In the Name of the Moon(s) Giantess/Shrinking & Farts chapter 6 by maximally

Lillian did not actually wait for an answer.

The second the words “whatever you’re feeling” left her mouth, her eyes snagged on a sandwich board just inside the hall, lettered in glitter marker and already shedding pink onto the carpet: COSPLAY CONTEST — SIGN-UPS CLOSE AT 1 — MAIN STAGE. She spun so fast the red Sailor Mars skirt flared around her ass, and the grin she aimed at Xóchitl was the same one she used when she was about to talk Blaise into something he would regret in front of witnesses.

“Miss Xóchitl. Look. Look at that.”

Xóchitl squinted. Without her glasses the sign was mostly a pink blur with a star on it, but she nodded as if she had read every word. “A contest?”

“The contest,” Lillian said, already herding her by the elbow. “Costume contest. You walk out, you pose, people scream, judges give you a trophy. And you—” she gestured at the white leotard, which was losing a dignified battle against Xóchitl’s chest, “—are going to end that thing in about four minutes. Jen, back me up.”

Jen, overflowing a green Sailor Jupiter top that had not been engineered for H-cups, did not even pretend to think about it. “She’s gonna clear the bracket. I’m not even mad I didn’t get Moon anymore.”

Cindy pushed her glasses up and made a small, helpless noise that might have been agreement. Blaise, sweating through the cheap satin of a Tuxedo Mask jacket, looked at the sign, then at his grandmother, then at the place where the pleated skirt had ridden up over the lower swell of her ass, and seemed to age several years.

“Abuela, you don’t have to enter anything. We can just walk around. There are panels. There is a booth that sells keychains.”

“Shush, mijo.” Xóchitl patted the shelf of her rear with one gloved hand, which did nothing good for the tiny man sealed under the crotch of the leotard. “Your friends dressed me up. It would be rude not to show the outfit off properly.” She beamed at Lillian. “Where do I sign, mijita?”

Max, face mashed into the hot ring of her asshole, felt the pat travel through two cheeks of doughy ass-meat and arrive as a full-body squeeze. The convention air conditioning never reached him. What reached him was satin, sweat, the ghost of mole and beans from the kitchen, and the slow flex of muscle every time she shifted her weight. His arms were pinned. His nose had nowhere to go that wasn’t her. He tried, one more time, to get a word out. It came back as a muffled squeak against puckered skin, and Xóchitl’s cheeks clenched on reflex, pleased with themselves.

“He’s wiggling,” she announced, delighted, to nobody in particular. “My little pervertito wants abuelita to win.”

The sign-up table was a folding thing under a banner, staffed by a boy in a staff lanyard who had clearly been prepared for nervous teenagers and not for a six-foot Aztec grandmother poured into a Sailor Moon leotard. He stared. His pen hovered. Somewhere behind him a walkie-talkie crackled and was ignored.

“Name?” he managed.

“Xóchitl.”

“Last name?”

“She doesn’t need one,” Lillian said sweetly, leaning on the table so the red bow of her costume dipped into his eyeline. “Character: Sailor Moon. Category: whatever the one with the trophy is. She’s with us.”

The boy wrote something. His eyes kept dropping to the skirt, which had given up on coverage the moment Xóchitl stopped walking and simply existed. A bead of sweat ran from the small of her back down into the crack, and Max caught it with his cheek on the way past. It tasted like salt and floral lotion and the long morning she had already had.

“Pose?” the boy asked, voice thin. “Do you have a pose? A catchphrase?”

Xóchitl tilted her head. The blonde wig slipped a quarter inch. “A what?”

“In the name of the moon,” Cindy supplied, quiet and earnest, “I’ll punish you. That’s the line. You point, and you say it.”

“In the name of the moon,” Xóchitl repeated, testing the shape of it, “I will punish you.” She said it the way she said grace: warm, unhurried, and with the faintest promise that somebody at the table was about to be in trouble. The boy at the sign-up table nodded so hard his lanyard slapped his chest. Lillian signed the waiver she had not read. A sticker with the number 14 went onto the back of Xóchitl’s glove, slightly crooked.

“H-holding area’s behind the curtain,” the boy stammered. “You’re on in twenty. Please don’t— uh. Please stay in costume.”

“Ay, where else would I go?” Xóchitl laughed, and turned, and the turn clapped her cheeks once around Max’s skull hard enough to ring his ears.

Backstage smelled like hairspray, warm plastic, and the particular nerves of people who had safety-pinned themselves into characters an hour ago. A very accurate Sailor Moon — slim, blonde for real, tiara centered, skirt sitting where the pattern said it should — looked up from her phone, looked at Xóchitl, and forgot what she had been typing. A boy in unfinished mecha cardboard took one polite step backward to make room and then another that was less polite. Somebody whispered “jiggle physics” like a prayer.

