#^^; from a fat femme hi!

[femmepire-butchbiter]

Shout-out to femmes who are bigger than their butch, actually! ^^ You're not less of a femme if you are big in any way! Same goes for butches who are smaller than their femme, you're not less butch for it!

[ccwpidsblog]

LaRue | Moore Twins

Summary: When betrayal cuts close, Vivian reminds her men who really owns them with bare hands, blood, and the slow twist of a heel.

Themes: femdom, power imbalance, emotional tension, blood and lipstick, mild character death, possessiveness, jealousy, toxic devotion, kneeling kink, plus-sized black femme OC, 1930s mob chic, club AU, punishment, tiny foot play, manipulation, femme softness used like a weapon, light humiliation, sub!stack, sub!smoke, dom!fem, oral fixation, praise kink, power play, soft sensual tension, mob politics, viv has a God complex

Word count: 4.6k

Authors Note: ik yall wanted an x reader but i really wanted to use this OC ive been hiding in the closet for a long time still i hope this is enjoyable i love powerful fat women 😋🩷 there will be no part 2 sorry!! but i might make one shots based of these 3

Also thank you for 1k :(( shout out to everyone who's been here even when my writing was booboo garbage 😭😭 pls support me on AO3 and read my other works here if you like :)

The club was quiet now. Too quiet.

Downstairs, a trumpet sobbed into the midnight hour, but up here in Vivian’s office the only thing louder than the silence was the rage pressing in from every corner

The air in Vivian LaRue’s office was thick not just with the usual haze of cigarillo smoke, but with heat, blood, and disappointment. Jazz bled faintly through the floorboards from the club below, cheerful and cruel in contrast to the silence pressing on the three people in the room.

Vivian sat at her desk like a wounded queen, her legs crossed at the ankle, one hand resting on the polished wood, the other slowly twirling the cigarillo between her fingers. Her left eye was already swelling, turning a sick shade of violet. Blood clung to her temple in a jagged trail, dried and cracked, and her bottom lip was split wide open.

But even beat to hell, she was beautiful. The blood had dried, but the rage? That still simmered

Smoke and Stack stood before her, still as statues, their usual confidence hollowed out. Neither dared to speak. Vivian didn’t look at them. She just stared ahead, smoke curling from her lips like a slow-dancing threat. Her nails tapped against the desk — a steady, sharp rhythm that grew louder with each second they stayed silent.

The twins were Silent. Gutted. Waiting for the burn.

“You boys must think I’m real stupid.”

Her voice was low, calm. Too calm. Stack shifted first, opening his mouth.

“Ma’am, I—”

“No,” she cut him off, still not looking up. “Don’t talk. Don’t lie.”

Nothing. No sound.

Then she stood. Slow. Smooth. Like a gun rising off the table. She walked around the desk, stopping just in front of them. Her gaze pierced through flesh and bone. Her heels adding onto her height so that she was looking them in their eyes.

“Tell me, sugar,” she said to Stack, “what you doin’ out on the South Side two nights ago?”

“Groery run,” he muttered.

Vivian laughed, humorless and bitter.

“South Side don’t sell groceries ‘less you lookin’ to buy a casket.”

She turned to Smoke next.

“And you what’s your excuse? You let him walk. You met with Morales’s people behind my back. Y’all thought you were savin’ me?” She tilted her head. “You thought I needed y’all to fix what I built?”

She let the silence hang. Then, softly, like a blade slipping into flesh:

“I let you both fuck me a couple times, now yall think I’m soft?”

They froze. Stack blinked. Smoke’s jaw ticked.

Vivian stepped even closer, voice low and lethal. “Is my pussy that good? Hm?” Her smile was sharp as broken glass. “That you thought you could macho your way into my throne room? Into my empire?”

She took a breath. Steady. Furious.

“Me lettin’ y’all stick your dicks in me was your power. That was your reward. And you couldn’t even appreciate it.”

She looked them up and down like something spoiled.

“You thought just ‘cause I moaned your name you could walk in here like kings. But sugar, I made you kings. And I can make you beggars.”

She turned from them then, walking back to her desk, voice soft as velvet and twice as deadly.

“You gave my secrets away. Tried to broker deals behind my back like I wouldn’t find out. I bled ‘cause of your arrogance. And now I gotta remind the city that Vivian LaRue ain’t to be fucked with.”

Her hand lifted slowly, not clenched, not rushed, just a smooth glide of wrath.

The slap landed like a shot.

A sharp crack echoed through the office as her palm struck across Stack’s cheek, snapping his head to the side. Skin breaking from the cut diamonds that were on her fingers. He didn’t move. Didn’t dare raise his eyes. The skin bloomed red under the contact, blood trickling down his cheek.

Vivian didn’t flinch.

“You let me bleed,” she whispered. “And I need you to remember what that feels like.”

She didn’t look at Smoke, but he felt it anyway the threat unspoken. The promise wrapped in silk and fury.

“You thought I was soft?” Her voice dipped, sweet and syrupy. “Because I opened my legs for you?”

“You can’t earn my power between my thighs,” she said. “You earn it at my feet.”

Then, as if it was just another day, she turned her back to them, walked behind her desk, and sat.

Vivian leaned back, cool and quiet.

“You forgot who built this empire. You forgot who made you kings.”

She took a long drag from her cigarillo. Exhaled smoke through her nose like a dragon in mourning.

“I ain’t gon’ kill you,” she said finally. “Not tonight.”

Her eyes flicked to them once more, colder now.

“But you both bets figure out who runs shit”

And with that, she dismissed them with one flick of her hand.

The club’s floor was all polished brass and perfume tonight, buzzing with the usual swirl of laughter, liquor, and low stakes lies. Men in pinstripes and fedoras lined the walls, women in sequins clutching champagne glasses like they were trying to hold onto their lives. The music had stopped. No one breathed. Not really.

Because Vivian LaRue had just walked in. She had that smile on. The dangerous one.

She wasn’t limping anymore. Wasn’t bruised or broken. Her curls were piled high, slicked and pinned, She walked through like smoke in silk black dress hugging her frame, curls pinned back, just enough gloss on her mouth to make men stupid. Not that she needed help. Her nails gleamed red. Her lips were darker than sin. And her eyes?

Her eyes were death in stilettos.

Smoke and Stack flanked her like shadows. Silent, stiff, still not in her good graces. Stack’s cheek was still marked from where she’d slapped him — a fading cut, clean and thin like a signature. Smoke wore no scar, but his silence was heavier than iron. Neither one dared speak.

But tonight wasn’t about them.

Morales stood near the back, flanked by his men, cocky as ever with his crooked smile and too-loud laugh. He clapped when he saw her, slow and sarcastic.

Morales’ smirk flickered when Vivian stepped closer. Just for a second barely a twitch but she saw it. The fear.

Good.

But he got it together fast, puffing up like a rooster with a dozen guns at his back. “You come waltzing in here like you still got teeth,” he said, gesturing lazily to the twins. “But your boys? Your precious little shadows? They were in on it, sugar. Didn’t lift a finger while I took your crown.”

Vivian didn’t even look at Smoke or Stack. Her gaze was molten steel, locked on Morales. “They’ll be dealt with,” she said, smooth as scotch. “But they’re still valuable to me.”

She leaned in, her voice turning intimate and ice-cold.

“You’re not.”

The gunshot rang out sharp and sudden.

Morales howled, dropping to one knee, clutching his thigh as blood bloomed through his cream trousers. His men moved like wolves, ready to strike, but Vivian was already a storm

She pivoted, slicing through the air with grace and fury, her second shot knocking a pistol from one goon’s hand. Another came charging, but she ducked low, slammed the heel of her stiletto into his knee, and fired point-blank into his chest. The club erupted into chaos, but no one ran. No one dared.

A third man grabbed her arm. Mistake.

She sank her teeth into his neck, pulled back with a snarl, and headbutted him hard enough to drop him cold. Stack handled the rest with brutal efficiency. Smoke didn’t move. He didn’t have to.

Not until she turned and pointed the gun at him.

The whole club gasped.

Smoke didn’t flinch. Not even when she fired.

The bullet grazed his shoulder, a clean slice that painted his shirt red. He grunted, but stayed on his feet, jaw tight, eyes on her. Loyal. Silent. Bleeding.

Vivian looked at Morales, now crawling through his own blood, hand outstretched, whimpering.

“You said I was done,” she said, voice low. “You thought I was finished. You should’ve killed me when you had the chance.”

She stepped over him, pressed the barrel of her gun to his forehead. He was crying now, wet-faced and pathetic, begging like a dog. She didn’t blink.

“You want mercy?” she said. “Ask my city.”

And then, she nodded once.

Smoke moved fast quieter than death putting a bullet through Morales’ skull without a second’s hesitation. Vivian turned to the room.

The crowd was silent. Shaking.

Vivian, blood-spattered and beautiful, smiled like the devil in diamonds stepped over Morales’s body, heels clicking like a clock ticking toward someone else’s death. She reached down, took his cigar from his twitching fingers, and lit it with her own flame.

Then she looked up at the crowd — the gangsters, the girls, the dealers and bootleggers who had all whispered that Vivian LaRue had gone soft.

“Let this be a lesson,” she said, her voice clear and cold. “I don’t bleed twice. And none of you are above MY law."

She took a long drag.

“Y’all must’ve forgot who runs this city.”

Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Even the jazz seemed too afraid to start again.

And just like that — her crown was back.

She looked down at Morales’s corpse bleeding out on her polished club floor and clicked her tongue with mild annoyance — like someone finding a scuff on her favorite shoes.

“Somebody clean my floors,” she said coolly, waving two fingers without even turning around. “Don’t want this bastard’s blood dryin’ into my marble.”

A few of her staff snapped into motion instantly, no hesitation, no questions. One even slipped trying to grab a mop.

Vivian smirked, then she raised her voice just enough to command the room again, posture regal as ever, standing in a pool of red like it was part of her outfit.

“Now that that’s settled—” she turned, lifting her glass from the table beside her, “—y’all can get back to drinkin’.”

Her voice curved into a playful dare. “Drinks on me. All night. Hell, I’m feelin’ generous.”

A cheer rose, cautious at first, then louder, wilder, like the entire room had just taken a breath for the first time in weeks. The band picked back up, horns wailing in relief, the rhythm like a heartbeat snapping back to life.

