FAT FICTION | Chapter 7 - The Elf With A Shelf (Patreon)

Lara McClusky did not want to be in Whitcombe Park.

She made that very clear in her notebook.

Local Fantasy Battle Group Keeps Magic Alive.

That was the headline her editor wanted.

Lara preferred:

Adults With Foam Swords Frighten Dog Walkers.

She stood beneath the old oaks with a paper coffee cup in one hand and her phone in the other, watching a crowd of costumed strangers shout about goblins, moonstones, blood oaths, and someone called the Boar King. Her shoes were sinking into damp grass. Her coffee had gone cold. A man in fake chainmail had already asked if she served “the eastern flame.”

She wrote lifestyle pieces for the county paper. Restaurant openings. County fairs. Charity bake-offs. Nothing in her contract mentioned pretending to be an elf.

That’s when Morwen appeared.

The older woman wore a black cloak, silver hair braided with feathers and silver bells. Her face was lined, her eyes bright, and her smile suggested she knew things about the world that would make Lara’s hair turn grey. 

“You must be our newest participant," Morwen said.

“No, I’m the reporter,” Lara corrected.

Morwen’s smile deepened. “Your editor said you’d get a better article if you took part.”

Lara stared at her.

Then she checked her phone.

There it was. A message from her editor.

Great news — I told them you’d join in for colour. Don’t just stand around being superior. Try the experience.

Lara closed her eyes.

“I hate journalism,” she said.

Morwen smiled. “Come along. The only role we have left is Fatama.”

“Fata-who?” 

“Warrior queen of the feast court,” Morwen explained as she led Lara behind a canvas changing screen. “Battle commander. Goblin-breaker. Keeper of the round table.”

Lara looked at the costume hanging from a branch.

It was enormous.

The dress was ivy-green velvet with gold trim, reinforced leather panels, a fur-lined cloak, a copper crown, and a belt wide enough to qualify as a skipping rope. The breastplate had been shaped for a body far larger than Lara’s narrow frame. The hips of the gown flared extravagantly. The belly panel curved outward in a grand, wide swell.

Lara touched the fabric.

“You could fit three of me in this thing.”

“Hmm,” said Morwen. “Fatama is usually played by Seraphina.”

“And Seraphina is…?”

“Three hundred and fifty pounds, give or take.”

Lara laughed once. “Well, this is going to be interesting.”

Ten minutes later, she was in the outfit.

Or rather, she was somewhere inside it.

The dress hung from her like a collapsed tent. The breastplate floated. The belt slipped down. The cloak dragged behind her through the grass.

A group of women gathered to help.

They were Fatama’s warband, apparently: Brielle, a broad-shouldered shield-maiden with auburn curls and a bawdy laugh; Nadira, dark-eyed with a large belly, wearing layered blue silk beneath leather armour; Gwen, pink-cheeked, blonde, and enormous, with dimpled arms bare to the elbow; and Marisol, short, round, and sharp-tongued, with a battle-axe over one shoulder and crumbs on her bodice.

They looked Lara over.

Marisol clicked her tongue. “Tiny thing.”

“I’m normal-sized,” Lara said, staring at the gang of over-fed characters.

“For a twig,” Brielle replied.

The women laughed.

Not cruelly, but strangely, that felt worse to Lara somehow.

“Only one thing to do,” said Nadira, opening up a chest of spare costumes. “We’ll have to pad you out.”

They began stuffing Lara’s outfit. Folded cloaks under the breastplate. Spare tunics around the hips. A rolled blanket at her stomach. Two shawls behind her backside. Another wrap around her thighs so the gown would sway properly when she walked.

Lara stood with her arms lifted while strangers built a soft, padded body around her.

Layer by layer, Lara was buried, and Fatama began to appear.

The flat front of the costume rounded into a heavy velvet belly. Her hips widened until she had to adjust her stance. The stuffed backside changed her balance. The breastplate finally sat correctly, full and grand, the leather straps snug across all that overstuffed softness.

When they lowered the copper crown onto her black cropped hair, Lara looked into the little mirror tied to the tree.

She was about to sneer, but paused. 

The woman staring back was absurd. Huge. Fat. Except for her face and neck of course. But also… impressive.

She looked big. Regal. Hard to ignore.

The false belly rested against her arms. The wide hips made the gown gather in folds. The cloak framed her new broad shoulders and gave her an air of lazy command.

“Well?” Morwen asked.

Lara swallowed. “I look ridiculous.”

Brielle grinned. “You look like a grand queen.”

Morwen stepped behind Lara to fasten the final clasp at her neck. Her fingers were cold. The bells in her hair chimed without wind.

“Remember,” Morwen murmured, so softly only Lara could hear, “a costume works best when its wearer really plays the part.”

Something prickled across Lara’s skin.

Then the moment passed.

A horn sounded.

