggest addiction, and once moving proved to be something of a challenge for the red panda, he stopped doing that. He then stopped doing much thinking, and from there, it was only a matter of time before he wound up in the situation he was in.
Not moving, working, or doing much anything other than maxing out his credit cards on food and little else left the red panda in a world of debt. He didn't much care about that though, for as long as he still had a screen in front of him and food flowing down his gullet, he was content; the source of these items didn't much matter to him. As such, when he was approached to pay off his debt by less-than-conventional means, he didn't even give it a second thought; more food and easier access to trashy TV were no-brainers for him. Pan hadn't even looked at the contract, he had just signed it sloppily, food smearing the paper more than the scribble of a signature he had clumsily managed just to further accentuate how far down the rabbit hole of pure gluttony the red panda had gone. His debt was cleared, though, and he was moved somewhere new, the most movement he had done in nearly a year at that point in his life. That was his last movement, though, and it took effort to think back that far now for him as he sat in his self-made ocean of fat and continued to suck with wanton greed from the hose protruding from his face. Effort wasn't in Pan's box of skills, however, so he rarely tried to even remember why he was there, let alone how long it had been since he had seen anything but what the screens over his eyes wanted him to see. He judged the passage of time by the fullness of his stomach, one meal at a time dictating how long he was awake, and just how long it took him to pass out again in a food-induced coma being how long his 'days' were. Did he know somewhere in the recesses of his mind that this was woefully inaccurate? Of course, but again, Pan didn't care about this. He only cared that his hose was full and his entertainment went uninterrupted.
There were only two things that interrupted the constant stream of gluttony and horrendously dumb television for the red panda, and both weren't exactly unwelcome. The first came in the form of cameras all around him, a live feed which he got to see once a month to see just how much he had grown. This live feed had shown up just a few days prior, and seeing it... Well, Pan had cum three times during the twenty or so minutes that he got to look at what had become of himself. The red panda's addiction to food was somewhat legendary, sure, but his addiction to his size was right there alongside food in his mind. And there was a lot of size with those cameras. The red panda saw his three hoses, his constant companions, and then just a sea of reds and browns. That was all there was to see too, as his body was full yards in diameter, not just feet. Rolls upon sweaty, unkempt rolls of pure fat lined every square foot of the red panda, sagging and rolling against one another, so large and heavy that it was impossible to tell where one started and the next ended. So filled with fat were some of these rolls that they almost looked taut towards the bottom of his form, the fat there so packed in that it looked like he was almost inflated rather than fattened by millions upon millions of unused calories. It was like looking at globs of dough, all stacked one atop another, and then dousing that dough in a healthy serving of pudding. His whole frame moved with every breath, every involuntary twitch of his fingers and toes as they stayed firmly trapped in the caves of fat which had swallowed them long ago. The red panda's entire hide was littered with stretchmarks, covered by his thick fur in some spots and barely obscured by others. His whole body had a sheen to it that was from the months, even years of sweat and food which had built up from his heat, and utter disregard for hygiene. There wasn't a square centimeter of himself which could be called clean, as even down in folds which had formed in his new 'home' of sorts, there was grime and detritus which had been there from before. Simply put, Pan was a mess, a fat-crammed, stretchmark-covered, slimy, noxious mess; and he loved it.
The other interruption Pan got was... Decidedly less enjoyable for him, but much more for those who had 'taken him in.' The red panda could always tell these distractions, as he would feel the rush of cold air from the door to his room of sorts being opened, and then there would be about five minutes of nothing before something hard, the only hard thing that he got to feel anymore, would prod a random roll somewhere on his acreage of flesh and fur. From there, it would be several minutes of jostling, grinding, and slapping of fat from beneath his feet to above his head, and then warm liquid would fill whatever roll had just been prodded. Pan, somewhere, knew what was happening to him during those 'sessions,' but he didn't have the wherewithal to care, or to even complain about it. No, he was more annoyed because those jiggles and wobbles would upset his already tumultuous stomach, and it would result in even more gas than he already suffered from... Something that he had grown used to, but when it got bad... Well, the red panda got annoyed.
That was why he was there and why he was consuming a concoction of cheese, beans, lard, and beef ground up into a slurry that tasted somewhat like a chili-dog. Pan didn't much mind the taste, and thankfully he was given different mixtures from time to time so that he had at least a bit of variety to his unending meal. Those four ingredients made up his prime feeding mix, though, and he was pumped full of that mix day in and day out, and it made him incredibly gassy. The third hose, the one he rarely paid any mind, went into his rump... And siphoned out the byproduct of all his overeating on stomach-rumbling food. Some escaped with rather forceful blasts, and when he was being worked over by his hosts, he often would hear the results of escaping gas puttering out from his plugged rear end. The hose had been a part of his life for so long that Pan didn't even think about it anymore, and instead just ate and watched his shows without a care to the fact that he spluttered and exploded with rank, noxious farts nearly every minute of every day. He was a gas machine, his stomach constantly a bubbling, roiling mess of the stuff, and yet he didn't even notice unless it was being jostled. Had he been able to see, or even cared, he would have noted the haze in the room from so much gas, but that was a distant memory. Even the fact that he was now little more than a fat balloon with the sole purpose of providing 'natural' gas to his captors was one that escaped Pan. No, he just wanted his food, and if a cacophony of farting had to take place in order to get it, he could suffer through that. He had his shows, he had his food, and he was content... If not a bit ripe. And that was good enough for him.