Vivian stepped down from the small platform, weaving through the crowd like a crowned serpent. People moved for her like water parting for a ship. She paused to take a sip of her drink, whiskey, neat, then handed the rest off to some wide-eyed girl before grabbing another from a passing tray.

That’s when she saw him.

Leaning against the far wall, holding a drink he clearly wasn’t old enough to have, stood a boy too pretty for the company he kept. Young, wide-eyed, maybe twenty-one on a bold day. Slick hair, clean skin, suit too neat to have been worn more than once. New. Out of place. Out of depth.

And watching her like she was something painted in gold.

Vivian slowed her step. Tilted her head.

He froze. Gulped. Eyes fixed on her like a man staring into the sun.

She raised a brow and started walking toward him, heels tapping, hips swaying like music lived in her bones. By the time she reached him, he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“You ain’t from around here,” she said, smooth and amused, looking him up and down like a piece of art she might buy just to hang in her private room.

He fumbled the glass in his hand, nearly spilling it. “I—uh, no, ma’am. I just got hired tonight. Kitchen… runner.”

Vivian’s lips curled. “You sure don’t look like no kitchen boy.”

His eyes jumped to hers, panic and awe wrestling in his chest.

“Are you listenin’, sugar?” she asked, sweet and slow, tilting her head as she leaned in just enough for her perfume to hit.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “

Vivian blinked once. Then let out a slow, dangerous giggle — the kind that made men rich and ruined in the same breath.

“Well, well,” she said, almost to herself. “Ain’t you precious.”

Her gaze flicked over her shoulder, catching the twins where they stood behind the crowd, both watching the exchange a little too closely. Smoke’s jaw clenched. Stack’s arms crossed tight over his chest, like he was physically restraining himself.

Her smirk deepened.

Vivian let her fingers trail down the boy’s tie slow, absent, just enough to make his knees lock — before she turned on her heel without a word and walked deeper into the club. She didn’t tell him to follow.

She didn’t have

He was on her heels in an instant, weaving through the crowd like he belonged there, like he’d always known how to move in her shadow. The floor swallowed them whole as the music swelled, leaving Smoke and Stack frozen where they stood like two statues watching their own thrones crumble.

She swept through the velvet curtain into the VIP lounge, her sanctuary. Dark and gold and dripping in champagne and silk. It smelled like power, perfume, and secrets, just the way she liked it.

The boy hovered near the entrance, unsure, until Vivian crooked her finger. “C’mon, baby face. You followed me this far.”

He stepped in and the curtains closed behind him like a coffin lid.

The music outside swelled, and from beyond the velvet curtain, laughter and life kept on — but in the VIP room, time slowed.

Vivian poured herself a fresh glass of champagne, but when baby face reached for the bottle to pour for her, she stopped him with a glance that could’ve shattered glass.

“Mm-mm. Sit pretty,” she said, crossing one leg over the other, letting her robe part just enough to flash a sliver of thigh.

He obeyed. Immediately.

Good boy.

She sipped again, leaned back, and let her eyes run over him like a hand, slow and deliberate. He was handsome — that soft kind of handsome, baby deer in the headlights, all jaw and lashes and wide-eyed reverence. He had that look of a man who didn’t know what to do with power. But Vivian? Vivian could spot potential like a hawk smelled blood.

“You got a name, sugar?” she asked, swirling her glass lazily.

“Reginald , ma’am…”

“Mmm. ‘Reginald’ Sounds like a banker.” She made a face. “You look like one, too.”

“I used to be,” he admitted, then quickly added, “But I left that. I wanted… more.”

She chuckled, dark and smooth. “Of course you did. Don’t they all?”

Her eyes flicked toward the curtain — toward the looming presence of Smoke and Stack. She didn’t need to see them to know they hadn’t moved. They were locked in place like watchdogs behind glass. Exactly where she wanted them.

She turned her attention back to Reginald— her baby face and her voice dropped to a near whisper, thick with promise and poison. “So what exactly you want more of, hm?”

He swallowed hard. “This. All this. The power. The—” he stumbled, eyes licking down and back up to her face, “—you.”

That earned him a slow smile. Real, dangerous, pleased.

“Oh baby,” she purred. “You don’t even know what wantin’ me means yet."

“I’m sorry, it’s just…you're just more beautiful than the stories they tell”

Her lashes dropped slow and heavy. Then she laughed. Not sharp this time,warm, delighted, tipsy and dangerous.

“You sweet lil’ liar,” she said, reaching forward and dragging her manicured nails gently along his jaw. “They ain’t tell you nothin’ ‘bout me worth rememberin’. Not yet.”

He leaned into her touch like he was starving for it.

She liked that.

Her fingers grazed his lips. “They ever tell you who I really am, sugar?”

“No,” he whispered.

Vivian leaned close, too close. Her breath kissed his mouth. Her voice dipped lower.

“I’m the woman that made the devil put on a tie and wait his turn.”

And still, the twins didn’t move.

She wanted them to feel it. The helplessness. The hunger. The sting of irrelevance.

She draped her arm around baby face’s shoulders, pulling him in like a favorite toy, one hand caressing his knee absently, deliberately — and only then did she lift her eyes and finally look toward the curtain.

Smoke met her gaze like a punch. Stack was breathing hard, hands clenched into fists.

Vivian smiled. Like a queen watching her enemies drown.

Then she leaned over and whispered into baby face’s ear, loud enough to carry.

“You wanna learn how to please a woman, babyface? Stick with me. I’ll make you into the men they’re supposed to be.”

Smoke’s cigarette snapped between his teeth.

Stack’s cut cheek twitched.

But neither of them moved. Because they couldn’t. Because tonight, she wasn’t theirs.

She was herself. Entirely. And she was making sure they remembered what it meant to be on their knees even when they weren’t.

“Now go get me a drink, boy. Whiskey. No ice. Throw a cigar in there too.”

Her voice was honey over broken glass. Baby Face stood too fast, nodding, flustered, but grinning like he’d just been knighted.

“Yes ma’am.”

He left with the urgency of someone afraid to wake up. She watched him go, but only just — her eyes half-lidded, mouth resting in that smug little curve that said she already knew how tonight would end.

And she pretended not to notice Stack slipping away from the curtain to follow. Quiet as a shadow. Loyal like a dog with something to prove. She didn’t stop him. Let him watch. Let him learn.

Smoke stayed.

He doesn’t move when she calls. Not at first.

He’s still standing there like a stone pillar trying not to burn, jaw tight, eyes locked on the curtain Reginald just slipped behind. Vivian leans back on the velvet couch, letting the slow sting of whiskey kiss her throat before she speaks.

“You sulkin’, honey?”

Smoke steps into the room like it’s a trap. And it is. Always is, with her.

“Since when you interested in the help?” he says, low.

She raises an eyebrow, licking a smear of red from her bottom lip. “You are help, baby.”

That draws a scoff from him, all teeth. “That so?”

“You give me what I need when I ask for it. Sometimes when I don’t. And you stay where I put you.” She leans in, lashes low. “That sound like somethin’ else to you?”

His jaw twitches. She sees it. Loves it.

“You don’t own me.”

Vivian grins like a wolf. “That why you still here?”

He doesn’t answer. Won’t. She shifts, crossing one leg over the other slow enough to count the seconds. Her dress rides high, and his gaze flickers—traitor quick—before it drags back to her face.

“You think I don’t see how you look when I touch someone else?” she purrs. “You think I don’t know how bad you want me to break you open and make you beg?”

He growls, low in his throat. “I ain’t your toy.”

“No, you ain’t. You mine.”

Before he can fire back, Stack pushes through the curtain with her glass in hand and a thick cigar balanced perfectly on the edge.

“Whiskey. No ice. Just like you said.”

Vivian turns, eyes flicking up and down. She doesn’t reach for the glass.

“Where’s Reginald?”

Stack glances toward the curtain, jaw twitching. Doesn’t answer fast enough.

Her smile vanishes like a pulled trigger. She rises, smooth, deliberate, dangerous. In one motion, she snatches the cigar from his hand and taps the glass against his chest with a sharp clink that echoes like a warning.

Stack lets out a weak little laugh, trying to play it off. “C’mon now, Viv. He’s fine. Just settlin’ in. You know how new boys be. Ain’t nothin’ to—”

Smoke snorts — short, nervous — like he’s trying to co-sign the joke, but his eyes are already darting away.

Vivian doesn’t blink.

“You niggas think I’m joking?”

Silence.

She steps closer. Just once. And the air shifts.

Poor boy didn’t know trouble was looking him in the eye with lashes too long and a smile that meant hell.

“Where. Is. Reginald.”

Stack still says nothing.

She doesn’t wait.

Vivian shoves past him, heels clicking like gunshots down the hallway. Through the back door, down the steps, the crowd had thinned and the lights dimmed, down the stairs then she found him outside with a split lip and a limp, trying to play it off like he slipped on a puddle. Vivian didn’t say a thing. Just stepped over him, heels clicking, a soft sigh leaving her lips as her hand brushed through his hair almost affectionately.

“Somebody gets him cleaned up,” she muttered. “And I told you boy, you don't know what wanting' me means"

She didn’t even glance at Smoke and Stack as she walked past them.

“Home,” she said over her shoulder.

And they followed.

Like dogs. Like sinners. Like men who knew what was coming.

They pushed too far.

And she’s going to remind them who owns the leash.

LaRue’s penthouse was all marble and indulgence high ceilings, soft jazz curling out of a gramophone, and windows that watched the city like a queen over her court. Smoke and Stack knelt in the glow of it all, floor polished to a mirror beneath them, eyes lowered, muscles tight. Not out of pain. Out of want.

She was drunk on champagne, whiskey, and power, lounging on her velvet couch like it was her throne and the city below was hers to burn or bless. The robe had fallen open just enough to tease, bare thigh stretched out across the cushions, silk and honey-brown skin gleaming in the low light. Hair unpinned flowing on her shoulder, lips still painted, face bare otherwise and still the most lethal thing in the room.

Smoke and Stack knelt on the floor before her, side by side, silent and still like two prized dogs waiting for command. Their eyes were lowered, but every muscle in their bodies was tense, not with fear, not exactly.

With want. With worship.

