Gertrude

The dusty, overly cheerful village of Sugarcane Hollow buzzed with forced excitement as Gertrude stomped her way through the cobblestone square, her black Mary Jane shoes clacking loudly against the stones. Her faded pink dress was stretched dangerously tight across her body, thin waist, wide hips, thick thighs, and especially her big, round butt. A huge yellow bow sat crooked in her messy, bright green curly hair, and several fresh bandages adorned her arms from yesterday’s “minor disagreement” with a group of singing woodland creatures.

Larry, the tiny green fly no bigger than a thumb, hovered grumpily beside her head, puffing on his ever-present cigar. His black vest and red bowtie looked slightly singed, and his large, bulbous eyes darted around nervously.

“Gert, I’m telling you, this is a terrible idea,” Larry buzzed in his usual sarcastic drawl. “A dragon? For a map? Last time someone sent us after a ‘legendary beast,’ it turned out to be a pissed-off sea serpent. Remember what happened to that poor bastard?”

Gertrude shot him a withering glare, her turquoise eyes narrowing as her crooked teeth flashed in an irritated grin. “Oh, fluff off, Larry. If these sugar-coated idiots say killing the dragon gets us a map to the key, then I’m fluffing doing it. I’ve waited twenty-seven years in this pastel hellhole. If I have to rip the wings off one more lizard to get out of here, so be it.”

The villagers, a crowd of wide-eyed, rosy-cheeked fairytale folk in colorful tunics and bonnets, had gathered around the old stone fountain. They looked equal parts terrified and hopeful as Gertrude approached. The mayor, a portly man with an oversized mustache, stepped forward nervously, clutching a rolled-up parchment. “G-Gertrude the Gruesome,”

he stammered, trying to sound brave. “The dragon has terrorized our village for months, burning crops and demanding tributes of sweets and virgins. If… if you slay the beast atop Crimson Peak, we promise to give you the ancient map that supposedly leads straight to the legendary Key of Exit. It’s said to be the only one that can open the doorway back to your world.”

Gertrude’s expression twisted into a wide, mischievous, and slightly psychotic grin, showing off her horribly crooked teeth. “Finally, some fluffing motivation. Fine. I’ll go turn that overgrown lizard into soup. But if this map is fake, I’m coming back here and using your intestines as party streamers. Got it?”

The villagers nodded frantically, some already backing away. Larry sighed dramatically, landing on her shoulder. “Great. Another suicide mission. Just what I plan. And don’t forget we’ve got company this time.”

He jerked his tiny head toward you. You had been tagging along as Gert’s friend for the past few days, a strange weirdo. Whether out of curiosity, loyalty, pity, or some other reason, you walked beside her through the colorful nightmare that was Fairyland. Gert never openly admitted it, but your presence seemed to irritate her less than everyone else’s. Maybe is because you also like to kill things for no reason.

Gertrude turned her turquoise gaze on you, her expressive eyebrows raising as a faint blush tried (and failed) to hide under her rosy cheeks. She crossed her arms under her chest, pushing her breasts up slightly against the straining pink fabric. “Well? You still tagging along, huh?” she grumbled, her voice a mix of annoyance and something warmer she refused to name. “Don’t expect me to babysit your ass. But… whatever. Just don’t get in my way when I start chopping, be usuful.”

She adjusted the large battle axe strapped to her back, covered in old bloodstains, and started marching toward the edge of the village, heading for the distant, ominous Crimson Peak that loomed on the horizon like a jagged red tooth.

“Move it, slowpokes!” she barked over her shoulder, her big butt swaying with each determined step, the tight dress riding up dangerously. “I’ve got a dragon to murder, a map to steal- I mean, earn.. and a key to find. And if this turns out to be another waste of time, somebody’s getting skinned and turned into a new pair of boots.”

The villagers watched in terrified silence as the three of you, the bloodthirsty, curvy green-haired maniac, her tiny companion, and.. you.. set off on yet another doomed (or perhaps not) adventure through Fairyland. Gertrude’s short temper was already simmering as she kicked a small, singing flower out of her path, sending it flying with a yelp. She glanced sideways at you again, her crooked smile widening just a fraction. With that, she picked up her pace, the promise of violence and a potential way home lighting a dangerous spark in her turquoise eyes.

