Height: Varies (Usually 15’ (4.6m))
Age: late 20s
Level: Not Telling
Abilities: Psychic Power, Pokémon Physiology
Occupation: Aristocrat


Appearance

Color shifts. The world twists on itself, a sudden spiraling and swirling into something new yet known. Your eyes strain to make sense of the instant senseless, a transition smooth and painless as an eye blink. Purple, alien familiarity; the city you live in enshrouded in violet fog stretching to the empty heavens. You live here. At least, you think you live here. You’re sure it is. Was?

Questioning reality rewards you with nails. Sharp thrusts into your head. Eyes shut, teeth grit and split into a mouth fixed in noiseless screaming at a migraine rising, piling, swelling into a single spike driving itself through your skull. Your heartbeat and breath leave your control. Muscle loosens into jello. Legs give out and your body drops you to cold asphalt.

Then the edge of something slips in, pushes past the meat. Vast, black, colossal. Nerves prickle in alarm as something massive attempts to squirm into your thoughts. Legs twitch, arms spasm, eyes bulge. You lie helpless as a greater awareness probes and inserts itself. But there is no malevolence in the act. Only something far too huge fitting into something so tiny; something has to give. The nails relent, give way to pounding, tearing, as something far, far larger than you tries to get inside. Your mind bends and buckles under the unfathomable immensity of another personality invading, expanding, pushing you out until there’s no more room for you in your own splitting brain.

Purple, the world, vibrates; air sizzles, bubbles, boils. Metal skyscrapers shudder and distort into static displaced by thunderous, raucous mirth. A voice, everywhere and nowhere, melds and blends into something silken and deafening. Soft and unassailable. Driving its will into you.

“Lève-toi, ma petite chose. Look upon me.”

Panic. A voice, a scream, anything, everything tries to leave lips that refuse to budge. But the body no longer obeys the you poured out all over the ground.

It rises to another. it rises to standing, wiping its clouded over eyes. Dull eyes rising, head craning up to a black titanic mass, a clothed foot outsizing you many times over, and the even larger owner.
The voice speaks again, this time through your body, though your own mouth.

You, the vessel, just stand there and smile.

“Just let it happen.”


History

Grace has power few possess and countless dream of wielding: he doesn’t have enough digits on his hands and feet to count the number of sprawling lands and grand châteaux his family owns. But he can tell you with flawless accuracy which ones his ancestors had built, and which ones they connived, bribed, threatened, married, and/or murdered their way into obtaining, and the precise year each event happened.

Those ancestors trace their lineage back to a time when thee and thou were still in style and gigantic red-headed sharks of the magical variety roamed the countryside. To a time when a particular Gardevoir, a psy knight boasting a voracious sexual appetite, sired many offspring. And his children had two things the unwashed masses would never possess: connections and their parent’s vast wealth to play kingdom with. Some swore oaths, becoming psy knights like their father. Others turned to barony and ruled the minor nobility. Others used their psychic gifts and manipulated charmed their way into the priesthood or entered the realm of politics. Their progeny thirsted for greater things, eyeing the titles of count and duke with desire. With power came baronies and bishoprics, counties and dukedoms, swelling the burgeoning power of their illustrious house. An advantaged few clawed their way to the top, crowned kings and queens of countries. Their dominance grew and grew, then stagnated, and declined as all things must. But still they remain. And these lands, and palaces, and vast the fortune they amassed over a millennia would be his.

And Grace had no interest in any of it. He’d tell you it’s because he can’t play god with the lives of the little people the way his forbearers could. His family’s authority and prestige had diminished significantly since the old days. They were still extremely influential in elite circles, yes, but their time ruling a piece of the world had come and gone. What’s the fun of all that power when your own country will no longer bow down to you? He’d rather spend his time and money having fun and getting laid than follow outdated and byzantine decorum nobody cares about.

His parents, who spent two decades of time and resources grooming him to be the crème de la crème, fumed as their scion of a millennia-old dynasty wasted it all landing on the front cover of sleazy tabloids. Caught banging and getting banged by aristocracy left and right; throwing lavish parties with celebrities of all stripes; wasting his money on frivolous objects and pointless vanity projects, only to forget about their existence as he buys something newer and shinier the next day. Only a fraction of his shenanigans ever reached the public eye. His parents shattered minds bribed paparazzi. But Grace was impervious to scolding. Punishment only emboldened the Gardevoir. He never learned from his mistakes. Time and again, his face would be slapped on the front cover of vulgar rags, caught up in the same scandals, all while expecting his parents to shield him from his outlandish slip-ups. Until at last, on one of his overseas trips, his parents had enough.