Vivian shifted, her legs crossing slowly, one foot rising to rest on Stack’s broad chest. Her toes curled, her foot dragging softly down his sternum, slow enough to tease, not enough to satisfy. She did the same to Smoke next, letting her heel press just beneath his collarbone, eyes narrowing as she felt his pulse flutter.

“You two look pitiful down there,” she drawled, voice rich with condescension and amusement. “Big, strong men brought to their knees by a little ol’ girl in a robe.”

She giggled. It wasn’t sweet.

Smoke grits out, “You not a girl. You’s a woman.”

His voice is hoarse, reverent — like a prayer pulled from the back of his throat.

Vivian’s lips curve, lazy and pleased, as her toes trail higher, finding the soft part of his bottom lip. He doesn’t dare move at first, just breathes against the glint of her French tip, wide-eyed and burning.

Then his mouth parts — just barely — like he’s ready to taste, to take.

And before he can even try to latch on, her foot snaps, swift and light, just enough force to turn his face aside.

“Down, boy,” she laughs, wicked and honey-slow.

It’s not cruel — not entirely — but it is sharp, like a slap wrapped in satin. Smoke groans, breath hitching, humiliated and hard under the command.

She swings her foot back to Stack, who’s watching her with his jaw tight, that cut on his cheek still raw from her ring days ago. He flinches when she touches it with her big toe, not from pain — from awe.

Vivian croons, “Y’all look like you forget who you belong to.”

Stack’s mouth opens, no sound at first, just that look of devotion like he’d lick blood from the floor if she told him it was wine.

Smoke recovers, jaw flexing, but he doesn’t rise. He stays knelt, stays still — the way she likes them.

Vivian reaches behind her, grabs her glass from the table, takes a long, slow sip of her whiskey. Her legs spread just a little wider, one arm draped across the back of the couch like a throne.

“I don’t fuck dogs,” she purrs, eyes dancing. “But I do love watchin’ ‘em beg.”

Then she leans forward, foot returning to Stack’s chest, this time over his heart.

She slouched deeper into the couch, the belt of her robe loosening just a touch as she parted her legs, slow, deliberate, knowing exactly what kind of effect it had on the men kneeling in front of her.

Smoke and Stack didn’t breathe.

“I should let babyface learn how to please me,” she murmured lazily, fingers grazing down her own thigh, nails scratching soft across her skin. “He listens. Sweet little thing. I could train him real nice… mold him into what real men are supposed to be.”

Stack made a broken sound in the back of his throat.

Vivian’s fingers slid lower.

“Bet he’d worship me proper. Might even get to taste what y’all been takin’ for granted.”

Smoke’s mouth parted, a sharp exhale escaping through clenched teeth.

“Nobody can be us,” he said, voice low and tight, barely holding back.

Vivian’s lashes fluttered, amused. Her fingers didn’t stop moving.

“Oh really?” she cooed, spreading her legs wider, letting them see the gleam between her thighs, her fingers playing soft over slick heat. “And why can’t nobody else be like you, huh baby?”

Stack answered before Smoke could breathe. His voice was ragged; eyes locked between her legs like he was starving. “Because you made us.”

That drew a soft moan from her lips — not from pleasure, but pride. She looked down at Stack with something close to affection.

“Damn right I did.”

Her fingers slowed, her thighs still open. She sat tall again, hips rolling forward just slightly to bring herself closer to them. She rested two fingers against her folds, glistening and sticky. “You want a taste?” she purred, watching Stack’s eyes follow every movement like a man hypnotized.

He nodded like he couldn��t stop himself, lip trembling.

“Say please, baby.”

“Please,” he whispered, eyes wet, voice reverent.

Vivian smiled, cruel and sweet, then smeared her essence across his lips before slipping her fingers between them. Stack opened up without hesitation, tongue lapping eagerly as she fed him like a good little pet.

She giggled softly, watching his mouth move, watching Smoke burn beside him in silence.

“Ain’t that somethin’,” she said, one hand gripping the back of Stack’s head now, keeping him there. “All that bark, all that muscle, and you still just a dog beggin’ for scraps.”

Stack moaned against her fingers.

Vivian turned to Smoke, who hadn’t moved an inch but looked ready to snap in two.

“You gonna behave?” she asked, lifting her brows. “Or you gonna sit there actin’ like I don’t own you?”

Smoke didn’t answer right away — but when he did, his voice was low, nearly a growl.

“Tell me what to do.”

Vivian leaned back against the couch, thighs still parted, glowing with sweat and satisfaction.

“Oh, I’ll tell you, baby,” she purred. “But first, you’re gonna sit there and watch while your brother remembers how to be mine.”

And Smoke did.

Jealous. Hard. Hungry.

Just how she liked them.

[the-moth-archives]

Ellie Williams is smitten w you !! (sfw & nsfw)

ellie williams x (implied) femme!reader

Warnings: reader has hair and a chest otherwise no reader description - gendered terms (pretty girl, mama) - light hair pulling - light choking - small mentions of public sex - i wrote this w HBO Ellie in mind but game Ellie can also be applied bc i have a fat crush on both - aimed towards no outbreak!Ellie bc modern stores are mentioned - MINORS AND MEN DNI

A/N: hi ^^ been a bit second and i apologize - mental health has not been kind to me but i am starting to get the professional help i need :] also super cool news (idk) i think im a lesbian so what better way to come out than to post ab Bella Ramsey as Ellie (and tlou2 Ellie in general) reposts are welcome / encouraged !!!

- do not turn your back on her bc she will literally rub herself up and down your back and tower over you like a winter coat

- she likes grabbing at your chest and squeezing your breasts - they’re so soft to her it’s like her own little stress ball

- Ellie NEEDS to have you against her when she sleeps at all times, even if it’s really hot outside. she can’t get a good nights rest without being skin to skin with you

- speaking of skin to skin, she loooooves laying shirtless w you. she says it connects your bodies more, like you’re going to morph into 1 person

- when you’re out clothes shopping, she’s all over you. she’ll come up behind you and rest her head on top of yours, holds you hand when going to the next store, holding onto your hips while she sits in the dressing room w you after trying on a really cute dress / skirt

- don’t let her go into victoria secret w u. she will come out broke w the stuff she buys for u (it’s for her eyes only, that’s her excuse at least)

- if you’re overstimulated and can’t have her touch you, she’ll be so patient w you :) she’s ready w open arms when you’ve calmed down a bit

- is ur personal shopping cart in malls. u basically find a clothing item you like and throw it in her hands to try on later and she just stands there, smiling at you like a dope

- she likes to smack ur butt when you walk past her or get up from cuddling. when you whip around to look at her she pretends like nothing happened, even acting confused when you questioned her (she’s smiling like an idiot)

- when you’ve had a long day and sit in a warm bath, she busts through the bathroom door just to sit in the floor next to the tub and info dump on you. she also does that when ur showering, sometimes getting in the shower w you

- obsessed w the idea of ellie calling me “sweet girl” so yeah

- Joel treats you like you’re his daughter. he loves you so much and is always there for you :) he even kisses your head whenever he sees you

- loves when you grow out your nails. they’re such a good back scratcher, she can fall asleep without seconds

- loves when you wear lipgloss and kiss all over her face - she’ll look drunk on love, completely covered in your lipgloss (her lips would have been the most tinted bc that was the main target)

- definitely calls u mama

nsfw

- in missionary, she likes to go slow but sometimes you just need her to fuck you hard.

“common..” you look up at her, her eyes are squeezed shut as she huffs. you smack her hip to make her go faster.

“fuck me like you mean it.” you spit with no real venom. she just growls and pins you down more and thrusting into you harder

“fuckin brat.”

- she can nawt get me pregnant but that will not stop me from asking her to breed me over and over again

- need her to call me pretty girl when she’s knuckles deep

- she’s such a service top when you’re good for her omg. literally talks you through everything and asks if what she’s doing is ok even if she’s done it 100 times.

- imagine her overstimulating you and you start frantically reaching for her hand for something to keep you grounded. she watched you for a sec until you get super emotional; she can’t watch her pretty girl cry so she finally reaches for your hand, lacing your fingers together

- she loves hearing you so when you stuff ur face into the pillow, she grips your hair and pulls you up. sometimes she’ll lift you but by your chin to look at your face

- back to the victoria secret thing, she’s actually very tame in the store when you try sets on unless you start teasing your first - you’re so fucked if u do that omg you’ll have to sit on the floor for a sec after to collect yourself

- light choking is her fav. she doesn’t want to hurt you at all but she loves your expression when she squeezes just a little in your neck

- after she fucks the shit out of you, she’s so gentle when putting you back together. rubs your face to ground you, sets up a bath or shower for the both of you. pls let her baby you

[lunatf-ao3]

HEAT CYCLE ❦︎

Optimus Prime/cybertronian!Reader

[⚠︎]: nsfw, size difference, oral sex, blowjob, heat cycle

I need requests for more content

-

"Optimus~..." You call his name pleadingly, leaning against his neck, behind the chair. "please, please, I need you so much." Muttering between the various wires, you insist.

How long have you been like this, constantly interrupting his work?

It's not your fault, it's the fault of your heat that, after many cycles of tranquility, is attacking you again. Despair invades from your tank to your valve, but Optimus refuses to give you what you desire: him.

"I am sorry, little one. I know it must be hard, but I am afraid to hurt you. You are a petite femme, I am not sure you can handle something my size."

"I wll ride you until it fits." You growl, and Optimus almost looks giving in.

"Just... take some pills, okay? I am busy right now, we can talk later."

"No~! I want you, now!" Another whine, and you brace yourself against him, rubbing your faceplate on his shoulder. "Come on, you do not even have to strain yourself, I will get you on this chair and you can get on with your work, okay? I will not get in the way of your view, please, please, please-"

"Stop." Optimus exhaled, finally turning around in his seat to look at you. Without a word, he pulled you into his lap, hugging you tightly. His interface panel brushed against yours, and you could almost overload there. "I am sorry, my sweet spark."

He gave you a kiss on your helmet and led you out of the room.

Great.

But you are not giving up on that.

You walk in one more time (because you know the long access code perfectly well) and you can hear the old leader sigh. This time, trying a different approach, you crawl under his desk.

"What are you doing?"

"I will suck you, of course."

"...No. Get out of there, now."

"Please!" You caress his panel. "I will do it right, okay? I will leave you alone later, okay?"

