A Divine Derrière Descends

You were minding your own business—lounging on the couch, scrolling your feed, sipping soda—when reality folded in on itself like a used napkin.

FWOOOSH! With a dramatic blast of purple fire and glitter, your ceiling simply... gave up. A swirl of cotton-candy light burst open the sky like a divine disco ball, and there she was: Fwench Fwy, in all her plush, hovering glory.

“Oh honhonhon~” she giggled, striking a mid-air pose that made physics file a complaint. “Miss me, mon petit chou?”

Before you could so much as blink, she shimmered, grew—no, inflated—until your room groaned around her kaiju-sized curves. Her hips brushed your bookshelf into another dimension, her tail knocked over your Wi-Fi router (rude), and her divine thighs began to eclipse the light.

With a cheeky wink, she turned around.

Her colossal, wobbling rear now took up your entire field of vision, glowing faintly like it had recently absorbed a solar flare.

“You know,” she purred, voice thick with mischief, “I’ve been alone for centuries. And now, I have you.” She floated downward with terrifying precision. Her butt—divine, world-warping, impossibly plush—descended like a heavenly moon made of marshmallow and menace.

BOOOOF!

You vanished. Literally disappeared between twin cheeks that clapped shut with a seismic wobble.

From somewhere far away—possibly another realm—you heard her giggle.

“Oh là là... was zat your spine? My bad~”

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. Not because of the pressure (well, a little), but because the scent of divine gas had begun to build. Fwench Fwy wriggled her hips with glee, pinning you snugly in place. She gave a mock-innocent hum.

And then:

PRRRRBBBBTBBTTTT!

A wet, echoing, dimensional-rattling fart blasted around you, complete with rainbow sparkles and a sound like a tuba melting into Jell-O. You felt the room quake, saw the lights flicker, and—somehow—heard birds drop from the sky outside.

“Oh~ mon dieu~ You like that, don't you?” she teased, tail curling in delight. Her tone wobbled with flustered pride, even as her cheeks tightened around your face like twin marshmallow meteors.

PHWWOOOOORP!

Another blast. This one steamed the windows. A crack formed in your floor. She sighed, smiling sweetly as divine gas leaked out like a choir of foghorns gargling soup.

“I could sit here forever, little mortal,” she cooed. “And you? You can't do anything about it. Because I’m Fwench Fwy—your divine booty goddess.”

She pressed down harder, sealing your fate between her plush dimensional cheeks.

“Now be a good cushion, and enjoy the ride. I have centuries of gas to catch up on.”

BLRRRRRAAAAAPPT!

The windows shattered.