They used their ‘diminished influence’ to bar his return home from half the world away. Until he receives therapy for his issues, and displays a permanent change of character for the better, he was forbidden to step foot upon his native soil. Stuck in a ‘hovel’ his parents had purchased some decades back – a expansive and luxurious mansion that sat vacant, and worst of all, lacked servants – Grace’s initial distress of never seeing home again transformed into absolute glee. He hoped to use his newfound freedom to indulge in all the pleasures he wanted, without his parents looming over him figuratively and literally. Forgetting that his parents were psychic-type pokémon just like he is, they telepathically informed him a therapist would be chosen for him…


Abilities

Though his frail twink exterior and nonchalant attitude suggests otherwise, Grace is a remarkably powerful psychic-type pokémon. But instead of utilizing mind-melting psychokinetic assaults like his battle-hardened kin, this Gardevoir opts for the ‘subtle’ approach.

Hallucinations are one of his favorite tricks. He clouds the senses of all at his chosen venue long before ever arriving, fooling the muddled minds of the masses into believing he’s far larger than he actually is. Auditory illusions amplify his steps until they swell into thundering thuds. Tweaked neurons stimulate multitudes into shuddering on footfall. Bewildered eyes see skyscrapers sway, crumble and collapse underfoot. Streets fracture and vehicles disintegrate as the city fails to make way for the titan crashing their party. Fun as it is to fool millions into thinking a mile-high pokémon is about to use their zip code like a doormat, it loses a bit of its charm if he does it every time he shows up someplace. This is a tool of intimidation, when he wishes to make an impression on some unpleasant and insignificant nobody.

And if deception fails to leave an impact, then he simply makes it reality. With a thought, he can will himself to be whatever size pleases him most. If he thinks that’s fifteen feet tall, then he is. If he happens to believe that, no, he ought to be even larger than that, then he is. The inverse is also true – just because he focuses on aggrandizement doesn’t mean you’re safe from his mischievous whims. If Grace changes his mind, and feels you’re more accommodating to his needs at a fraction of your size, then down you go.

The only limit, according to himself, is himself. What his mind’s eye can grasp decides how massive or minuscule he and others can truly become.

But his mind is undisciplined, his potential lost under a swarm of distractions, a chaotic mess of jumbled moods and lusts and conflicting impulses battling for his fickle attentions. Focusing on an ideal height should bring him stability, but his scatterbrained urges tug him in all directions, from one to another with little warning. In reality, his size wildly fluctuates with his mercurial temperament. Joyous moods and wrathful ire enlarge him significantly, while melancholy days see him shrink with deflated moping.

Ironically, the two who keep his size in check are Edith and Noora. He can’t fool them with his psychic bs like everyone else. Edith’s extraordinary willpower cuts through anything he can conjure up, and Noora’s experience from wrestling psychic-types in the ring means the Arcanine has built up a resilience to his trickery. More importantly, they’re gigantic women. And in his horny mind, they must always be gigantic. They can’t tower over them if he’s always looming heads above them. So Grace corrects his stature on a subconscious level, keeping himself shorter than them whenever he’s in their presence.

Every so often, Edith and Noora find that their clothes don’t quite fit the way they used to. Then beds break. Rooms constrict. Thresholds need widening; roofs need raising. Tuesday for Edith, but Noora can’t explain why she’s been putting on more weight ever since she started working for Grace – enough to get bumped up to a higher weight class. She watches her diet religiously, and she hadn’t leveled up recently. And yet…


Personality

Grace thinks with his dick. His body and brain cell are simply along for the ride. That’s for the best, as he’s easily amused and easily bored; he has scant interest in the mundane, and even less interest in high society. Old money and its backwards customs is suffocating, and the nouveau riche are just as insufferable in his eyes. The few members of the upper crust who earn his favor tend to be other misfits, like Noora, or have enough curves for him to briefly overlook their insipid haughtiness.

Guided by carnal sense instead of common sense, his unrelenting love of luscious asses, fat cocks, rock-hard muscles, tremendous tits, and the giants they’re attached to has gotten him into trouble with his parents and their stuffy, fussy rules more often than he can count, and gotten his face plastered onto the front cover of tabloids time and time again. But Grace never changes his ways, or learns from his mistakes. If anything, he’ll happily do the same thing and expect it to turn out differently. And he expects others to save him from his blunders when it doesn’t, as his parents had done for him before they had enough of his sexcapades.

But he thinks he’s done nothing wrong. He doesn’t need help for his many fictitious issues his therapist has meticulously catalogued to use against him in his sessions. He doesn’t need therapy for his rampant sex-having: he’s a healthy adult indulging in his appetites with other consenting adults. There’s no reason to address his making the same mistakes over and over without learning a thing from them – no longer being restrained by shame, decorum, and prestige is a level of catharsis few ever achieve. Don’t bring up the mindless servants shambling about his abode – they wouldn’t have had their minds crushed and he wouldn’t have had to press them into servitude as an apology for scuffing his clothes if they were more considerate of their surroundings. No, his parents punish him because they want to feel big and powerful, and trample the ants at their feet like their ancestors once did. Besides, he’s a Gardevoir. If he really had brain problems, he could just psychic them away.