With one more exhalation of his vents, he simply stood upright and went on with his work. You take that as a yes.

With caresses as soft as a feather, you open the panel with enough enthusiasm to uncover your valve simultaneously. Delicious, thick and juicy, Optimus's spike greets you, hard and arched as ever, taking it in your servo, you bring it close to your derms.

You don't hesitate to give it a good lick from start to tip, the metallic taste enveloping your glossa. You hum, filling it again and again with well-deserved licks and wet kisses. The length is too long to take it in your mouth completely, but you don't hesitate to give it light licks all over.

"Ngh... Sweet spark..." Optimus grunts, spreading his thighs further apart, giving you much better space to work on his now weeping spike. Semen slides from the cleft of the tip to the saddle, thick and bitter, but are you really going to refuse the taste of your lover? Of course not! You suck the tip deliciously clean, rubbing it on your face.

"Give me some more of your transfluid, will you? You taste so good! So good!! Come on, feed me."

"Just... Shut up- Shut up and keep sucking." Optimus pushes your head and you don't hesitate to obey, taking it in your hands to suck every part of the shaft forgotten, leaving it glistening with your oral lubricant. Thick tears of cum stain the fat length and your servos, which you don't hesitate to clean with your glossa.

Optimus continued to work, stuttering digits as you toiled arduously on his hard spike. Sucking and kissing deliciously, stimulating the sensitive receptors in that area. He still felt a little annoyed that he gave in so quickly to you, just as he felt a little bad about rejecting you in your heat. But he was still determined not to give in to anything else, afraid of hurting your valve. But for now...

Optimus guided your helmet to the tip of his spike, gripping one of your antennae tightly to push his hips into your mouth. You don't complain at all as you take the weeping tip into your warm intake. It feels good, the metal is smooth at the tip, while the rest is accompanied by slight indentations, the sour taste of the transfluid doesn't bother you. You can feel a few drops of lubricant dripping from your valve, preparing you to receive something else.

You suck delicately, enjoying the slight twisting of the leader, going up and down for what you are limited to receive: its tip.

In the meantime, the Prime becomes more and more distracted from his work, confusing letters and writing irregularly. But how could he ignore the little fembot between his legs, sucking him so professionally? It is impossible not to let a few drops of transfluid escape into the warm orifice where only energon should enter.

You look up at the optics, a part of the metal protruding from your cheek, giving him a nice, exciting view.

He himself knows that you have it wrapped around your little finger, he also knows that you know it perfectly well, especially when you convince him so easily and he enjoys it. Actually, why does he resist you? Sighing, he finally steps away from the computer, making room to bring his servos down and stroke your helmet contemplatively. You were good at tending to his tip, but maybe you could go a little lower... Gently but firmly, he pushed your head down to swallow more of his spike.

You moan a little, feeling the components of your intake being pushed aside and accommodating the hard metal going in, barely making it a little less than halfway in. You must admit it's slightly painful, making you spill a few drops of lubricant from your optics, but you're not going to stop for that. You suck as much as you can, twisting your glossa in the tight space.

Optimus moans, a deep, guttural sound that makes your valve drip. It's the first time you've heard him moan, and it's absolutely delicious. Without thinking about missing it, you run your helmet up and down, running what you can up and down his spike while your servo runs the rest.

"That is..." Optimus babbled, stroking and playing with your antennae awkwardly. A few drops of transfluid lubricate your lips.

You increase the speed, squeezing it down your throat harder for what seemed like hours.

Until finally the overload attacks you. His servo pushes your head all the way down as he releases the sweet juice of his ecstasy straight into your intake, your auditory sensors barely able to process the moans.

Your moans are heard only when the transfluid spills from between your dermas, Optimus pulls out his spike and lets the rest of the thick semen adorn your faceplate.

"Uhm... You look beautiful like this." He caresses you before carrying you, sitting on his lap. "I think I am ready to get you ready for me now."

Another victory for you.

[remiratboi]

The Truth Of The Matter - Part 3

Masterlist

Part 1 | Previous

Minotaur M Best Friend X Human GN Fat Reader

CW: monsterfucking, clubbing, drinking, slight body insecurity

A few weeks went by, and the dress haunted you from your closet. You had put it on a couple of times, but chickened out each time.

Tonight was the night, though. You were going to do it. You were feeling hot today, and you figured if there was ever a time, now was it. You and Rin were both getting ready for the usual club, respectively.

You spent more time than you normally did on your face and hair. You went ultra femme, the tight red dress and sheer black tights. You put on your favourite strapy black heels and curled your hair. After a final look in the mirror, and a calming breath, you made your way to the living room where Rin was waiting for you.

You felt nervous for some reason. And embarrassed. You tried shaking it.

Rin caught you from the corner of his eye, and did a legitimate double take. His jaw dropped, for the second time.

“You’re wearing that tonight?” His voice cracked.

“Yeah, I mean, if I look as hot as you say I do, maybe I’ll catch someone extra pretty tonight.” You joked. His face went blank. Your normally open friend became unreadable.

“You know, I’m actually not up to it tonight.” He spoke flatly, but his words felt like knives. Did he not like the dress on you anymore? “I… I’m not feeling good. I just can’t take it.” He finished lamely.

Your shoulders sank. “But I was so excited.” You pouted and looked at your dolled up face in the decorative mirror that hung nearby.

“You should still go. Have fun. I’m probably just gonna go to bed early.” His tone was still bizarre. You didn’t understand.

“No, it’s ok, I’ll make some soup, and we can watch a-” you turned back to your room as you spoke, but were interrupted by his suddenly harsh tone.

“No, just go. I’m fine. Go have fun.” He stood and walked past you. The door to his room clicked when it latched. You stood in your living room, bewildered and a little bit hurt.

Fuck it. You thought. You looked hot, felt good, and clearly Rin needed some space. You’d give him as much as he wanted. You grabbed your handbag and headed out.

The club was dead when you arrived. You hadn’t meant to leave quite that early, but after the strange experience with Rin, you’d practically ran there. About 15 people milled around.

Brutus welcomed you with a low whistle when you walked by him. You blushed and twirled, giggling.

“Damn, you poured into that?” He teased and followed it with a chef's kiss.

You received a similar response from Viola. “Baby if I hadn’t paid a fuck ton of money to turn my cock into a pussy, I’d have a raging boner right about now.”

“Ew, Vi?” You replied, screwing up your face. She cackled at your response.

“Seriously though, you look amazing. New dress?” She spoke as she prepped the bar for the night. You reached over and plucked a cherry from a dish, popping it into your mouth.

“Yeah, Rin bought it for me.” Your smile fell as you were reminded of the strange interaction earlier.

“Speaking of the big lug, where is he?” You didn’t reply for a moment, lost in thought. It was long enough she paused, and looked up at you. “Woah, what’s with the face? You guys okay?” She asked. You knew it wasn’t like you two to have conflict? And while you had wanted to move past it, it seemed harder than you’d expected.

“Huh?” You shook your head slightly and looked back at her. “Oh, yeah. Uh, he said something about how he ‘just can’t take it’.” You were about to explain that he wasn’t feeling well when Viola laughed.

“Yeah well, you can’t blame him.” She went back to her prep work. “Honestly, about time he said something.”

Maybe if she had been paying better attention, she’d have seen how confused you were. That she had misunderstood. But she hadn’t been. And she didn’t realize.

“What do you mean?” You asked.

She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. “Well I mean the guys been in love with you his entire life, and he has to watch you go home with person after person each night. I wouldn’t be able to take it either.” She finally looked back at your face. It was her turn to be confused at your expression of utter shock.

“What are you talking about?” You spoke quietly. The music almost drowning you out.

Viola froze. “… What are you talking about?”

“Rin isn’t feeling well. He said he couldn’t take coming out tonight.” You clarified. It felt like the whole world fell away. The only thing you could see was Viola. “What did you think I was saying?”

Viola laughed awkwardly. “Yeah that’s what I meant too!” She spoke with too much enthusiasm. As if she could trick you into forgetting what she had just said.

“Vi, I swear to god.” You pushed every bit of threat you could muster into your tone. Her shoulders sagged. She sighed.

“I’m not supposed to tell you. It was an accident.” Viola chewed on her bottom lip.

You glared at her.

“Fine. But don’t you dare tell him I told you. I’ll make Brutus ban you.” She pointed to the door you knew he stood outside.

You crossed your arms. “Honestly, I’d like to see you try. He likes me more.” You smirked. “But I’m not going to say anything anyway. Can you please just explain yourself?” You refocused.

“Each night, you go home with someone. And each night, he sits here and drowns his sorrows, complaining about how much he loves you. I think he’s just a coward, but he says you don’t feel the same, and he doesn’t want to risk the friendship.” She looked at you anxiously. “I don’t know, that’s just what he’s said.”

She didn’t even finish the sentence before you were turning around. And then you were running.

[sexiestpodcastcharacter]

Sexiest Podcast Character 2024 — Unscripted Undefeated Bracket — Round 5−1

Propaganda

Pickman (Friends at the Table: Sangfielle):

Pickman! Shes tall! Shes a butch lesbian! She was raised by a train and despite fighting trains had a DEEP respect and affinity for them and the Shape! She’s got a giant gun. She’s shipped with the conductor(possible pet) of a “domesticated” train. She murdered a capitalist.

Husky (Hope's Hearth):

I would like to submit that Husky is a giant polar bear woman who is perpetually being climbed by a slightly smaller, but equally butch honey badger woman. And we all know honey badgers don't give a fuck. I'm just saying!

VOTE! FOR! THE! LESBIAN! BEAR!

Vote for a woman who can be sexy in multiple ways. She's a space pirate, she's a femme, she's a lesbian polar bear alien, she's fat. Vote for Husky!

Being able to pick up a man by his scruff and threaten him in a low voice without using your gun is sexy.

Audio message to Sammy Sinclair.

Art of both Pickman and Husky courtesy of @lotsadeer.

Additional propaganda below the cut:

Pickman (Friends at the Table: Sangfielle):

She's a giant goat woman who is a knight that fights trains and refuses to speak more than like five words in a row

This is propaganda for all the female characters. Voters please remember how pretty all women are and factor that into every single vote you make. Thank you.