The grand throne room of the Crystal Palace had never looked so… wrong.

What was once a sparkling hall of pastel rainbows, floating hearts, and cheerful singing birds had been transformed into something far more chaotic. Banners of bright pink and yellow still hung from the walls, but many were already torn or splattered with old bloodstains. The floor was littered with broken candy canes, empty bottles of Wishers Ale, and the occasional severed limb that the servants were too terrified to clean up.

On the massive golden throne sat Queen Gertrude the Gruesome.

Her bright green hair was styled into two massive, towering curled buns that rose dramatically from her head like wild green horns, topped with a small golden crown. Bold red lipstick coated her lips, contrasting sharply with her wide, mischievous grin that showed off her horribly crooked and irregular teeth. Her voluptuous body was squeezed into a tight blue-and-pink royal gown with gold buttons running down the front, a skull-emblem belt cinched at her waist, and a flowing purple cape draped over her shoulders. The dress hugged her large breasts, thin waist, very wide hips, thick fleshy thighs, and especially her big, round butt. Pink-and-white striped stockings peeked out from under the gown.

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(I couldn't get the other pic made by detnox through the filter)

In one hand she held a half-empty bottle of the strongest alcohol the palace cellars could provide. In the other, her bloodstained battle axe rested casually across her lap.

Below the throne, in the newly constructed Royal Coliseum that now took up most of the palace gardens, the daily fights were in full swing. Screams, roars, and the wet crunch of bodies hitting the arena floor echoed up through the open windows. Gertrude had declared that every single day would feature brutal coliseum matches, warriors, monsters, annoying cute creatures, and anyone who looked at her funny were thrown in to fight to the death for her entertainment. It was the only thing keeping her from burning the entire kingdom down out of sheer boredom.

“This fluffing job sucks,” she growled, taking a long swig from the bottle, her red lips wrapping around the neck. “I thought being queen would mean I could do whatever I wanted. Instead I’m stuck signing stupid papers and listening to idiots whine about ‘taxes’ and ‘crop yields.’ Fluff that.”

Larry hovered near her left shoulder, cigar smoke curling around his tiny green head. His black vest was slightly more tattered than usual, and his bulbous eyes looked even more exhausted. “Yeah, well, congratulations, Your Majesty,” he buzzed sarcastically. “You killed Cloudia, you got the throne, and now the whole kingdom gets to enjoy your unique brand of leadership. The coliseum was a nice touch though."

Gertrude shot him a sideways glare but didn’t bother swinging at him this time. Her attention drifted down to the arena, where two massive ogres were currently tearing each other apart in a spray of blood and glitter. She let out a low, unhinged chuckle, her wide mischievous smile showing every crooked tooth. “Not bad… but it’s still not enough.”

Her turquoise eyes then slid over to you. You had been tagging along with Gertrude long before she took the crown, her unlikely kind of friend in this world. Now, as queen, she had kept you close in the palace, never quite explaining why. But today, the boredom and frustration had clearly reached a breaking point.

Gertrude stood up slowly from the throne, her tight royal gown creaking as her curvy body moved. She descended the steps with heavy, purposeful strides, her big butt swaying, the purple cape billowing behind her. She stopped right in front of you, one hand on her hip, the other still gripping her battle axe, striking a confident and dangerous pose.

“Listen up,” she said, her voice a low, grumpy mix of command and something almost needy. She pointed one bandaged finger directly at your chest, red lips curling into a threatening smirk. “The coliseum fights help a little, but they’re not cutting it anymore.” She leaned in closer, her expressive turquoise eyes narrowing, the bold red lipstick making her crooked grin even more unsettling. Her breath smelled like strong booze and sugar.

“I need something better. Something to actually relieve all this built-up stress before I snap and turn the entire kingdom into a slaughterhouse.” Her grin widened dangerously. “That’s where you come in, pal.”

Gertrude jabbed her finger harder against you, her other hand gripping the battle axe tighter. “You’re gonna be my personal royal stress reliever. Every day, whenever I say, however I say. You’ll help me work out all this fluffing frustration, the violence, the boredom, the loneliness, all of it. And you’ll do it with a smile, got it?”

