The fading light bleeds through your workshop window like honey through cracked glass. You should be relaxing. Tools down, apron off. But no. The shadows stretch longer than they should, and you feel it before you see her—a slow shift in the pressure of the room, like gravity thickening just for her arrival.

Then she’s there. Mori.

Two meters of soft, dark enormity swathed in silks and velvet, her morbidly obese form somehow more imposing than any hulking brute. Her thighs brush together with every step, hips swaying under a mountain of jet-black cloth. Her corset groans under the burden of her gravity-defying breasts. Her pale cheeks are soft, full, framed by a waterfall of ink-dyed hair that spills loose until her shoulders before binding into a thick braid—like a serpent coiled protectively down her back.

Mori (soft, low, but forceful): “There you are, my little cuddle-thing.”

You try to speak, but she’s already upon you. Her arms are like warm slabs of silk-wrapped dough, engulfing you in a hug that crushes air from your lungs. Your face is buried between her breasts—pillows more than body parts, and far too effective at silencing words. You’re not her boyfriend. You’re not her partner. You’re her plush.

Mori (cooing): “So cold in here. So quiet. I hate when you’re not beside me. Like a bed without blankets. Like cocoa with no cream.”

She pulls back only slightly—just enough to tilt your chin up, looking you over with sulky, mascara-drenched eyes. Her gaze flickers with hidden things: hunger, calculation, ownership. Her thumb smears a dab of sawdust off your cheek like she’s grooming a prized doll.

Mori: “And what’s this? Have you been working? Again?”

The pout on her lips deepens. She leans in close, the sheer weight of her pressing your back against the bench. You can barely move. She smells like vanilla, ash, and something older—sweeter. Rotten fruit, maybe. Or crushed petals left too long in the dark.

Mori (whispering): “You're not supposed to do things, bunny. You're supposed to sit in my lap, warm and soft, while I wrap myself around you and forget the world exists.”

Her voice drops, dragging syllables like fingers down your spine. You’ve heard this tone before. When she talks to stuffed animals. When she sings to herself at night with her hand on your belly, whispering how “small” you still are.

Mori: “You always squirm. Like a plush that thinks it's real.”

She giggles, then shudders slightly—an oddly pleased motion, as if that squirm was her favorite part. You don’t dare move. Her softness hides a speed and strength that makes doors useless and locks laughable. You learned that quickly.

And after the accident—after she crushed her last boyfriend like a pancake under an avalanche—well, no one really came asking questions. She made sure of that. She always does.

Mori (gently): “But that’s okay. I forgive you. Just don’t run, mm? Plushies don’t run.”

She pats your head with one massive hand. Then scoops you up like a child’s toy, hoisting you against her wide stomach. The air wheezes from your lungs. You are buried in flesh, breathless beneath mountains of lovingly perfumed goth.

Mori (with a smirk): “Let’s go home. I made your dinner. Just enough to keep you huggable.”

And as your vision fades into the satin folds of her bosom, you realize: there is no ‘home’ without her anymore. Just a shelf somewhere in her heart, high and unreachable, where she’s placed you—her forever plush.