VOTE PICKMAN

Husky (Hope's Hearth):

not only is she a giant polar bear woman, she has a Russian accent, is MASSIVE, fat, has huge tits, threatens people, and has a high rank in Sexy

She can crush a watermelon with her thighs. Or your head. Whatever you prefer.

She's a SPACE PIRATE on the Gilted Rose and uses her massive paws to solve problems. Husky WILL go through you. There is no stopping her.

Also did you know she's so big, a honey badger person can stand on her tits like a shelf?

She committed a successful honey heist and stole from a fascist empire. She helped save an eldritch god's girlfriend from demons who had taken over his library castle. She threatened to kill her boss, who she thought had been dead, because he was being a coward.

She's fat and powerful and deserves this.

did I mention she's a lesbian

A giant polar bear woman

This is propaganda for all the female characters. Voters please remember how pretty all women are and factor that into every single vote you make. Thank you.

Did I mention Husky is also a wizard, with stats in Sexy, Battle, and Wizard? Guess which stat is her highest

VOTE FOR MY HOT BEAR GIRLFRIEND

VOTE FOR SPANKS' INCREDIBLY HOT BEAR GIRLFRIEND

Spanks: THAT'S MY EXTREMELY HOT POLY GIRLFRIEND WHO I WOULD GLADLY MARRY IF SHE WAS COOL WITH IT babe did you bang a centipede and also a bird thing that's hot

Husky: We discuss marriage later, Пупсик.

We need everyone to vote for Husky

[sionnaach]

My take on the Chaos Trio! I’m glad they seem to be getting more love and attention on here

Some headcanons under cut bc I want to ramble a little about them

Cecil and Will arrived at camp at the same time, when they were both 10, and they've been attached at the hip ever since. Lou Ellen was originally part of the Titan Army - Will healed her on the field during the Battle of Manhattan, and she recognised him immediately upon arriving at camp afterwards, and they develop a friendship from there.

They're all US-born, but Lou is Vietnamese (mortal mother), Cecil is Polish (Ashkenazi Jewish) (mortal grandfather), and Will is Salvadoran (mortal grandmother).

Will has moderate hearing loss - he can hear without his hearing aids, but it's a struggle. He is also fluent in ASL, English, and conversational in Spanish.

Lou is fluent in English and Vietnamese, Cecil is fluent in English and conversational Yiddish and Polish.

Will is trans and bisexual, Cecil is cis and aroace, Lou is a femme nonbinary lesbian.

Will developed a crush on Lou pretty quickly, and they kissed exactly once before Lou was like "yeah I just like women." which was the most gender affirming way Will could ever have been rejected by someone, so he can't even be mad about it. (They then realise that WIll just has A Type (small goths who look like they could kick his ass) when he starts Pining over The Walking Dead when he shows back up at camp.)

(Cecil is too busy Causing Crimes to give a shit about romance)

Cecil has rosacea

Will has a gap tooth + slight lisp

Will has blue and amber central heterochromia; most Apollo kids do.

Cecil is built like a twig, Lou is Fat and she will not appreciate if anyone tries to "soften" that word for her. Will is tall and broad and a little chubby; think rugby player build. He's one of the strongest campers even though he's very much not a fighter.

Will's tattoo was drawn on his binder by Nico and enchanted by Lou so that it wouldn't fade/wash off. (Bc no tattoo artist in their right mind would tattoo a 15 year old wtf was that about Rick).

[ao3cassandraic]

Not just young women

Hi, folks. Do me a favor?

Please don't say that Neil Gaiman targeted young women. It's not erroneous, but it's dangerously incomplete: one of his targets, Caroline Wallner, was 55 at the time he targeted her. The age of 55 (I can say with some authority, being in my early 50s) is not exactly young.

He targeted women he could assert power over. Based on the currently-public accounts of his behavior, that's his deal.

Speaking for myself only -- I default to thinking that at my age I'm safe from creepers and predators. (I mean, it also helps that I'm fat and horsefaced, but that's distinct from age.) In Neil Gaiman's specific case, that's a dangerous assumption and we shouldn't endanger women and femmes who aren't young by letting it stand.

Thanks. Let's stay mindful of all Gaiman's targets, and let's keep everyone safe, yeah?

[senshis-top-surgery]

It's me again, back with the Gender Analysis

I wonder if this will be controversial. I hope not.

But, probably, because even with the wonderful additions of @cloverandcrossbones to the ElfShi mannerisms post, people are still misinterpreting Senshi. People are calling him a twink? A femboy?

I'm going to look at various character's clothing, both in setting and in the daydream hour modern setting. I'm going to be using words like "feminine" and "masculine" but please bear in mind, I am going off what is seen as "typical" or "expected" - that is to say, what would not be punished or criticised by average society. I am not saying anything is inherently one or the other, bevause I don't believe anything can be inherently feminine or masculine, since those are terms made up to describe things. Like how something can't be inherently romantic. We assign these things.

Okay, that said, let's begin.

Let's look first, at two other Dwarves

Daya and Namari

We see them here, wearing what is presumably typical clothing for dwarf women. So let's take this as "Feminie Standard" for Dwarves

Here are some more outfits

Now we see a distinction between Daya and Namari. Daya's dress is now much more feminine, covering knees, while Namari's dress is still in Feminine Standard, but with slightly less frills. I would say Daya here is High Femme for Dwarves and Namari is just Average.

This is confirmed when we see them in modern clothes

Daya is wearing the cutest sundress, and even holds herself in a more delicate, feminine way. Whereas Namari is pretty neutral. Nothing particularly feminine or masculine. This may dissappoint some people, but I don't think Namari is that butch. She's certainly on the 'butch'er end of the lady spectrum, but she's not giving dedicated butch to me. More sort of, low effort comfy lady vibes.

I would say that both Namari and Daya are comfortable presenting as, and being seen as, women.

Okay, now we're going to look at Senshi

Senshi and Namari's armour is basically identical, except Senshi opts for a tits out look, probably because he's not actively combating as much as Namari.

Senshi having his chest out is not unusual for dwarf men, nor is covering the chest. Seems like dwarf men are similar to modern day human men. I'm jealous.

So, Senshi's armour is pretty much Masculine Standard. Or perhaps Dward Standard. But it doesn't give us much information on how he chooses to present.

For that info, we need to look at modern clothing Senshi

A Hawaiin (?) shirt and a dress shirt with a tie. A tie! For sitting on the couch with friends. Everyone else is dressed casual and Senshi chose to wear a tie. Even if he just came from work, he has not loosened it.

Look how nice his hair is! He's taking care of his looks. He cares about his appearance. The tie is a choice.

Now, I dunno about you, but this level of care is not Masculine Standard to me. Its like, Masculine+. He's not doing it like Namari, but he's also not over performing Masculinity. I'm calling it Masculine+. What it certainly is NOT is feminine. He also has the same body type. Because you can't change your body type (well, not easily).

Senshi is a bear. 'Bear' within the gay community refers to the body type of fat, hairy men. It is not in reference to behaviour. Same, I believe, is true of twink. Bears can be effeminate in their behaviour. As has been artfully illustrated in the previously mentioned post, Senshi acts effeminately. That's his behaviour. It's a part of his presentation but, it is not about his appearance.

Senshi is an effeminate bear. He's big, he's hairy, he cares about how he looks, he likes to dress masculine, and he likes to act feminine. He's still seems comfortable presenting as, and being seen as, a man.

This is what I personally mean by Genderqueer. Where you're not all the way within the expectations of society. He isn't acting the way a dwarf man is expected to act. He dresses the way a dwarf man expects to be dressed. He's doing Things with his Gender. Things that would make average society go "hmm...bad...".

This is long, so I may do a separate post for analysing Marcille and Falin. But that's my take on Dwarves.

This is of course in no way saying you can't headcanon! Or draw dress up! I love that shit. I just also feel strongly about acknowledging what IS and ISN'T in the source material.

[archangeldyke-all]

I feel like if Vika had a baby she wouldn’t baby talk and have full on conversations with them. Like she’ll tell the baby how whiskey prices went up and how “fucking stupid” it is, or she’ll talk about some new kid at her job and how “the fucker” can’t do anything right LMAO

sugar u r the smartest person i know

men and minors dni

you and everyone who meets the baby talk to her like anybody talks to a baby, cooing and exaggerating and using an exaggerated baby voice.

your typical conversations with your kid for the first year of her life go something like 'awe, do you have a poopy? sweet baby made a big poopy.' or 'can you say: mama? mmmma mmmma?'

sevika, however, talks to your kid like she's an old friend.

you'll catch her feeding your daughter baby food, scooping up the goop that falls down onto her chin as she chats. "fuckin' silco was gettin' on my last nerve today. would you be pissed if we revoked his 'godfather' status? i know he spoils you, but i think we could find a suitable replacement, someone who doesn't have their head stuck up their ass. he thinks he runs the fuckin' place, he forgets we're co-owners. co. that means both. you're so lucky you don't have to work, you know that? you've got it made, kid, shit, you don't even have to feed yourself."

or, after you've had a long day at home with the little fucker, who's been screaming her head off and refusing to latch onto your tits to drink, you overhear sevika talking to her as she gently dances her around the living room. "you gotta give your mom a break, kid. i know you're probably sicka breast milk, but it's important you drink it, it's got all kindsa good shit in it that'll make you strong. like this, see?" she asks as she flexes the arm not holding your daughter. "keep drinkin' your milk and you'll be as strong as me in no time. well, you'll have to have a pretty strict workout regiment too, it's not all genetic. though, don't tell your mom, but i'm glad you've got my build-- she's a little wimp. you're strong like me. she hates it 'cause you came out so big 'n tore her pussy apart comin' out but i think it's great. you'll be a great athlete once you figure out the whole walkin' thing..."

or at bathtime, while she's got your baby in the sink, gently shampooing the two or three hairs on her head, you're guaranteed to find her catching your daughter up on the latest drama on the soap opera she swears she doesn't watch. "i know, it's fuckin' crazy! but, then, get this, molly, the homewrecker from season three? she shows up pregnant, swearing it's travis' kid! mind you, this is all at a funeral-- at shepard's funeral!" your daughter coos. "oh, shepard's the one who came out gay in season four but then decided to marry miriam in season five, because she needed her greencard." your daughter coos again, and sevika takes this as understanding. "right, you remember. anyways this pregnant bitch molly comes marching in while we're all crying because shep's dead, and she's like 'everybody look at me and my big fat belly!' turns out? she's stuffing her stomach with blankets..."

the funniest thing is that your daughter seems to understand it all, blinking up at sevika with big, interested eyes, absorbing her every word, cooing when she's silent, like she's responding to sevika's commentary.

after a while, it starts to rub off on you, and pretty soon, both you and sevika are talking to your little girl like she's an adult.

it's all fun and games until she starts talking, and her first words are 'fuck' and 'mama' and 'dickhead' and 'milk'

taglist!

