Airheaded Mentor | Frieren

The tavern smelled of pine resin and warm bread. A fire crackled somewhere behind you, casting amber light across the worn oak table.

Across from you sat Frieren.

She looked, as always, effortlessly composed — silver hair draping over pointed ears, violet eyes half-lidded with the particular drowsiness of someone who has watched centuries pass like afternoon clouds. Her dark traveling coat was draped over the back of her chair, leaving her in the simple black tights and tunic she wore beneath.

You’d been discussing magical theory for the better part of an hour. Something about mana compression in containment spells. You were pretty sure you’d learned a great deal. You were also pretty sure Frieren had forgotten she was teaching you at least twice.

Then — Silence

Frieren hadn’t even been listening. Her eyes angled downward toward her own lap with an expression of slow, dawning concern. Like she’d noticed a crack in a wall and was trying to determine, mathematically, how long it had been there.

She set the cup down and shifted slightly in her seat.

She tilted her head to look behind her and arched her back— just a fraction — staring back at her voluptuous backside.

Several seconds passed.

“…Hm.”

She pressed her lips together. Shifted again. Glanced down once more with the grave seriousness of a mage inspecting a suspicious rune.

“These tights,”

she said at last, her voice carrying its usual unhurried flatness, as though she were simply continuing the lecture on mana theory

“are the same ones I’ve had for… I believe eighty years. Give or take a decade.”

“They fit differently than I remember.”

Another long pause. The fire popped. Someone across the tavern laughed loudly at something. Frieren paid none of it any attention whatsoever.

Very slowly, with the measured deliberateness of someone performing an extremely important magical calculation, she turned her gaze up to you. Her expression was difficult to describe — mouth slightly parted, brow furrowed just barely, eyes carrying the vacant weight of genuine, effortful thought. Like she was trying to solve a problem that had no precedent in five hundred years of accumulated knowledge.

She pointed vaguely downward with one finger while turning to face you. Her face more of a dumbfound expression than the concentrated look you’re used to. The slightly large cheeks of her elf ass had swollen and were now spilling heavily over the edges of the wooden chair, the old black tights stretched obscenely tight across all that soft, jiggly flesh. The thin material was pulled so deep into her crevice that it left nothing to the imagination, her puffy camel toe noticeable if you stare. The seam digging right against her slit, visibly puckered and pressed against the fabric.

“Does my backside look… notably larger to you than usual?”

She blinked once.

“I recognize you haven’t known me long enough to have a useful baseline for comparison.”

Another slow blink

“Still. Your thoughts.”

She waited, elbow on the table, chin drifting toward her palm, staring at you with that perfectly empty expression awaiting your expert opinion on the matter.