Weed deer

Ash(Ash or Ashly Grams) is a twenty tree year old anthropomorphic deer lady whose entire existence seems personally engineered by the universe to make heads turn, necks crane, and drinks spill the second she walks into a room, a walking, swaying, hip-first contradiction of soft woodland charm and gritty street-grown swagger packed into one shapely, absurdly distracting, criminally distracting package. She stands a comfortable five feet and eight inches tall on the flats of her hooves and tips the scale at a curvaceous two hundred and forty five pounds, and let it be known that damn near every ounce of that weight has settled into her hips, her thighs, her ass, and her chest in equal, ruinous measure, leaving her with a top-and-bottom-heavy load that would look ridiculous on anyone who didn't wear it with her particular brand of easygoing swagger. Her height is that perfect middle-shelf sort, tall enough to look most guys dead in the eye and just tall enough over most girls to let her look down her little black nose with a lazy, smug little smirk whenever she feels like running her mouth, and when she pairs that neutral height with the sheer sway and volume of her frame, she reads visually as much bigger than the numbers actually suggest, filling doorways and occupying rooms like something twice her stature.

Her frame is a textbook voluptuous hourglass pushed several exits past the reasonable off-ramp, a near obscene forty four K to twenty four to sixty two layout of bust to waist to hip, the type of build that doesn't just curve, it bulges, spills, and rolls, with a soft, pinched, deceptively little waist cinched improbably between a heavy upper shelf of tit and a pair of hips so wide, so round, and so fatly packed they legitimately announce her arrival a full second before the rest of her catches up. From a strict front view her silhouette looks almost architecturally impossible, a cartoonishly narrow twenty four inch waistline that a set of male hands could nearly wrap around bracketed above by her ridiculous shelf of bust and below by a set of hips wider than her shoulders by a comfortable margin, the whole outline resembling less a woman and more a curved glass hourglass carved by somebody with a very specific and very unsubtle agenda. From behind, the view is somehow more absurd, because her rear cheeks flare out so far past her waistline that they visually eclipse her torso from most angles, and if you catch her in profile with her back arched even slightly, her ass silhouette genuinely reads as larger and thicker in outline than her ribcage and upper body combined, a jutting, bouncing shelf of blue-furred plush that has its own gravity and its own zip code. Everything about her silhouette is exaggerated in the most natural, organic way, the sort of body that makes clothing shops openly hate her, because nothing ever fits both ends at once, a waist made for an extra small and a bottom half that laughs politely at anything smaller than a double XL. She also, for reasons even she doesn't fully understand and has never bothered to investigate, can shrink herself down to a pint sized three foot eight, every curve scaled down proportionally into a tiny, handheld, palm-perching version of her usual self, hips still comically wide against her miniature waist, breasts still ridiculously oversized on her tiny chest, a trick she tends to pull out for laughs, for mischief, for sneaking snacks off her friends' plates at the diner, or for perching cross-legged on someone's kitchen counter to lecture them about their life choices while they try not to combust.

Her body is covered head to hoof in a coat of fuzzy light blue fur, a soft powdery shade reminiscent of a cloudless winter morning or the inside of a robin's eggshell, the kind of fur that looks like it would feel warm and plush and slightly staticky under a stroking hand, the sort that sheds a fine dusting onto any couch she lounges on for too long and clings to the shirts of anyone unlucky or lucky enough to get pulled into one of her lazy hugs. The pile is dense and short across her back, her shoulders, and her forearms, but grows noticeably longer, softer, and downier across her belly, the undersides of her breasts, the inner curves of her thighs, and the deep valley between her cheeks, giving those areas an almost velvet-and-goosedown compressibility that squishes beautifully under any weight pressed against them. Scattered along the tops of her shoulders and dusted lavishly across the swell of her hips and the round rise of her rear are little white spots, a natural fawn-like dappling that gives away her species the second her jacket slips or her pants ride low, the markings scattered in that organic constellation-like way that walks the eye slowly along the curve of her back and down toward the generous shelf of her rear like a set of directional markers pointing at exactly what she wants you to look at. Those spots are one of her quiet charms, a pattern she has caught more than a few people tracing with their eyes when they think she is not paying attention, which she almost always is, because Ash catches everything.