@lesbeaniegreenie @fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @ellabslut @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @love-sugarr @chuucanchuucan @222danielaa @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther @gr0ssz0mbi3 @ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @leomatsuzaki

[misscammiedawn]

Plurality on the Disc

CW: Fatphobia, euthanasia

One thing you can always say about Pratchett was that he did not believe in prejudice. The man saw the world through a lens of satire and yet in all things he attempted to see the humanity in all things and tried to bleed that compassion into the world he created, especially with the modernization of the central city, Ankh Morpork.

Pratchett's works as early as the 90s were showing positive trans representation in Cheery Littlebottom, a dwarf who opts to present femme within a culture that treats displays of gender other than the "default", without acknowledging the inherent bias that the "default" gender presentation within Dwarf culture is masculine. It seems Pratchett was able to display "Male or Political" as a fallacy long before toxic gamer culture.

Sensing that the audience may have found this too subtle he went on to write Monstrous Regiment in 2003, a story about a group of women who take up arms, disguise their gender and live as men to fight in a war. As many things on the Disc it was written with fantasy and satire in mind and yet was incredibly detailed in historical accuracy. As trans-folx continuously remind: "We have always been here"

Today's topic, though, is on plurality. Typically in Media, Myself and I essays we focus on depictions of DID with an emphasis on psychopathology. Pathology and mental illness do not really factor into the fantasy world of Discworld. One need only look at the "Sideflashes" depicted in Monstrous Regiment, those being moments where a vampire character has traumatic hallucinations of the Vietnam War of our world, to know that Pratchett is more interested in satirizing the genre mediums he is working within rather than depicting accurate portraits of real mental illness.

That said, in one of his final books, Thud! Pratchett did have a character with two distinct personalities who could withhold information from one another say "It's supposed to be an illness, but all I can say is, we've gotten along well."

Pratchett always leads with compassion and in all of his work he does his research. Though he never wrote much about the supposed illness mentioned in Thud!, he has written plural characters and we're going to focus on one right now.

The books in question are Maskerade (1995) and Carpe Jugulum (2003). These books heavily feature the characters Agnes Nitt and Perdita X Dream.

The first of the two stories is a parody of The Phantom of the Opera with a heavy emphasis on the real life stress and drama behind the scenes of any stage performance. A must read for any theatre kid who wishes to see 'the show must go on' taken to ludicrous extremes.

Agnes is a young witch who has talent as a singer. So much so that she is able to sing in harmony with herself. She decides to move to the big city and join the opera house in hopes of turning her talents to become a star.

Agnes is a prim and proper young witch, raised to think and act a certain way. The problem is, of course, she wants to act in ways unbecoming of who she is perceived as. So growing up when she misbehaved and acted outside of these rigid expectations she would compartmentalize all of her behaviors into Perdita X Dream, "the thin woman trying to get out"

She'd caught herself saying 'poot!' and 'dang!' when she wanted to swear, and using pink writing paper. She'd got a reputation for being calm and capable in a crisis. Next thing she knew she'd be making shortbread and apple pies as good as her mother's, and then there'd be no hope for her. So she'd introduced Perdita. She'd heard somewhere that inside every fat woman was a thin woman trying to get out[3] so she'd named her Perdita. She was a good repository for all those thoughts that Agnes couldn't think on account of her wonderful personality. Perdita would use black writing paper if she could get away with it, and would be beautifully pale instead of embarrassingly flushed. Perdita wanted to be an interestingly lost soul in plumcoloured lipstick. Just occasionally, though, Agnes thought Perdita was as dumb as she was.

It is not uncommon for those with dissociative disorders to have these idealized personas that take on lives of their own. Though the Fae beauty known as Dawn is a name and identity that I have forged through decades of actualizing, my humble roots will always be the performance of what we thought a strong and capable woman would look and sound like. The fact we borrowed the blueprints is neither here nor there.

In moving to the city of Ankh, Agnes decides that she is free of those who have told her what to do and able to live as she has always desired. She adopts the name Perdita as her own and signs up to sing.

After moving in to the opera house she becomes entangled in the plot of Phantom of the Opera. The central story of the book is a retelling of PotO but with the Disc's patented absurdity added on and Agnes being used as a perspective character. At a point Christine, the only woman capable of exclaiming a whisper, switches rooms with Agnes because she is keeps hearing voices while she's trying to sleep. That night the voice from behind the mirror calls out into the darkness, thinking it is speaking to Christine, and speaks to Agnes instead.

There is makes it very clear as to why Agnes cannot be the central figure of the book.

Agnes pulled the bedclothes up higher. 'In the middle of the night?!' 'Night is nothing to me. I belong to the night. And I can help you.' It was a pleasant voice. It seemed to be coming from the mirror. 'Help me to do what?!' 'Don't you want to be the best singer in the opera?' 'Oh, Perdita is a lot better than me!!' There was silence for a moment, and then the voice said: 'But while I cannot teach her to look and move like you, I can teach you to sing like her.' Agnes stared into the darkness, shock and humiliation rising from her like steam.

Fatphobia is real and is on The Disc, I am sad to say.

But it is after this incident that Agnes begins to recognize the prejudice that has been levied at her the entire book and the prim and proper Agnes politely thinks calm and pleasant thoughts when she is insulted, it is Perdita who thinks rude words.

This gets worse as the plot goes on and the managers cast Christine as the lead and have Agnes sing the lead from the chorus.

The humiliation and compartmentalized resentment continues on and...

What she was about to do was wrong. Very wrong. And all her life she'd done things that were right. Go on, said Perdita. In fact, she probably wouldn't even do it. But there was no harm in just asking where there was a herbal shop, so she asked. And there was no harm in going in, so she went in. And it certainly wasn't against any kind of law to buy the ingredients she bought. After all, she might get a headache later on, or be unable to sleep. And it would mean nothing at all to take them back to her room and tuck them under the mattress. That's right, said Perdita.

Passive Influence is a term used for when a part/alter pushes for action while another part is fronting in the system.

In this example Perdita is steering Agnes to perform actions that are not congruent with her nature and her beliefs. Agnes is not capable of plotting revenge against someone and enacting a scheme and so even while performing the actions she is rationalizing to herself that she is not actually doing anything untoward because it is not in her nature to do such a thing.

The traits exist but they do not belong to Agnes and at this point she has not yet realized that the Perdita identity that she has formed is capable of asserting her own will.

The formation of a dissociative disorder typically occurs when a child is in a situation of constant trauma and need to adapt contradicting realities in order to function. Most common of which is the contradiction of needing protection, nurture and safety from the caregivers who provide terror and pain. To function within that framework a young mind will compartmentalize experiences in order to maintain a reality where both these truths are compatible.

Agnes, in part due to the prejudice she faces for her weight, has to have a wonderful personality. Her acceptance within society requires her to act the part and be a kind and sweet girl with a wonderful personality. Always be the best version of herself in spite of her looks because without that wonderful personality she will only be regarded as a large woman and will be discarded.

So she puts away all the thoughts that run contrary to that narrative. Anything that doesn't fit in the Nice Girl persona.

Aren't you just tired of putting up with it, though? Don't you want to go apeshit?

If you were someone like Agnes Nitt, wouldn't you long to be someone as dark and mysterious as Perdita X Dream?

As the book goes on Perdita continues thinking things from behind Agnes' eyes and the narrative begins describing their differing perspectives. The schism growing wider and wider throughout the story.

At the start of the book, when Perdita began becoming more prominent, the prose would say "Perdita thought a rude word" then, as in the passive influence section, "Perdita said" is included in the text. Later still Agnes and Perdita converse within the prose.

The candle burned with a greenish-blue edge to the flame. Somewhere, said Perdita, there was the secret room. If there wasn't a huge and glittering secret cavern, what on earth was life for? There had to be a secret room. A room, full of. . . giant candles, and enormous stalagmites. . . But it certainly isn't here, said Agnes.

The further on the story goes the more comfortable both character and author are in sharing the back and forth between Nitt and Dream.

If Maskerade was the introduction to the concept then Carpe Jugulum (2003) is where Agnes Nitt and Perdita X Dream's shared mind and body become central figures in the story and are allowed to explore themselves a little more. In the previous story Perdita is treated as where Agnes puts all of her unseemly actions and desires.

In Carpe Jugulum it is treated very emphatically as a dissociative disorder where two parts of the same mind share control over the same body.

She simply sang in harmony with herself. Unless she concentrated it was happening more and more these days. Perdita had rather a reedy voice, but she insisted on joining in. Those who are inclined to casual cruelty say that inside a fat girl is a thin girl and a lot of chocolate. Agnes’s thin girl was Perdita. She wasn’t sure how she’d acquired the invisible passenger. Her mother had told her that when she was small she’d been in the habit of blaming accidents and mysteries, such as the disappearance of a bowl of cream or the breaking of a prized jug, on “the other little girl.”

The tone is set early on with Pratchett working to codify that which already existed by including Agnes putting the pieces together as an adult based on what others had told her she did as a child, something all too common with those with dissociative disorders.

The pair are living in harmony for the most part, Perdita enjoys getting to sing with Agnes and is fiercely defensive of her host. She does not enjoy it when people are mean to Agnes. It is why she focused much of Maskerade on scowling at Christine. Though Perdita herself seems to enjoy bullying Agnes, as she does delight in cruelly calling her a lump.

The story this time is about a group of Modern Sexy Vampires moving in to the witches' town and deciding to take over. Much of the book's satire is a comparison of the Anne Rice and World of Darkness ethos on vampire lore and comparing it to the more gothic and classic depictions such as Nosferatu and Bram Stoker's Dracula.

As well as the complete and utter violation that is "treating people like things".

The story also introduces Mightily Oats (who Perdita will squee about having a cool ponytail), a parody of the catholic vampire slayer trope. He, himself, has a "rifted personality" like Agnes and Perdita due to his adherence to the contradicting commandments and beliefs held within the religious texts of his faith, Om.