Xóchitl did not seem to hear any of it. She fanned herself with the number card, set a hand on her belly, and grimaced in a fond, familiar way.

“Those beans,” she told the curtain, under her breath. “They are still working. Mijo, if you are listening in there, you hold still.”

Max made a noise that, in a kinder acoustic, might have been the word please. The saved fart sat in her gut as a low, continuous grumble, heat building behind the muscle he was kissing by accident. Every time the grumble peaked she clenched, polite and determined, and the clench folded him deeper, and his body — traitor, pet, three inches of bad decisions — answered. She was holding it. He could feel that she was holding it. That was not the same thing as it being gone.

Lillian crouched, which in the Mars skirt was an event, and stage-whispered up at her. “Okay. You walk to the X of tape. You stop. You do the thing with your hand. If you forget the line, just point at the judges and look disappointed in them. Crowd eats that up. And if the skirt does what the skirt is gonna do, do not fix it. Fixing it is for cowards. If you really want them to lose their minds—” she demonstrated, badly, with a hip, “—you twerk. Once. Maybe twice. Do not explain it.”

“Lillian,” Blaise said, from a safe distance.

“What? I’m coaching.”

Jen was already half in the gap of the curtain, watching the crowd. “They’re packed. Front row’s phones-out. There’s a guy with a sign that just says THICC and he hasn’t even seen her yet.”

Cindy hovered at Xóchitl’s elbow with a compact, failed to find anywhere on the costume that needed powder, and settled for straightening the tiara. Her fingers hesitated at the braid. “You look really good, Miss Xóchitl. Like, unfairly good. The other Moon is going to file a complaint.”

“Let her,” Xóchitl said, pleased. She rolled her shoulders. The bow strained. Under the leotard, Max rose and fell with the breath, nose sealed to her, cock pinned uselessly against sweat-slick skin in the dark.

The accurate Sailor Moon had already been on. She came back through the curtain flushed and precise, tiara still centered, and dropped onto an equipment case in the wings to watch the rest of the bracket the way people watch a sport they intend to win. She scrolled her phone and pretended not to look at the costume currently occupying most of the holding area.

A staffer with a headset yanked the curtain. “Fourteen! Sailor Moon, alternate! You’re up after the cardboard!”

The cardboard mecha went out to polite applause and the sound of one wing falling off. Xóchitl watched it happen through the gap, squinting, fascinated.

“He worked very hard,” she said, generous. “Okay. Come, pervertito. We are going to go be a superhero. And you are going to behave.”

She waddled into the light.

The first noise was not a cheer. It was the collective intake of a room that had been prepared for costumes and had instead been handed a weather event. Phones rose. Somebody in the third row said “no fucking way” with religious sincerity. In the wings, the accurate Sailor Moon looked up from her phone and made a sound like a balloon giving up.

Xóchitl did not know the walk. She did the walk she used in her own kitchen when she was bringing the mole to the table and expected thanks: hips rolling, braid swinging, red boots planting with the confidence of a woman who had buried husbands’ arguments and risen children and was not about to be hurried by a piece of tape on a floor. The skirt gave up on the third step. It flipped, settled, flipped again, and the full sweaty shelf of her ass announced itself to the front row under a strip of black thong that had vanished into the crack an hour ago and had no plans to return. Max felt the lights as a change in temperature on the backs of his thighs, the only part of him occasionally breaching the seam. The rest of him stayed where she had put him, mouth open against her hole, breathing whatever she decided he breathed. She clenched once, hard, on the way to the mark. The grumble in her belly answered, and she clenched again, and the fart stayed where she had told it to stay. Barely.

She found the tape. She stopped. She put one gloved hand on her hip, remembered Cindy’s instructions a half second late, and pointed at the judges’ table with the other.

“In the name of the moon,” she said, voice carrying without a microphone, warm and stern and a little delighted, “I will punish you.”

It was not the line. It was better than the line. The room detonated.

Lillian, somewhere in the splash zone, screamed the correct version and then gave up and just screamed. Jen had both hands over her mouth and was failing to hide the grin. Blaise had become a Tuxedo Mask statue. Cindy was clapping like the contest was already over, which, structurally, it was.

Xóchitl, sensing she had done something right and unwilling to leave a good thing alone, turned.