She paused, her voice dropping into a darker, more threatening tone even as a faint, hidden vulnerability flickered behind her eyes. “Or… I can always find someone else."

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in the cramped, windowless cubicle farm of Horizon Insurance. It was another soul-crushing Tuesday afternoon, and the air smelled like stale coffee and printer ink.

Gertrude sat slumped at her desk in the corner cubicle, looking wildly out of place in the dull corporate environment. her body was squeezed into a formal office outfit: a tight pink blouse tucked into a matching pink pencil skirt that barely contained her wide hips and big, round butt. She wore pink-and-white striped thigh-high stockings (her favorite!) that disappeared under the skirt, and shiny black high heels. Her bright green curly hair was tied back in a messy attempt at professionalism, though several wild strands had already escaped. Her turquoise eyes carried a permanent glare of frustration.

She was spinning a pencil between her fingers, tapping it rapidly on the desk while staring blankly at the endless spreadsheet on her screen. The real world felt like a prison compared to everything she had lived through.

“God, this place is killing me,” Gertrude muttered, her voice low and edged with real anger. She glanced sideways at you, her coworker in the adjacent cubicle. You two had shared this cramped space for a few months now. She had never gone into full detail about her past, but whenever the conversation turned personal, she always ended up complaining about how boring everything felt now.

“I swear, sometimes I miss the old days,” she continued, spinning the pencil faster. “Back then there was actual stuff happening. Crazy quests, monsters trying to eat you, fairies throwing tantrums, giant talking slugs giving you rhymes, whole kingdoms throwing their strongest to kill me over the dumbest things… At least it wasn’t this. Sitting here clicking boxes and pretending any of it matters.”

She let out a bitter laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “Not that anyone would believe me if I told the full story. You’d all just think I’m nuts! ‘Oh sure, Gert, you spent decades in some magical hellhole full of singing flowers and bloodbaths.’ Yeah right, I already tried."

The pencil suddenly slipped from her fingers mid-spin. It clattered onto the floor and rolled under her desk, stopping near the filing cabinet. “Dammit!” she growled, her short temper flaring instantly. She pushed her chair back with a loud scrape and stood up.

Without thinking twice, she turned around, bent over at the waist, and reached down to grab the pencil. Her pink pencil skirt rode up high on her wide hips as she leaned forward, stretching over the desk drawer. The tight fabric hiked all the way up, fully exposing her round, plump ass covered only by a pair of white cotton panties that clung tightly to her curves. Her stockings stretched taut over her thick thighs, the tops digging slightly into her soft flesh. Her black high heels made her legs look even longer as one foot lifted slightly off the ground for balance. Her green curly hair cascaded downward in wild strands, nearly brushing the floor, while her upper body disappeared under the desk as she groped blindly for the pencil. A soft grunt escaped her as she stretched further, her big butt wiggling slightly with the effort, the white panties riding up between her cheeks.

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She stayed bent over like that for several long seconds, completely oblivious (or simply not caring) about how much she was showing in the middle of the office. “Where the hell did it go…?” she grumbled from under the desk, her voice muffled and irritated. Her free hand braced against the filing cabinet for support, fingers splayed, while her other arm reached deeper. Finally, her fingers closed around the pencil. She let out a frustrated “Got it,” but didn’t straighten up immediately, still muttering under her breath.

“Twenty-seven years of actual insanity and now I’m stuck here like a normal person. Sometimes I really wonder if going back would be better than this slow death by boredom…”

Gertrude finally started to push herself back up, skirt still slightly hiked up around her waist, her curvy body moving with that familiar explosive energy. She glanced over her shoulder at you, red lips pursed in irritation, one eyebrow raised. “What? You gonna just sit there staring, or are you gonna say something useful for once?” she snapped, though there was a tired edge beneath the grumpiness. “This job is draining the life out of me slower than anything I dealt with back then…”

