#weight partialism

Sue Storm is a specimen. With gracious aging at her side, and gimmick costumes from issues past.

One fact has been true across every stretching atom of paradox space since the Genesis Frog's gestation: it is, fundamentally, impossible to argue with pretty girls.

She's known for years, undoubtedly since before all existence in some weird ectobiological time loop way. It may even be down to her genes; Dad was similarly afflicted by devious broads in black lipstick! Possibly, if what Rose said about their parents was true… But he didn't have a big stupid mouth popping open to say really uncool stuff like: "Hey!" and "It's fine, guys!"

As for the matter at hand, at four hands, it's— a lot to get into. Thinking back to the inciting event just makes her brain gooey. Thoughts fizzle out further when Rose pinches her chubby cheek gently to force June's attention, any available complaint slipping away faster than her stained underwear. …Oh. Fuck! Kanaya pulled them off while she was distracted!

The way her legs pin together is instinctive, an attempt at obscuring… everything? Anything at all. But: her gut spills out in soft plush rolls, her legs pushing up until they crease at each joint. She can hear both of them inhale very slowly, tinged with shaky hunger. June averts her gaze, teeth digging into her overworked lower lip, trying to find something to focus on besides her imminent demise. Not that it makes a difference. They are watching, observing, picking apart her attributes in analytically horny ways.

Kanaya speaks first, every partial exhale pooling over June's knees, icy hands pulling her ankles gently until both legs relax. "These little marks," indicated by a questing finger, tracing over the visible cellulite in fractal sprawl over her thighs. "They are begging to be nibbled, don't you think?"

They've been spending way too many dates on artsy-fartsy films full of erotic prose, because that makes her tummy go liquid with dismaying arousal.

"Uh—" A thick swallow does nothing to combat her dry mouth, or frustratingly heavy tongue. "It's really embarrassing with— when you… look at that. Seriously! I'm serious. With a serious face."

"Mm. In that case," Rose counters, conspiratorial as her jewel-bright eyes flutter closed. "I'm certain we can avoid looking altogether."

Her chipped black nails trace from shoulder to collarbone, down to the red line of tension bisecting June's belly where the new fat folds in. Then the pads of her fingers, hot-soft, pushing underneath every incremental inch of sagging belly.

It tingles in a shivery way, makes her feet curl right into Kanaya's chilled fingers gingerly picking sock debris from between her toes. Why is that hot? Why do the little tugs to each feel so good, a luxurious wiggle radiating heat all the way to the back of her head? It's almost as good as the thumbs pushing into the meat of her heel and working out tension June didn't even know was there to begin with.

She leans over his shy form, fingers meeting with the slight swell of his chest, rising and falling with nervousness. Dark lips part around the question, and it's an honest one to ask, if he's really never been with anyone before. Not even Mindfang. He's honest, because she asks him to be while leaning closer, and he admits it.

Never once. Not with anyone, never.

This is a good one. So good that I actually starting writing a fic about it. So, look out for that. Meanwhile, let me highlight a few important notes.

• Zelda being twenty or so years older than Ganondorf. Established. Heavy with Hylian agricultural wealth. Eats very, very, very well.

• Link is roughly Ganondorf’s age and is the example of what a good boy acts like. Exceptionally good guard. Exceptionally good at other things.

• Ganondorf is a very confident, stern, beloved prince of the desert. The fact that he’s never had anyone call him a handsome little boy is irrelevant and the fact that he’s harder than he’s ever been is also irrelevant.

It was all Dave's idea. She repeats that fact over and over, to excuse the nonsense on her slowly approaching event horizon. Ever since Dirk's hour long exposé on the guy, it's been inevitable. The bastard got it in his head, the thought of traveling to see his alternate self; a successful Dave Strider releasing negative-budget films with Hollywood eagerly lapping at his heels.

But she expressed interest. Foolishly, she asked about her own alternate, and she should have known better. Being dragged into it all is Rose's penance, pulled through time to be plunked down in an overwhelming queue with a book weighed heavy under her arm.

Her return to the present has, predictably, fucked right off to court favor with himself. Leaving her, Rose Lalonde, alone in line... holding a tome she's never thought to crack open. It's one of Roxy's special editions, nicked from their bookshelf to make this silly little hassle worth it.

Who wouldn't want a signature from their very famous momster, after all? It's the least she can do, given all the good cheer Roxy has brought her.

Still. The line is overwhelmingly long— confirmed by leaning out in hopes of seeing the end —and there's simply nothing to do in this alternate future of a dead possibility BESIDES wait her turn. Not for the first time, Rose laments her goddessian foresight in the face of enforced patience. In the interest of maintaining her cover, and mitigating the worst boredom in the world, she cracks the spine on Complacency of the Learned.

Time passes, as it always does. Already, she's halfway through the dense creation, and flush with pride. Of course, Rose has always been an accomplished writer, in her humble opinion, but this? Incredible, and such specific mastery of the style! She can't wait to congratulate the prose and tell herself what an honor it's been to—

Next. She's next.