The turn was already most of the contest. The skirt lifted. The cheeks clapped, a deep meaty report that the cheap stage mics picked up and fed back through the hall as thunder. She looked over her shoulder, wig crooked, tiara flashing, and gave the crowd the same smile she gave Blaise when he had tracked mud into the house and she had already decided to forgive him after the lecture.

“You like abuelita’s costume?” she called.

They liked abuelita’s costume.

She remembered Lillian’s coaching. She did not explain it. She set her boots, put both gloved hands on her thighs, and twerked.

It was not a girl’s twerk. It was a grandmother who had been told once, clearly, what the move was for, and who had the ass to finish the sentence. The first pop lifted the skirt and dropped it. The second rolled through her from the base of her spine, a slow heavy clap that traveled out to the widest part of each cheek and came back. The third she held, grinding a small circle, satin flashing, thong a rumor, the whole shelf of her rear working like it had been hired for the job. Under it Max was ballast. Every clap folded him into her crack and shook him loose and folded him in again, nose mashed to the ring, cock dragging against sweat-slick skin, the held fart knocking at the door she would not open while the phones were up. She kept it shut. She smiled over her shoulder. She did one more, because the room had started chanting something she did not need translated, and then she straightened, fanned the skirt down with a prim little flick, and bowed like she had just finished setting out dessert.

The head judge — a woman with a lanyard, a pixie cut, and the expression of someone watching a parade walk through her rubric — did not bother with a long deliberation. She looked at the score sheets. She looked at the room, which had not stopped making noise. She looked at Xóchitl, who had returned to the tape mark and was waiting with her hands folded, as if punishment might still be incoming and she intended to accept it graciously.

“Number fourteen,” the judge said into the mic. “Sailor Moon. Judges’ pick, crowd pick, and I’m not going to pretend the rest of the bracket is still alive. First place.”

The trophy was ridiculous, a plastic moon on a column, spray-painted gold. Lillian vaulted the barrier that was not meant to be vaulted and got it into Xóchitl’s hands before anyone on staff could decide whether a twerk counted as a prop. Xóchitl held it up. The wig slipped further. The crowd did the thing crowds do when they have decided a grandmother is their champion. She waved, blew a kiss, and waddled for the wings with the trophy digging into her side and the skirt already climbing again, victory making her hips looser than the walk out had.

Max felt the holding start to fail on the third step off the tape. The clench that had survived the phones went watery. Heat crowded the small of her back. He tried to squirm a warning into her and only managed to kiss the source.

In the wings, the accurate Sailor Moon was still on the equipment case, tiara straight, scrolling—which put her squarely at eye level with Xóchitl's ass. The Aztec GILF was laughing at something Lillian was already shouting from the barrier. She turned sideways to get the trophy through the curtain gap, and the turn put the full sweaty shelf of her rear at mouth height, a hand’s width from a stranger’s nose, thong lost, crack dark, Max a faint struggling outline under the satin.

The fart she had saved came out with no sound at all.

No rip. No brass. Just a sudden soft give in the muscle against Max’s mouth, and then a massive silent rush of hot air packing the space between her cheeks and pouring out over the seam of the leotard, bean-thick and wet and old as breakfast. It bloomed straight into the seated girl’s face. Mole. Cumin. The sweet-rot edge of a body that had been in a costume under convention lights, holding it for the cameras. The accurate Sailor Moon’s eyes went wide. Her phone dipped. She made the face of a person who has been hit by something she cannot see and cannot politely name, tiara flashing as she jerked back and still did not get clear, because Xóchitl’s cheeks had settled and the cloud had nowhere to go but forward.

Xóchitl felt it leave and only then registered her audience.

“Ay. Perdón,” she said, glancing down, genuinely startled, fanning the skirt with her free hand a beat too late. “I was holding that for the whole stage. It got away from me.”

The other Moon coughed, eyes streaming, and did not have a line ready. Up close the costume she had lost to was heat and salt and spice, and the little lump under the crotch panel squirmed once, soaked, as the tail of the silent blast rolled over him and kept going.

Xóchitl shifted her hips, apologetic and enormous, which only stirred it. “You worked very hard, mija. Abuelita did not mean to punish you off the stage.” She reached back without looking and gave her own cheek a proud little slap that jingled Max’s teeth, then leaned toward the curtain, trophy up, already being pulled into the noise of her friends. “Good boy,” she murmured, only for him. “You held on. Abuelita’s lucky charm.”

Under the leotard, flooded, hard, and breathing spice, Max did not have a rebuttal ready. The contest was over. Abuelita had the moon. The other Sailor Moon was still on sitting the case, waving a hand in front of her face, looking nearly as defeated as Max. Perhaps this was simply what happened to people who accidentally found themselves in Xóchitl's way.