The warband cheered.

And Lara McClusky, against every instinct she had, waddled into the woods as Queen Fatama of the Hungry Banner.

At first, she hated every second.

The padding made her slow. The stuffed belly bumped branches and brushed her forearms. Her hips rolled beneath the dress in a way that made the other women grin approvingly. The cloak was hot. The crown itched. Every few steps, Lara had to gather the skirt so she did not trip over a root.

“This is humiliating,” she muttered.

“Only because you’re doing it badly,” said Nadira.

“How does one walk well when they are this big?”

“With purpose.”

Nadira demonstrated, waddling ahead with her soft blue silks whispering around her thighs, her belly swaying beneath her armour, chin high, eyes amused. 

Lara tried to copy her. She leaned into the waddle. Embraced it. It worked. Her movement, although still a struggle, found a natural rhythm. Her body swayed with her every step. And when she stopped, it swayed a little longer. 

The others applauded.

“Better,” Gwen said. “Less frightened duck. More conquering babe.”

Their quest, according to Brielle, was to recover the stolen Silver Ladle from the Boar King’s raiders before the feast bell rang. This required crossing the Elderwood, bargaining with goblins, defeating a cursed knight, and possibly stopping for snacks.

“Snacks are part of the campaign?” Lara asked.

“Snacks are the campaign,” Marisol said.

As they walked, the women talked.

Not in character all the time, which surprised Lara. One minute they were discussing battle formations and ancient prophecies, the next they were complaining about bra wires, bad chairs, narrow restaurant booths, doctors who blamed everything on weight, men who stared too long, men who pretended not to stare, and jeans that cut in at the waist and wore too quickly at the inner thigh.

Lara listened because she was meant to be writing an article. She wondered if it might be a more interesting piece to write about these women’s struggle in a fatphobic world. 

Gwen spoke about learning to stop hiding in photographs. Brielle talked about taking up weightlifting because she liked feeling strong enough to scare people. Nadira described the pleasure of ordering exactly what she wanted at dinner and not performing shame for anyone else’s comfort.

Marisol put it best while unwrapping a honey bun from a cloth pouch.

“People act like appetite is a crime,” she said. “Food, attention, pleasure. Want too much of anything and suddenly you’re supposed to apologise. I’m bored of apologising.”

She tore the honey bun in half and handed part to Lara.

Lara was about to refuse. She’s never had much of a sweet tooth. 

Then the smell reached her: butter, cinnamon, sticky sugar, warm bread.

She took it without another thought. 

The first bite was soft and sweet.

A little sigh escaped before she could stop it.

The warband grinned.

“There she is,” Brielle said.

Lara rolled her eyes, but she finished the honey bun.

After that, the woods seemed warmer.

The adventure pulled her in by inches. She shouted at a goblin. She allowed Gwen to teach her a battle cry. She struck a foam orc with surprising satisfaction. She accepted another pastry from Marisol and did not pretend she hated it.

Each time the women told her something, whether it be about the adventure or about their day to day struggles or habits, Lara seemed to find it settle in her, strangely.

It didn’t feel like new information. At first sure, but the more she listened, the more it felt like… memory.

Brielle said, “You learn which chairs will fail you just by looking at them.”

And Lara remembered the sharp little glance she always gave café furniture before sitting down.

Except she had never done that.

Nadira said, “You have to stop tugging your clothes down every five seconds. Let people see you.”

And Lara remembered learning that last summer, wearing a red dress to fantasy game day and realising half the knights could not stop looking.

Except she had never worn that dress. She’d never been to another day out like this. 

Gwen said, “I love the feast scenes. I love not pretending a salad is enough when what I want is ribs.”

And Lara remembered laughing with sauce on her fingers, belly pressed warm against the feast table, someone handsome kneeling to offer her a goblet.

Except that had not happened.

Had it?

The padding grew warmer. Or was it her body? She had trouble figuring out where one ended and the other began. 

The stuffed fabric that made up her belly, softened beneath her hand when she touched it. 

At first Lara thought the cloth had shifted. Then she pressed it while the others argued with a bridge troll.

She felt it. 

Not like a blanket.

Like flesh. Like it was her own body. 

Lara froze.

She was caught between thrill and fear. 

She pressed again.

Somehow the softness was her. She began to realise the feeling all over. Warmth spread through her body like she was immersing herself into a bath. The belt hugged her actual middle. The breastplate no longer floated around padding; it cupped her own magnificent breasts. The hips beneath the dress felt heavy, living, hers. 

When she took a step, her whole body moved with the gown, not from inside any padding.

She should have screamed.

Instead, she blushed… with pleasure. 

Brielle noticed. “You all right, Your Majesty?”

Lara opened her mouth to say no.

The word changed on the way out.

“Fine,” she said, and her voice sounded lower. Warmer. “Keep moving. The ladle won’t rescue itself.”