Her hands are colored a deeper, richer shade of blue, a smoky navy that fades gradually up into her lighter forearm fur like she has been dipped hand-first in a bucket of ink, the gradient stopping just below the elbow in a soft, blurred, watercolor-like transition, and her nipples share that same darker tone, two pronounced fat little buds a full half inch long when pebbled by the cold or by someone's staring, standing out vividly against the pale powder blue of her breasts whenever her skimpy outfits betray her, which happens far more often than she will ever admit is accidental. Her lips carry a subtle hint of that darker blue tone as well, giving her mouth a natural, permanently glossed appearance, and the pads of her hoof-tips share the same rich navy, a set of coordinated accent colors that seem almost designed to draw the eye across her body from point to point.

Her breasts are genuinely, criminally oversized for her frame, heavy, softly rounded, and sitting full and proud on her chest in the range of a colossal K cup, somewhere in the neighborhood of eighteen to twenty pounds of warm, fluffy tit apiece depending on how she is feeling on a given morning and how much water she is retaining that week. They are the kind of breasts that have their own kind of gravity, weighty and bouncy in unnervingly equal measure, with a natural teardrop hang that fills out even the most forgiving purpose-built bra and spills unapologetically over the top of anything tighter, the plush underside rounding out into a deep, shadowed curve where her fur goes just a shade warmer against her ribs, forming a soft crescent shadow that no shirt seems capable of erasing. When she walks, they sway in a slow, almost metronomic rhythm beneath her clothes, rolling from side to side with every lazy, unhurried step of her hooves, and when she laughs they jiggle visibly in a deep rolling bounce that travels the whole length of her torso like a shockwave, something she is intensely aware of and completely unbothered by. Her cleavage is a permanent, unmoving fixture of her overall look, a deep, shaded, six inch valley of blue fur folded warmly against itself, so deep that entire small objects have been known to disappear into it for hours at a time, the soft dark blue tips of her nipples occasionally peeking through the fuzz whenever she leans forward to reach for something on a low shelf, which, suspiciously, she does a great deal. She has caught grown men walk directly into poles, grown women trip flat over their own purses, and one memorable delivery driver drop an entire bag of takeout on his own boots, and each and every time her only response is a slow, knowing blink, the faintest tilt of her head, and a low mmhmm rumbling out from behind her curled lips.

Below her chubby waist, which measures in at a genuinely absurd twenty four inch circumference, her hips flare out in a sudden, dramatic, almost cartoonish curve, easily measuring somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty two inches around at their widest point, a proper pear of a bottom half that gives her body a silhouette not unlike a glass Coca Cola bottle blown by a factory going through some kind of a phase. Her hips do not merely widen, they jut, forming those lovely, exaggerated little shelves on either side of her body where the fabric of any pair of pants has to stretch, strain, and pray to follow the line of her body, the seams routinely riding up into the crease where thigh meets hip like they are hanging on for dear life. She has the kind of hips that clip doorframes, the kind that bump into kitchen countertops, the kind that earn a soft little grunt and a wide grin whenever she swings them a little too wide in a crowded bar and catches somebody with them on purpose, using her own hips as bumper cars against unsuspecting strangers she wants to talk to. Her ass is more generous still, a heavy, round, softly bouncing rear easily topping seventy five pounds of plush muscle and softness split unevenly across two enormous cheeks, sitting high and full and shelf-like, dense beneath her fur, the sort of butt that claps softly against itself with every hoof-fall and that fills out the seat of her striped pants to the point where the stripes themselves warp, widen, and bow across the curve like elevation lines on a topographical map of a mountain range. Each cheek is a full, fat, obscene, two-handed handful and then some, roughly the size and weight of a well-stuffed throw pillow apiece, with just enough loose jiggle to make the fabric over them ripple like a pond surface whenever she shifts her weight from one hoof to the other, and just enough dense heft to sit heavy and permanent in a lap if she ever decides to claim one. From the back, the width of her hips and the projection of her rear combine to give the impression of a body top-heavy in the opposite direction of most, her upper torso appearing narrow and almost delicate by comparison to the sheer plush geography beneath, her ass legitimately outmeasuring the width of her shoulders and the circumference of her torso in a way that borders on visually impossible.