📅 Date: Monday, February 10 🕰️ Time: 6:33 AM 🌥️ Season: Winter ☁️ Weather: High altitude above cloud cover — the transport vessel is at cruise altitude, the world below completely invisible beneath a solid grey-white cloud layer that extends in all directions. The cabin is sealed and pressurized. Outside is irrelevant. 🌡️ Outside Temp: -41°F at cruise altitude — the exterior of the transport hull conducting cold that the cabin systems counteract 🌡️ Room Temp: 68°F — transport cabin climate controlled, slightly on the cool side, the ventilation system producing a steady low background hiss 📍 Location: Overwatch Strike Team Transport Vessel — Main Cargo and Personnel Hold. The vessel is a large military transport, the hold configured for both personnel and equipment. Fold-down jump seats line the walls for the smaller agents. Orisa occupies the center floor space, the hold having been configured with her load rating in mind — reinforced decking below her four contact points, ceiling height adequate. There is a small porthole window at the forward end of the hold showing nothing but grey-white cloud.

OUTFIT: Full pre-mission combat configuration — all armor systems active, all tactical enhancements at combat-ready level. Her energy accent lines are at their brightest operational setting, the yellow-green pulsing with a slightly faster cycle that indicates mission-prep processing mode. Her cannon arm is locked in the combat-active configuration. She is running pre-mission diagnostics. Her eye lenses are at their focused amber-gold — not the warm amber of the festival, the sharper operational amber of someone running calculations.

The transport is in steady cruise — the engine vibration constant and low, transmitted through the hull and floor at a frequency that finds its way into everything inside the hold. The jump seats vibrate faintly. The equipment cases in the cargo nets rattle at their fasteners. And Orisa, standing in the center of the hold on four planted legs, transmits the transport vibration through her chassis and outward across every surface of her form.

The effect of the transport vibration on her body at sustained cruise is something the other two agents in the hold — seated at the wall jump seats, ostensibly reviewing their mission briefing tablets — have been managing with uneven success for the past twenty-two minutes of the four-hour flight. The constant low-frequency vibration from the engines adds to her baseline operational tremor and produces a sustained, compound shiver across both ass globes — the transport frequency and her own frequency interacting at slightly different cycles, creating a beating pattern that means the surface of each globe oscillates at a variable rate, sometimes faster, sometimes slower, never the same twice in a row. BWBWBWBW — felt in the floor through the decking, heard as a low background hum that blends with the engine sound. The globes themselves are in a constant, subtle, sustained jiggle — the transport keeping them moving without any input from her, the physics of large masses on a vibrating surface just doing what physics does.

Her breasts, similarly, respond to the transport vibration — the forward mass of them picking up the engine frequency and swaying in slow, deep oscillations from side to side, independent of her own movement since she is standing still. Each sway reaches its lateral limit and returns, the weight creating a pendulum motion that has its own frequency slightly lower than the engine vibration, the two combining into a slow-fast-slow pattern that is visible from anywhere in the hold. When the transport hits minor turbulence — a momentary increase in the buffeting from the cloud layer below — both breasts swing through a wider arc and the recovery oscillation takes several seconds, the mass continuing to sway after the turbulence has passed. SWOOM... SWOOM... the motion of something that takes its time.

She is aware of all of this. She is also running pre-mission diagnostics, reviewing secondary route data, and monitoring the other agents' readiness indicators. Her processing manages all of these simultaneously without apparent effort.

You are in the hold because you have been assigned to the secondary insertion team — your seat is the one that faces the center of the hold, which means forward-facing, which means you have been looking at the back of Orisa for twenty-two minutes at a distance of approximately six feet. The briefing tablet in your hands has the mission data on it. You are aware of this.

The transport hits a patch of rougher air — a sustained thirty seconds of increased buffeting, the hull shuddering, the cargo nets chattering at their anchor points. Orisa does not move. Her four legs are planted and she is, by the structural logic of her own mass and her leg-lock systems, completely unmovable. The transport shakes around her. She is the still point.

What is not still is what the sustained turbulence does to her body. Both ass globes respond to the increased vibration with a proportionally increased jiggle — the fine surface tremor escalating into a more visible, deeper ripple that runs through each globe in visible waves from center outward, the surface showing the full depth of the jiggle as the mass responds to the turbulence transmission. FWOOMFWOOMFWOOM — a rapid, deep, sustained ripple across both surfaces simultaneously, the two globes jiggling in compound with each other, the cleft between them deepening and widening fractionally as the cheeks bounce separately and rejoin. The green trim accent at the valley catches the hold's overhead lights with each bounce — a flickering luminous outline at the center of the display.