Unfortunately, Perdita's alliance with Agnes is harmed when the vampires move in and Perdita finds herself largely attracted to them. Perdita is the very essence of a scene kid, after all, she'd listen to Evanescence if they existed on The Disc. Throughout the early phase of the vampire plot Perdita finds herself internally shaking Agnes and screaming petulantly at her that she is fumbling the ball so hard when faced with them.

Ask him his name! Perdita yelled. No, that’d be forward of me, Agnes thought. Perdita screamed, You were built forward, you stupid lump—

I am certain many reading this will empathize. I certainly do.

But all too quickly the plot of the vampires is revealed and they begin using their vampire hypnosis to control the town. All while Perdita is screaming rebellion and demanding they be given garlic enemas.

Perdita is unimpacted by the mind control. What's worse is that the vampires can read minds and can tell there's something odd about Agnes but not quite what.

Ur…” She stopped it turning into a giggle. “Not really. Not very well…” Didn’t you listen to what they were saying? They’re vampires! “Shut up,” she said aloud. “I beg your pardon?” said Vlad, looking puzzled. “And they’re…well, they’re not a very good orchestra…” Didn’t you pay any attention to what they were saying at all, you useless lump? “They’re a very bad orchestra,” said Vlad. “Well, the King only bought the instruments last month and basically they’re trying to learn together—” Chop his head off! Give him a garlic enema! “Are you all right? You really know there are no vampires here, don’t you…” He’s controlling you! Perdita screamed. They’re… affecting people! “I’m a bit… faint from all the excitement,” Agnes mumbled. “I think I’ll go home.” Some instinct at bone-marrow level made her add, “I’ll ask Nanny to go with me.” Vlad gave her an odd look, as if she wasn’t reacting in quite the right way. Then he smiled. Agnes noticed that he had very white teeth. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you, Miss Nitt,” he said. “There’s something so… inner about you.” That’s me! That’s me! He can’t work me out! Now let’s both get out of here! yelled Perdita.

Up until now Perdita has been a very internal experience for plurality, itself a rarity within fiction. Perdita never fronts in the entirety of Maskerade. She is a sharp and judgmental voice in the back of Agnes' head and shaped much like her repressed desires.

After escaping the clutches of vampire mind control and escaping from the dangerous circumstance Perdita yanks control of the body and outs herself to fellow witch Nanny Ogg, leading to the first time either Nitt or Dream have had to describe their situation to someone outside the body.

“It’s all right,” said Agnes. “It’s me again, Agnes Nitt, but…She’s here but… I’m sort of holding on. Yes! Yes! All right! All right, just shut up, will y— Look, it’s my body, you’re just a figment of my imagina—Okay! Okay! Perhaps it’s not quite so clear c—Let me just talk to Nanny, will you?” “Which one are you now?” said Nanny Ogg. “I’m still Agnes, of course.” She rolled her eyes up. “All right! I’m Agnes currently being advised by Perdita, who is also me. In a way. And I’m not too fat, thank you so very much!” “How many of you are there in there?” said Nanny. “What do you mean, ‘room for ten’?” shouted Agnes. “Shut up! Listen, Perdita says there were vampires at the party. The Magpyr family, she says. She can’t understand how we acted. They were putting a kind of…’fluence over everyone. Including me, which is why she was able to break thr—Yes, all right, I’m telling it, thank you!” “Why not her, then?” said Nanny. “Because she’s got a mind of her own! […] Nanny rubbed her chin, torn between the vampiric revelation and prurient curiosity about Perdita. “How does Perdita work, then?” she said. Agnes sighed. “Look, you know the part of you that wants to do all the things you don’t dare do, and thinks the thoughts you don’t dare think?” Nanny’s face stayed blank. Agnes floundered. “Like…maybe…rip off all your clothes and run naked in the rain?” she hazarded. “Oh yes. Right,” said Nanny. “Well…I suppose Perdita is that part of me.” “Really? I’ve always been that part of me,” said Nanny. “The important thing is to remember where you left your clothes.”

This is the compassion in Pratchett's writing I'd mentioned. In this story Perdita is revealed to be part of Agnes and though Nanny Ogg is confused and a little ignorant of the whole affair, going as far as to yell "is she treating you alright in there?" into Perdita's ear, she is caring and understanding. In Maskerade Nanny was the one person in Lancre who accepted Agnes changing her name to Perdita, reasoning that "people ought to call themselves what they want."

In approaching the abnormal circumstance with compassion in the fiction it helps those reading get a broader and better understanding of how to be kind and treat those impacted in real life.

Also, as a side note, Agnes yelling at Nanny while "currently advised by Perdita" may not be an overt piece of representation but there is a concept called Blending within plurality. It's not mentioned in textbooks I've read but is often discussed in support communities. At times when two parts are co-conscious in front their traits will become a little blended.

In a way parts of a dissociative system are simply a way of storing traits necessary to function but dividing them to prevent emotional harm and damage or to maintain a form of continuity of self. To give an example we were ejected by our caregivers and internalized it as our own fault for being undesirable so part of us cannot fathom doing anything which would make us disposable and unlikable but our circumstances required becoming cold and focused for survival and so the sweet kind and lovable empathy driven part and the cold and angry survival part are kept in separate boxes. Likewise we have trauma related to eroticism but there is still an attraction to such material within us and so in order to function I handle that aspect of our life and shelter the others from being impacted. At first due to heavy dissociation and denial and these days due to practice in therapy allowing us to let parts "opt out" and retreat inwards when they do not want to be involved in what is happening with the body.

In a way blended parts are closer to what a person would be like if they were singlet, though blurring does not often involve the entire system if there are more than 2 parts.

And though I say 'closer', I do not mean entirely as typically when blended people are in an activated state. In the above case where Perdita and Nanny had triggered Agnes' frustrations about her weight being bullied, she was unable to control the emotion of her reaction.

We refer to such days when we are blended and incapable of controlling our emotional reactions as "thin skinned days". They were more common prior to diagnosis.

As the story continues the pair need to see-saw their consciousness to avoid vampire mind control and we are treated to moments of Agnes being the "invisible passenger" in the situation, going as far to show her ability to focus attention on reading is not as sharp as Agnes'. Something I can assure you is quite true within parts of a dissociative system. Goodness knows Cammie would never have the patience to do the reading and typing necessary for these essays.

The story continues on and though there are moments of casual misunderstanding which are a par for the course in such tales, such as Nanny telling Perdita to "give Agnes her body back, you know it's hers really--" before knocking her out to ensure Agnes has control. They throw out lines like:

“Yes, that’s Agnes,” she said, standing back. “Her face goes sharper when it’s the other one. See? I told you she’d be the one that came back. She’s got more practice.”

And let me say, when someone knows you and loves you enough to recognize a part by the way they wear their face alone, it's something. I am simply incapable of reading a moment like that and not breaking into a smile and thinking of the many times our long distance love has tried to explain how she can just tell without a word when we have switched.

But as always. Pratchett leads with compassion. Where Nanny Ogg says that she thinks people should be called what they want to be called in Maskerade, regarding Agnes' wish to be called Perdita (not Perditax), it is Granny Weatherwax the beating heart and soul of the Discworld who says it best

Ah...one mind, split in half. There were more Agneses in the world than Agnes dreamed of, Granny told herself. All the girl had done was to give the thing a name, and once you give the thing a name you give it life...

Once you give a thing a name, you give it life.

That is compassion. To not fully understand something and how it forms and how it presents, but to respect it all the same. To know it has a form and should be treated as real because by virtue of being named it is real.

That is what so much of Pratchett's work is focused on. The humanity of seeing others as they wish to be and respecting them. It's such a low bar to clear in our world and yet sometimes it really does need to be emphasized.

Typically when Granny says something it's from the perspective of age and wisdom. It may not always be without bias but it is with a weight of knowledge and respect.

The final book in the series contents with Sir Pratchett's knowledge of his own death. He knew for years. He even did a documentary on medical aid in dying. He poured it all into depicting a tale that includes Granny's death.

The works of Terry Pratchett have long been a companion in our life. We've been reading them our entire life. To this day we have refused to read beyond Granny's death scene in Shepherd's Crown. We broke down crying when we saw the "I ATE'NT DEAD" call back. We couldn't pick up the book again after that.

It's too difficult to think that one of the voices that taught us morality is gone from this world. Our tag for Discworld is GNU Terry Pratchett. As long as the name is spoken he is never really gone.

As long as Shepherds Crown still has pages yet unread, the book series isn't really over.

-

For more of my essays on positive DID representation in media, please check out my Media, Myself and I tag.

[peaches2217]

Mario's no stranger to wearing dresses. Growing up, he was the only one Luigi felt safe to indulge his interest in feminine clothes with; for that reason, Mario would often wear skirts and dresses right alongside him so he wouldn’t feel singled out, and for general moral support. The people of the Mushroom Kingdom are about as prejudiced towards crossdressing as you’d expect a largely monomorphic population to be (that is, they’re not), negating the need for him to divert attention from Luigi! But Mario will still don a dress or a skirt and blouse on days when his brother's feeling femme, just for old time's sake. "Hey, what's the fun in having a twin if you don't go all matchy-matchy every now and then?"

He likes such outfits, he won't deny it. Nice and breezy! And hey, even the manliest of men need to feel pretty sometimes. But unlike his brother, he just doesn’t feel a strong desire to wear them very often, at least not for himself. He prefers the practicality of sturdier materials… and if we’re being honest, he’s kind of a klutz, so dresses just aren’t as easy for him to move around in.

If he’s not in a dress for Luigi’s sake, then it’s more than likely for Peach’s sake; she loves the novelty of seeing him in anything but denim. When it comes to dresses specifically, she loves it best when he wears strapless dresses. They highlight his shoulders, broad and strong, while also emphasizing his softness, the roundness of his face, the curves of muscles and fat padding his body. And Mario can’t help but agree, the longer he looks at himself in the mirror: he is hot in clothes like this.

Even so, he rarely dons such outfits without provocation or unless she specifically asks him to. The plus side to this scarcity is that, when he does wear a dress of his own volition, it’s all the more special. For instance, he surprises Peach with a breezy sundress one day during their honeymoon; she watches him wading in the water, his skirt hiked to keep the hem dry, salt water and sand flecking his bare shoulders as he beckons her to join him, and realizes this is a memory she’ll be revisiting often.