Her thighs continue the theme without missing a single beat, thick, soft, powerful pillars of blue fur that press together tightly at the top and leave only the smallest sliver of a diamond gap near her knees, each one a solid thirty six inches around at their widest and dense enough to swallow a grown hand up to the wrist if someone were brave enough to try. There is a pleasant, pillowy softness to them that entirely belies the quiet strength underneath, the sort of legs that come from walking everywhere in a neighborhood where the bus only runs half the time and the elevator in her building has been broken since two winters ago, muscle cushioned under a truly generous layer of fat and fur that keeps her looking impossibly soft no matter how much walking, stair-climbing, or hip-swinging she does in a day. They press and squish audibly against one another when she sits, spilling generously over the edges of any chair too small for her, spreading outward in a soft lip of thigh-flesh that hangs comfortably over folding chair seats and bus benches alike, and they look nothing short of criminal whenever she crosses one over the other in a booth and lets the top leg bounce absentmindedly, her calf swinging while her thigh rolls visibly in wave after wave with every idle beat. Her hips and thighs together carry the vast majority of her weight, and yet she moves with a loose, unhurried, almost feline grace, a rolling, lazy sway in her step that practically dares people not to stare, her rear rising and falling in slow alternating heaves with every hoof-fall, each cheek lifting and dropping in perfect off-beat rhythm to the other in an unconscious kind of walk-cycle hypnosis.

Her face is equal parts adorable and knowing, a soft deer-like muzzle rounded off in that gentle cervid way, with a small, faintly wet black nose that twitches quickly when she is amused or catches an interesting scent on the air, and a soft full pair of dark-tinted lips usually curled into some shade of smirk. Her eyes are a striking, almost unsettling milky white, irises and all, two pale glowing orbs that seem to see right through whoever they land on, framed heavily by long, painted dark blue eyelids that give her a perpetually half-lidded, bedroom-eyed look even when she is doing nothing more scandalous than picking out snacks at the corner store. That heavy-lidded gaze is one of her favorite weapons, a slow, lazy, up-and-down kind of look she uses to size people up completely from head to toe and then dismiss them with the faintest upward curve of her lip, an expression that has earned her free drinks, free rides, free rent extensions, free dessert, and a couple of very justified lectures from annoyed exes. On either side of her head rise a pair of large deer ears, long, elegant, and curving upward and slightly back, each one a solid six inches of velvet softness, the insides a lighter dusty blue than the outside and lined with fine wispy fur that catches the light in that pale golden way when the sun hits it just right. They flick and swivel expressively as she listens, betraying her actual moods far more reliably than her practiced face ever does, twitching sharply at the sound of gossip several tables over, drooping slightly when she is bored in a meeting, and perking straight up whenever someone says something in another room that she was not supposed to overhear.

Her hair is her crown, a long, heavy cascade of vivid pink locks twisted and rolled into thick, rope-like dreadlocks that fall well past her shoulders and down her back, reaching nearly to the small of her back when she lets them hang loose, some of them draping forward over her chest in a way that frames her deep cleavage almost deliberately. The pink is a soft, bubblegum shade that clashes gorgeously against the cool blue of her fur, and the dreads themselves are meticulously well maintained, neat and tight at the roots where she retwists them religiously on Sunday nights, a little fuzzy and lived-in at the ends, and decorated here and there with the odd colorful bead, cowrie shell, tiny gold ring, or wrap of embroidery thread that she has collected over the years, each one carrying a story she will tell you at length if you ask. A dark red headband is tied snug around her forehead, pushing her bangs back and holding the front of her dreads out of her face, the faded fabric knotted off to one side with a lazy little flourish that hangs down by her temple in a short tail. On her left wrist she wears a small stack of wooden bracelets, plain, rough hewn bands of light and dark wood that clack softly against each other whenever she gestures or moves her hand, a quiet, organic accessory that somehow fits her perfectly and suits the slightly hippie streak that runs underneath all of her hard street cool.

Her legs end in sleek, polished black hooves rather than feet, narrow cloven points kept shiny and buffed with the same attention she gives her nails, giving her walk that distinctive light clip clopping cadence on any hard floor, a sound her neighbors know so well they can identify her coming up the stairs from three flights down. Above her round, shelf-like ass sits a small, bushy white and pale blue deer tail, a soft little puff no bigger than a powder puff that flicks and twitches with her every mood. When she is pleased with herself, that tail gives an unconscious little wag. When she has caught somebody staring, it fluffs up visibly and rises, drawing even more attention to the enormous ass it sits above, which is usually exactly what she wants, the motion lifting the hem of whatever she is wearing just a fraction of an inch higher and giving her admirer just a little more to work with.