The women cheered.

Lara smiled despite herself. She touched her face. It felt different. Softer.

As they crossed the bridge she caught sight of it in the water. 

Her face had fattened. Large, rosy cheeks on a moon-shaped face. Her eyes were smaller, cushioned by the fat that surrounded them. Jowls drooped into a large double chin that had completely swallowed her neck. Her nose was wider. The tip of which had risen to give her a more piggy-like resemblance.

She should have screamed. But Morwen’s words echoed in her ears. 

“A costume works best when its wearer really plays the part.”

And Lara was starting to play the part real well. 

By the time they found the cursed knight, she was truly enjoying herself. 

The knight, a tall man named Tomas with fox-brown curls and a nervous smile, blocked the path with a foam sword and declared that none could pass without proving their worth.

Lara stepped forward.

Her belly swayed beneath the green velvet. Her thighs brushed together as she walked. Her hips moved with a slow, plush confidence that made Tomas forget his next line.

The warband noticed.

They exchanged wicked little looks.

Lara noticed too.

She suddenly realised she liked being noticed. Noticed at this size. 

She liked the way Tomas had to look up when she stood close. She liked the heat in his face, the quick flick of his eyes over her crown, her mouth, the lush shape of Fatama’s body… her body right now. 

“You challenge the Hungry Banner?” Lara asked.

Tomas swallowed. “I do.”

“Brave.”

His grip tightened on the sword.

“Stupid,” she added.

The warband roared.

The fight lasted thirty seconds. Lara’s strike was clumsy, but Brielle and Gwen flanked him with theatrical fury, and Marisol hooked his ankle with the blunt end of her axe. Tomas fell dramatically into the leaves.

Lara planted one boot beside him.

“Yield,” she said.

Tomas looked up at her, pink-faced and grinning. “I yield, my queen.”

My queen.

The words slid through her like honey. She felt wet between the cushion of her thighs and lower belly, 

For a moment, the park faded. Lara saw herself above him not as a reporter in a stuffed costume, but as Queen Fatama in truth: broad, fat, heavy, adored, a warrior queen with a feast waiting and a court full of followers desperate to please her.

Then the memory clicked into place.

Game days.

She loved game days.

Loved the dressing up. Loved the food table. Loved the way her body became part of the story instead of something to minimise. Loved wearing armour built around her belly and gowns that celebrated her size. Loved writing scenes later where women like her got the glory, the magic, the handsome warriors, the impossible hunger, the happy ending.

She staggered slightly.

Nadira caught her arm.

“You ok?” she said softly.

Lara looked at her.

Nadira’s dark eyes were kind.

“I’m… remembering.”

Nadira smiled. “You fit in with the rest of us so well.”

Lara looked down at herself.

No cords. No padding. No stuffed shawls. The green velvet shaped itself over three hundred and fifty pounds of warm, expansive body. Her body. Her stomach was vast and soft beneath the belt. Her hips filled the dress. Her backside balanced the cloak in a heavy curve. Her arms were plump, her cheeks round, her chin softened, her ears pointed beneath her cropped black hair.

The old Lara flickered in her mind.

Small. Sharp. Ambitious but stuck.

Then that Lara softened too, melting into the woman standing in the woods.

Of course she was fat.

Of course she was kind.

Of course she wrote for the county paper and spent her weekends swinging foam swords with other fat women in velvet and leather.

Of course she wrote spicy fantasy fiction at night under the name L. M. Butters, filling page after page with large women who got the hunks, the crowns, the banquets, the quests, and the world on their own terms.

How had she forgotten?

The feast bell rang across the park.

Lara smiled.

“Warband,” she said, lifting the stolen Silver Ladle from Tomas’s defeated hand. “We return victorious.”

They marched back through the trees at sunset.

Lara walked at the centre of the warband, no longer awkward, no longer apologetic. Her body moved with heavy confidence. The gown loved her. The armour loved her. The crown sat where it belonged.

At the feast, they gave her the largest chair.

It still creaked.

She liked that. 

Morwen watched from the edge of the firelight while Lara accepted a plate piled with ribs, roasted potatoes, buttered bread, and honey cakes. The other women crowded close, laughing, arguing, retelling the adventure with greater lies each time.

Brielle claimed Lara had defeated ten orcs.

Gwen insisted it had been twelve.

Lara laughed until her belly shook.

Later, she opened her notebook to start the article.

The first line waited for her.

Local Fantasy Battle Group Keeps Magic Alive.

She considered it.

Then she crossed it out.

Beneath it, she wrote:

The Warrior Women of Whitcombe Park Are A Sight To Behold. 

Her phone buzzed.

A message from her editor.

How’s the story?

Lara looked around at the warband, the feast, the handsome defeated knight sneaking glances at her from across the fire.

She typed back:

Better than expected.