A broad-shouldered beautiful woman, hair pinned high on her head with strands artfully free to frame her face and the cut of her bangs, sits before Rose. Perched atop a comfortable chair, delightfully fat in immaculate clothing. Her lips are full, pursed beneath hooded violet eyes that crinkle with amusement. Painted nails tap once against the table, a precursor. Then, one hand lifts to beckon Complacency from her alternate self.

Nearly putting her hand out as well, she manages to redirect. The book feels lighter than it truly is when passing between them, a trick of the mind. The older woman flips pages to locate the dedication, fountain pen in hand.

"To whom will I be addressing it, my dear?" Warm, thick, sultry. Like wine. Her cheeks go scarlet as she babbles something stupid.

"Rose. To Rose Lalonde."

A beat. Two. Her lungs are tight.

The woman glances up through her bangs, so lovely at any angle, and smirks. Not a note of confusion to be had. And that moment seems to stretch forever, even when she looks away from the younger Lalonde's stricken face. Haunting, bewitching eyes hold her still. She has no idea how long the author takes to write.

When Rose is ushered out of line, tome clutched to her chest, she can't bear to look back. It's only seated at a table— out of sight, out of mind —that she manages to peel open the page to see her own handwriting. Mature. Confident. Even more flowery.

To Rose Lalonde,

You are beautiful. In time, you will learn to show your body the love it deserves, the love it needs. You will learn to cherish it for being so sturdy and capable. All of this pain you feel is very real, and it is not trivial or silly. I'm so sorry that you are hurting so much. However: it will pass. Before you know it, you'll think wistfully of these days and wonder how you could have been distressed with your gorgeous figure. Your beauty will be your own, your vanity foundational.

"Whoops."

Understatement doesn't even begin to cover it. This goes far beyond a mere oops, and the gleaming lab equipment at every corner of his vision plays witness to his verbal blunder... along with the gaping maw of a Bengal tiger. Probably? Dave is, admittedly, a little hazy on the subfuckeries of big orange cats with stripes. Especially when the only thing keeping his head and shoulders friendly is hooking her fingers into a wide magenta collar, barely measuring half his height.

Alright, that's an exaggeration. She's only a head shorter, hair fluffed out around her soft jaw and clad in the snuggest labcoat known to man, leveling Dave with a grim expression like he's done something wrong. Which is just unfair. It's not like he knows where this lab actually is—

Fine. He's intruding. In an attempt to pacify this respectable homeowner, Dave flashes his raised palms in a "whoa there, Bessie" motion. Gritting into a strained smile, he does everything possible to seem like a lost teenager. She doesn't buy it.

Fuck.

Running through every possible conflict avoidance tactic hits him with a wall of nothing. Older women are, decidedly, not his specialty. But— before he can say anything to fuck this situation up further —she jabs an accusing finger into Dave's chest. "You shouldn't be here," the blonde lady says, already continuing— before he can process an answer —with, "It'll fuss up the timeline."

Dave flatlines there, just trying to mash the pieces together. How does she know him? Where does he know her? Something about the woman is familiar, like vanilla extract and really good soup broths, like the smell of Rose's house when he popped over and agreed to grab something from the past...

When he fails to respond quickly, she offers a wry smile with her comment, "Probably tired outta your mind." Pitying. Gentle. Somehow, he's already bundled up by the hospitable softness of her voice, barely noticing the way her hand comes loose on the shiny— bedazzled? —collar. Also known as the one tether keeping the tiger from rending his fucking flesh from bone. Dave tenses for a bite that never comes, watching the gigantic animal wander away at her order of: "Go on, Mags."

—She pulls him into a hug.

Warm. So warm. Sunlight and rich hot chocolate and his fingers instinctively curling against her lovehandles. Her lips, realized way too late, are pressed to his throat. Black lipstick smears there, the residue lingering, as this impossibly soft lady murmurs something. Fuck, he might actually be tired, because he can't parse what the hell her sweet twang breaks down to.

"What?" he offers, pedestrian and vaguely panicked. Her chest is pressing snug to his body, breath hot on his throat. Familiar, but not, and he never does well with— Lips on his throat, curving into a smile, right over the stutter of his pulse. Fingers tuck under the hem of his God Tier shirt, brushing sensitive skin.

Arching forward, breath short, lips parted. "It's alright, baby." And maybe it is, because she's pulling him even closer. One hand's migrated up the curve of Dave's back, nails scraping each ridge of his spine on the way up. "You can fetch whatever Rosie sent you back for in a bit. Just have a little sit down."

And he can't deny that it sounds nice. Temptation lurks, smelling mildly like everything a mom should be. Cradled like he's precious, like his hands have never known a thing about danger, like he's— shuddering out a sigh. The exhaustion catches up. Maybe it's fine, actually, to slowly collapse against her while lips pepper over his throat.