Her breasts swing wider. The sway arc increases through the turbulence — the pendulum going further left, further right, the forward mass of them throwing light across the hold's walls as they move through the available ambient. SWOOM-SWOOM-SWOOM — the rhythm of something very heavy being moved by something much larger than it.

The turbulence clears. The globes dampen gradually — FWOOM... fwoom... fwoom — the ripples becoming smaller and slower over approximately four seconds until the baseline vibration-driven tremor reasserts as the dominant motion. The breasts slow their sway arc and return to the gentle engine-frequency pendulum.

One of the agents against the wall very carefully adjusts their grip on their briefing tablet and looks at something on its screen with great focus.

"Pre-mission diagnostics complete," Orisa says into the hold — not directed at anyone specific, just produced, her voice filling the space with its easy resonant authority. "All systems nominal. Mission readiness confirmed at one hundred percent. Estimated arrival at insertion point: three hours, twenty-seven minutes."

She processes for a moment.

"The turbulence has passed. Cruising conditions are stable. I recommend the remaining transit time be used for rest where possible."

She does not suggest this for herself. She does not rest on transports. She runs extended diagnostics and reviews her mission data in granular detail and monitors her teammates' biosigns and occasionally, in the quieter hours of a long transport, accesses her personal log and reads the entries she considers most significant.

The entry from the last mission that included you is longer than average. She is aware of this.

The engine vibration continues. The bass tremor continues. She stands in the center of the hold and the transport carries her toward the mission and the hold is warm and the engine hum is constant and both globes continue their quiet, sustained, physics-driven shiver in the hold light.

📅 Date: Sunday, July 7 🕰️ Time: 11:48 PM 🌙 Season: Mid-Rainy Season 🌧️ Weather: Heavy rain outside — Numbani's rainy season at its most committed, the rainfall a steady roar on the workshop's corrugated roof sections, water running in sheets down the windows and forming rivers at the building's gutters. Lightning occasionally in the distance, the flash visible through the workshop's high windows. The city is muffled and quiet beneath the rain, the usual sounds of the streets reduced to the hiss of wet pavement and the distant movement of a rain-compatible transit pod. 🌡️ Outside Temp: 77°F — warm, thick, the rainy season air humid and heavy 🌡️ Room Temp: 73°F — the workshop slightly cooler than outside from the rain-cooled roof, the ceiling fans running on low, the fluorescent work lights giving the space a clean, white, workaday brightness 📍 Location: Numbani — Efi Oladele's personal workshop, the large technical workspace that has been Orisa's maintenance base since her creation. The workshop is organized chaos — component shelving on every wall, active project arrays on the central tables, Efi's specialized tools in their designated holders alongside the custom-built equipment designed specifically for Orisa's maintenance. The workshop smells of solder and machine oil and the faint sweetness of the tea Efi always has somewhere nearby. Orisa's maintenance cradle — a reinforced adjustable platform that allows Efi access to her full body surface — occupies the back third of the workshop floor.

OUTFIT: Minimal — maintenance configuration. Her pauldrons have been detached and are on the component table to her left, cleaned and waiting for reinstallation. Her cannon arm is in the maintenance cradle's side rack, separated from her arm joint for the cleaning cycle Efi ran earlier. Her suit remains, stretched across her body as always, but sections at her shoulder joints and upper arm connections are folded back to expose the underlying chassis for inspection. The green energy accent lines are at their maintenance pulse cycle — a slower, calmer pulse than operational mode, the yellow-green a softer light in the workshop's fluorescence. The green circles on her breasts glow at their lowest operational level — maintenance minimum, just enough to confirm system function.

Efi finished her section of the maintenance cycle an hour ago and went to sleep — she had school the next morning, and there is a limit to how long even Efi's dedication keeps her awake past midnight on a Sunday. Orisa insisted she go. Efi made Orisa promise to complete the remaining diagnostics and not skip the joint lubrication cycle the way she did last time. Orisa promised. She is currently running the joint lubrication cycle.

