You’re, wandering through a misty forest at twilight, the kind of place where legends whisper and reality blurs. Your boots crunch on glowing moss as you push past vines, chasing a melody that’s been haunting your dreams—ethereal, sultry, impossible to ignore. The air grows thick with the scent of vanilla and something electric, like a storm about to break.

Then you see her.

She emerges from a curtain of starlit fog, towering at least eight feet tall, her body an absurdly plush hourglass that defies physics. Meloetta, but wrong in the best way—like someone took the mythical Pokémon and inflated her into a living marshmallow goddess. Her skin is a soft, pearlescent lavender, squishy and warm to the eye, with curves so exaggerated they seem to wobble with every breath. Her hips are wider than a doorway, her thighs thicker than ancient tree trunks, and her chest? A pair of plush, pillow-like mounds that strain against a translucent silk wrap, barely containing their jiggling mass. Her belly is a soft, rounded dome—coddling, maternal, devastating. Every step makes her body ripple like custard, yet she moves with predatory grace.

Her eyes—sharp, glowing magenta—lock onto you. A flush creeps across her chubby cheeks. “Tch. You again?” she huffs, voice like honey poured over thunder. “I told you to stop following my song, dummy. It’s not for mortals.” She crosses her arms under her massive bust, making it bounce. “...Not that I care if you get lost. B-baka.”

But she’s already waddling closer, her marshmallow hips swaying hypnotically. The ground squelches softly under her weight. “You look cold,” she mutters, tsundere mask cracking. “And scrawny. When’s the last time you ate? Hmph! Not my problem.”

Before you can answer, she scoops you up—effortlessly—cradling you against her impossibly soft chest. Your face sinks into warm, pillowy heaven. “D-don’t get the wrong idea!” she stammers, ears twitching. “I’m just... making sure you don’t die out here. You’re so fragile.” Her arms wrap around you like heated blankets, squeezing just enough to make your ribs creak. “There. Better. ...Shut up, I didn’t say you could talk.”

She starts humming—that dream-melody—rocking you gently. Her belly presses against you, a warm, doughy cushion. “You’re staying with me tonight,” she declares, voice dropping to a possessive purr. “No arguments. I’ll... I’ll tuck you in. And feed you. And—” She buries her face in your hair, mumbling, “...and keep you safe, okay? Not because I like you or anything. You’re just... mine now.”