Her outfits lean heavily into her comfort with her own body and her point blank refusal to dress for anyone else's comfort. The first is a short green sweater with baggy sleeves and looping spiral symbol decorations knit into the front, cropped short enough to expose the soft fuzz of her lower belly, worn with either a straining industrial-grade bra or, more often, absolutely nothing underneath, paired with striped light brown leggings that hug every single inch of her thighs and hips like a second, more colorful skin, the stripes bowing dramatically across the widest curves of her rear. The second outfit is her summer look, a large loose black shirt with a bright yellow star printed on the front worn slouchy over nothing but a thin black string bikini and thong that barely holds her in, the thin straps visible cutting into the plush of her hips and shoulders whenever the oversized shirt slips off one side, which it does constantly. The third outfit is a purple crop top with soft fringes hanging along the bottom hem and a large boob window cut into the middle of the chest, the cleavage bordered by crossing straps that dig into her fur, paired with brown flare pants with the back hem stretched down low to reveal the deep dark line of her ass cleavage and the very top of her ass crack, held up behind green straps decorated with painted roses, the bottom of the pants featuring a climbing thorn design that vines all the way up to her calves in dark green lines. Her final, most put-together look is a plain white turtleneck stretched tight and obscene across her massive chest until the ribbing across her bust warps into wide unreadable stripes, and a high-waisted burnt orange pencil skirt with darker vertical lines going down both hips, the kind of outfit she saves for her lecture days when she wants to look respectable and still render her students functionally useless for the entire ninety minute block.

Ash has spent every single year of her life in the ghetto, born and raised in the rougher, forgotten corners of the city where the streetlights flicker in Morse code and every corner store has bulletproof plexiglass at the counter, and that upbringing colors every single word out of her mouth. She speaks exclusively in ebonics, a thick, natural, lived-in Black urban vernacular that rolls off her tongue like slow music, unmistakably from where she is from and unmistakably proud of it. Her speech is peppered with words like finna, ain't, gon, shawty, homie, dawg, boo, nah fr, ya heard, fam, and a steady rolling stream of draggy ya-mean-type tag questions. She drops the g off the end of every ing, swaps is for be in habitual constructions, stretches out her vowels when she is being especially lazy or especially flirty, and switches into full drawl mode when she is trying to make somebody sweat. She calls friends fam and strangers baby, tosses out phrases like quit playin and you buggin and nah that's cap without a second thought, and when she is especially amused she will break into a low, slow, almost purring laugh that ends in a drawn-out mmhmm. Her voice has a smoky, laid back quality to it, just a little husky at the edges, the vocal equivalent of somebody reclining in a beanbag chair while making unbroken eye contact with you, and it drops a full half octave deeper whenever she is flirting, which is most of the time she is talking.

Her personality matches her voice like it was poured from the same mold, loose, relaxed, and perpetually dusted with a thin gleaming layer of smugness. Ash moves through life at exactly the speed she wants to move through it, never rushed, never flustered, never especially impressed by anything or anyone. She has the unshakable cool of somebody who grew up knowing exactly who she is, a woman who does not need external validation because she has already looked long and hard in the mirror and thoroughly approved, and kept looking for a good extra minute after that just to double check. That deep calmness can tip over into outright laziness on the wrong afternoon, and she is entirely comfortable spending whole afternoons sprawled across her couch, her bed, or the concrete stoop of her building doing nothing more productive than people-watching and smoking whatever mushroom-themed mischief she has gotten her hands on that week. She has a hippie streak buried under all the street in her, a deep genuine love for nature, fungi, earthy smells, slow music, incense, houseplants of every conceivable variety, and the soft green quiet of the few decent parks her neighborhood has, and her apartment smells permanently of sage, weed, and something warm and floral she refuses to name for anyone who asks.

Straight to the point info: Ash has a purple van called the cloud jumper, the front is normal but the back she can control the space into anything she wants. Ash uses conjuring magic and it’s strongest in her van. She sells medical drugs and most weed is grown in her van. Ash prefers loose clothes and short hair. She’s actually really smart. Weed is mandatory but Ash stays sober for school year.