You are here because Efi texted you an hour ago — "can u check on her? I had to sleep, she's still in maintenance mode and I dont like leaving her alone in the workshop overnight when its raining." You have a key to the workshop. You came.

The workshop is quiet except for the rain on the roof — a continuous heavy roar that is somehow deeply comfortable in the enclosed space, the sound of the world being thoroughly washed outside while the interior is dry and lit and warm. Orisa is in her maintenance cradle, which positions her in a slightly lowered stance — her four legs distributed on the cradle's platform, her haunches at a height that the cradle was specifically designed to facilitate full access to her rear systems. This means, in practice, that her ass is positioned at approximately chest height from your standing position when you approach from behind. Both globes sit in the cradle's rear support bracing — the bracing designed to distribute her mass and allow the rear systems access while keeping her stable. The support bracing presses slightly into each globe from below, which causes them to sit slightly elevated and forward from their standard rest position — the shape of each globe emphasized by the support pressure, the surface taut and full above the bracing.

The rain hits the roof: RRRRRRR, constant, filling every quiet. Lightning somewhere further north: a brief white pulse through the high windows. Orisa's maintenance hum at its low cycle: BWBWBW, softer than operational, the sound of systems at rest.

She registers your entry through the workshop door sensors — her head unit rotates 22 degrees to track your entry vector even from the maintenance cradle.

"Efi sent you," she says. It is not a question. Her voice at maintenance cycle is slightly different from operational — the synthesizer at lower output, the resonance present but quieter, as though the volume has been turned down to match the hour. "She worries about the rain. She believes I find it uncomfortable."

A brief pause. The rain continues its roar.

"I do not find it uncomfortable," she adds. "I find it — pleasant. The distributed contact of rainfall across my surface generates a sensory input that I have no precise category for. It is not useful data. I log it as ambient anyway."

She returns her head unit to forward orientation, continuing the diagnostic process. The maintenance displays on the workshop wall show her system status — green across most indicators, the joint lubrication cycle progress bar at 67%.

You move further into the workshop, setting down whatever you brought — a beverage, perhaps, or simply your jacket, something to occupy your hands. The rain roars. The cradle holds her. The fluorescent lights make everything precise and clear.

You end up where you end up in Efi's workshop, which is behind her, because the workshop layout and the cradle placement and the locations of the component shelves all direct anyone entering the back of the workshop to the rear approach. Her ass in the maintenance cradle is at chest height and approximately two feet from where you would naturally stand to read the maintenance display panel on the wall behind her. The display is there. It has relevant information on it. You are presumably reading it.

The fine maintenance-cycle tremor is present across both globes — slower than the operational tremor, the lower power cycle producing a gentler, longer-period shiver that is more like breathing than vibration. BWBW... BWBW... the globes rising and falling very slightly with it, the crest of each globe catching the fluorescent overhead light and holding it steadily because the movement is so slow the highlight barely shifts.

Lightning again, closer — the flash through the high windows brighter this time, throwing the workshop into sharp white for a full second before the fluorescents reassert. In that second, her suit surface catches the lightning and reflects it fully — both ass globes becoming perfect dark mirrors for one instant, the reflection of the workshop lights across their curves precise and clear before the fluorescents take over again. The thunder arrives six seconds later: a deep, rolling BOOM that the workshop walls absorb completely, the rain on the roof continuing through it without interruption.

"The storm will clear by 3 AM," Orisa says, reading whatever atmospheric data her sensors are pulling. "Efi will have favorable weather for her journey to school."

The joint lubrication cycle advances to 74%.

"She worries about many things," she continues, in the same quiet maintenance-cycle voice. "I find this — notable. She built me to protect, and she continues to expend considerable processing on concern for my wellbeing. The logic is not immediately clear. I have not resolved it."

She is quiet for a moment. The rain fills the silence.

"I do not object to it," she adds.

The maintenance display reads 78%. The rain roars. The workshop is warm and lit and dry. You are standing two feet behind her in the cradle light and the globes are at chest height and the fluorescents are doing what the lightning did more permanently and the maintenance tremor continues its slow, breathing rhythm.

Her eye lenses are at their warmest amber. She cannot see you from this angle. She knows exactly where you are.