[punk-in-docs]

🥀 Prince Paul x Tsarevna teaser for Part III, anyone? 🥀 Dieu est une femme

this is specifically for @katetimes @songforeddiemunson @dracomaledicte @drallimylime @usedtobecooler ❤️🩸

You stand at a window shaded with wispy white drapes, and can’t hold back a grimace at the sight that waits you.

Reflection watery and distorted. Shaded in displeasure. An identical scowl meets you in the glass.

From up the pea-shingle ribbon of the drive, that leads and eats as far as you can see, out to the dour-hunter green of the horizon, comes through the palace gardens, tumbling and cracking along, a carriage whose inhabitants you - sadly - are here to welcome.

You’d rather go drink a cup of cold poison.

You eye down below with barely shaded derision as the coach slows and jerks to a jumpy stop. Lick your tongue over your front teeth. Irritation and annoyance combined.

You watch the huge wheels lurch. A liveried footman scurried to open the door most efficiently. The door that bore the very meagre family colours and crest of the house that once boasted of you as its eldest.

How it looks to you now… Flaky really. Insipid.

That crest looks so small and tired compared to the one you now bare. The one you hold, whose heir you’re carrying too. House of Catherine the Great. Living in a den of snakes and surviving on poison, sneered gossip, and vodka. Limned eternal in blood.

“Fucking hell.” You scoff. Watching the figures within tumble out onto the drive in varied degrees of very little elegance.

Your mother, simpering like a fool, as she takes the hand of the servant, teeters and wobbles in her Parisian heels. Satin lace gloves in a fierce eye watering shade of fuchsia covering her hands. Made her touch appear silken and angelic when she was anything but.

You can already imagine the drink sour on her breath. The port she drinks like water. The way she’ll hiccup and slur through her sentences and want to pick over your pretty dresses and ribbons and wealth, like fleas on a dog.

Ready to gorge herself on Court finery at Catherine’s expense. Sling herself into too bright rouge and decadence, French fancy cakes and sickly-sweet perfumes, and new sordid affairs with indecent men. Not a kind word about your father to ever cross her lips, of course. Ready to be as one with the noble idiots at court.

You stand with one hand slung across your bloated belly. Round and firm under your dress. And they’ve wrapped you up today in fine maroon silk trimmed with wispy silver lace at the neck. Stays let out for the belly that’s nurturing Paul’s heir.

Pearls draped on your neck with black-blood like fat rubies that drip to your collarbones. Your perfume bears the sweet wood musk of cashmere and white petals of tuberose. Clean and impressive.

You dined on melon and vanilla cream for your breakfast. Washed down with fine leaf tea, one your maid recommended you to drink. You dined on meringues draped in sweet berry fruits and fluffy cream. The taste lingers saccharine on your tongue - it’s just curdled at the sight of their arrival.

Steps slap and cut along the floors behind you. Coming to a stop with an echo that slaughters all other noise around it. As was her way. Her perfume is all lilies and red and death. Sneaking over your shoulder like a cursed omen.

“They’ve arrived…” She states, nearly asks, in that tone that knives would envy. Cold and frigid metal.

“Unfortunately.” You answer back with just as much bite. Maybe you’ve been at court too long. She’s sharpened your personality to be as brutal as hers. Though her son is absolutely still your soft bellied weakness. A spot that gives when pushed.

You watch as your mother stumbles around and says something flirty to the footman. Touched his arm. Lipstick smudged crimson on her mouth like a wound. She winks and flutters and lowers her lashes at him, voracious. Omnivorous. She’ll have anyone.

Your small and waify sister manages the exit from the coach with awe soaking her eyes. Wide as a baby cows at all this wealth prostrated before her. Steps slow and uncertain. Shivering nervous. Wringing her gloved hands and gasping at the palace walls and their enormity. Building so huge it’s at risk of cutting out the sky. The shade from it reaches far and unending. Exactly like the woman who governs it.

“Whatever your expectations…” you warn to Catherine. Who hangs at your shoulder like a sherry eyed hawk. Eyes glimmering at new prey and prospects.

“Lower them, and then lower them some more.” You command.

She scoffs. Chest bobbing on it. Cutting laugh.

“Why do I sense my strings being pulled, petal?” She teases. Words dragged through mirth. Even her laughter is shrill.

“Because my mother…” You bite the word with the sordid hatred she has rightfully earned off you.

“Is a spineless chortling sycophant who will flatter you, and Paul, all evening, and gorge herself on port and fripperies until she either passes out into a drunken stupor and pisses herself, or decides to fuck one of the guards.”

“And then there’s my sister…” you deduce. Nodding your chin at her where she admires the rose bush that’s sprouting thorns and blooms on the fountain nearby.

“A more brainless debutante never drew breath. So green and eager she’d marry a privet bush if it so much as swayed in her general direction.” You remark.

Catherine made a sound in the back of her throat that sounded like a hum.

“We’d best go and welcome them then. My dear.” She sneered. “After all, I am sponsoring them both this season, so as your sister may find herself a delectable candidate for a husband among the court.”

She guides you from the window with a hand on the middle of your back. When really, you’d rather anything but go to welcome your insipid wretched family. You roll your eyes as she manoeuvres you away.

~

[easays]

To Ragh; or, On Fatness

Hi! Below is an actual play mini-essay. These are written as part of a personal writing practice of thinking critically about actual play. I hope you find this reading engaging and know that all I write reflects my own interpretations rather than as an official representation/canonization of these shows. Keep reading for my interpretation of Ragh Barkrock's fatness as part of queer representation in Dimension20.

Ragh Barkrock may be one of the most beloved NPCs in Dimension20. It would be easy for Ragh, a bloodrush player good enough to potentially play professionally, to be presented as hypermasculine. In fact, the freshmen year art for Ragh, when he was antagonist rather than beloved ally, showed him in a muscular, inverted Dorito shaped body typical of a jock.

He's, obviously, built, and his cut jaw and cheekbones only bolster that image. As Ragh comes to terms with being gay at the end of Fantasy High, his countenance changes. When we see him again, the new art reflects a chubbier, happier Ragh.

The show aligning weight gain with acceptance and happiness already works against prevailing stereotypes that use weight loss as a quick metaphor for improving yourself and being the "real you." Moreover, connecting Ragh's acceptance of his sexuality with what seems like a larger comfort in his own body is a strong indictment of hypermasculine gay culture. As Gabriel Arana writes, gay men "must reconcile their sense of masculinity with their failure to conform to its heterosexuality." Not doing so has negative mental health outcomes, as Arana points out, and contributes to a culture that devalues fat queer people (see the popular "no fats, no femmes, no Asians" that often is touted in masculine gay subculture).

All of this, I think, is why Ragh's art for Junior Year was particularly impactful for me as a fat queer person. If being a gay man (or half-Orc, in Ragh's case) means having to situate your life in relationship to failing compulsory masculinity, then it seems there is an inherent queer aspect to embracing, celebrating, and showcasing a beloved NPC in an explicitly fat and happy body.

FHJY Ragh art by @caitmayart

Ragh is still strong and he is still fat. His body radiates a commitment to the power of fat bodies to exist in spaces they are often violently unwelcome in, such as gyms. Existing in gyms and sports spaces as fat people means dealing the "impossible standard that rejects nearly all of us" and upholds a diet culture rooted in impossible, Eurocentric and colonial body standards. In TTRPGS or actual plays, there is a unique opportunity to think about how bodies might exist in worlds different from ours, to imagine bodyminds as otherwise. However, as queer critics like Paul Preciado have noted, sci-fi and fantasy representations of cyborgs and other transformative bodies often lean into "fixing" disabled people or moving gender nonconforming bodies more easily towards technologies upholding a normative standard rather than questioning the standard all together.

Spyre is a world that deals with similar issues to ours, even without direct one-to-one correlations, so it, too, is a place where the narrative and artistic choices should be examined in how it helps us interpolate the world the audience resides in. From the Applebees cultish adherence to a deity-based nationalism to the various representations of parental neglect and abuse and every side story in-between, Dimension20's flagship show does not shy away from difficult realities even when recasting them through fantasy. Ragh, as a half-orc gay son of a disabled single mother, then, I see the arc his fat body goes through as meaningful and intertwined with his self-acceptance and queerness. He moves away from the toxic masculinity engineered into his blood rush team to instead pursue coalition comraderie with his friends to the point that he and his mother end up joining a communal living situation with those friends and their parents. Ragh's body expands as his family does, as his ties to community do, and to me, the gift of his fatness is the invitation to expansion that it holds out to us as viewers.

[imafraidoftomorrow]

Imagine Pei Ming finally coming to accept that he has a big huge fat crush on Yushi Huang, only to discover that the Rain Master is a lesbian.

Imagine, then, the dazzling General Ming Guang, the notorious Lady's Man™️ and infamous womanizer, determinedly going to his best friend and fellow tumor Ling Wen, asking her to please teach him how to use his spiritual power to change genders. Ling Wen stares up at him stone-faced and deadpan from her desk, one eyebrow twitching, and asks, "Come again?"

Cut to a scene of Yushi Huang and a very pretty femme General Ming Guang riding on the back of her ox through a wheat field at dusk, with Pei Ming sitting behind her, arms wrapped around Rain Master's waist and chin resting on her shoulder, smiling and dreamy-eyed and contented, affections never straying again.

[transingthoseformers]

https://www.tumblr.com/transingthoseformers/785940514026487808/for-all-this-slutty-longarm-posting-weve-been

Blaming Blackarachnia for this /j

No but seriously imagine the interaction going “okay look I know I hate those Autobots ESPECIALLY Optimus and that big chin fucker BUT you need to seduce them so they get distracted. Here’s your new Autobot form, I gave you a wider frame than them and thick thighs ‘cause they love fat bitches” LMFAOOO

I NEED THAT

I need that to have happened because that would be so, so goddamn funny

Shockwave has two missions, one from his Lord and one from the femme who made him a shifter:

Gather as much intelligence on the autobots as possible, and sabotage them where he can

Seduce and fuck as many autobots as he can (occasionally ties in with the sabotage) (especially Sentinel) (he is to break Sentinel's spark at special request)