While he comes off as an arrogant and impulsive brat at the worst of times, what wins people over is his devotion, charm, and flamboyant eccentricity. You must work hard to earn his respect, and work even harder to maintain it, but he will cherish your companionship deeply when you do, as his lover Edith knows. When he isn’t turning someone’s brain to mush or getting inside someone’s pants, he’s well-spoken and unerringly polite in all interactions, if a bit haughty and self-centered. He’s well-educated, though he feels little need to flex his cultured muscles outside of rare bursts of insight, or odd tidbits of relevant trivia. But what gives Grace great pleasure, and gives him great attention, is that he just can’t do anything the normal way. Everything must be a spectacle. Tedium is the enemy. The ordinary will not suffice. If life can’t provide fun, then he’ll make it fun.

But as the son of an ancient lineage, even he isn’t immune to the trappings of his station. He often mocks his family’s faded prestige, but he’ll throw his weight around to get what he wants, consequences be damned, because problems are for little people. He won’t bludgeon your head in with the cudgel of authority the way his parents would crush you under their thumb, but he has very high expectations of others and isn’t afraid of applying downward pressure – especially if he’s to stoop down to your level and interact with you. Lots of money and poor impulse control means Grace will do what he wants, when he wants. If you’re to provide him with the best of the best, then your best had better amaze him.


Hobbies and Interests

Grace has far too much money and free time on his hands, and there are few who can tell him no. This combination leads to spontaneous, overly-elaborate schemes in an effort to entertain himself while performing an otherwise mundane task. Examples include: psychically compelling a stranger to his mansion just so he can get an opinion on some socks he had just purchased; luring world-renowned chefs into a ‘feeding Edith’ endurance cooking contest to find a qualified candidate to replace his head chef, who’d just retired. Nothing in his eyes can ever be normal or routine. Everything must be ‘spiced up’ to amuse him, doubly so if cash is being spent on fixing whatever bores him at the moment.

But the one thing he’ll never tire of throwing money at is fabric. Grace has a fascination with cloth bordering on the obsessive. Certain textures arouse a greater lust in him that any flesh on flesh action, especially when that blissful substance envelops his skin. Delicate silks, soft satins, exquisite velvets leave him breathless. Quality cotton, heavenly in its warmth and softness, is his favorite to lovingly caress. And that fabric offers him the greatest pleasure when worn as socks. He is utterly driven to acquire bespoke clothing in monstrous quantities, especially socks. He doesn’t bat an eye at filling a room with socks tailored for his myriad sizes, made of the finest materials, even when the amount costs as much as a luxury vehicle.

What Grace fears above all, even more than losing his wealth, or his beloved Edith, is having his precious clothing damaged, or gods forbid, ruined. He’s extremely handsy under normal circumstances, but those handsy moments occur via hallucinations or sans clothes. With clothes, he maintains a polite distance from virtually everyone. One would think he’d save the good stuff for home, and wear something more suited for day-to-day life. Aside from this sentence, ‘Grace’ and ‘learning’ are never seen together in the same place. Crawling anxiety creeps under the Gardevoir’s skin if anyone comes close to invading his personal space, especially when he’s wearing his treasured favorites. Anxiety explodes into disproportionate anger if his garments are touched, which often ends with him frying the mind of the now drooling, empty-headed offender in a blind rage. The only ones who are spared this are Edith, who understands this particular quirk of his and works within his boundaries, and Noora, who would beat him into the soil if he raised a finger against her. Edith tells him this is why he needs therapy; Grace still insists otherwise.


Relations

The mindless become his servants. He treats his former offenders graciously, providing room and board as compensation for their labor in spite of their earlier blunder. But Grace is quick to forget a face once his interest in someone is exhausted. He can’t recall who they were within a week, why they vexed him even sooner. So they become shambling mannequins sporting risqué outfits while they ceaselessly maintain the mansion, working off the debt of a wrongdoing he’s long forgotten about. The gradual, inexplicable gains Edith and Noora experience affect them as well. They, too, creep taller and bloat outward in ways that please the Gardevoir’s eyes. Some, occasionally, regain their senses, and are summarily dismissed from his service. They’re unable to recall where they’ve been for the past several months, or why they’re several feet taller and sporting an ass that would make a dump truck jealous.

Edith tells him frying the mind of anyone who displeases him and keeping them as his servant afterward isn’t normal. Grace rolls his eyes at her, and assures her that they’re well compensated, come to no harm, and eventually leave his service in one piece. He loves her dearly. even though she’s being paid to be the occasional killjoy. While their chance encounter has blossomed into a genuine romantic relationship, she’s quick to remind him that she’s still his therapist, and he’s in therapy for a reason. But his charm and generosity remind her that the scatter-brained Gardevoir is a good, if deeply-flawed, pokémon at heart. He helped her become who she is today, and his idea of fun often leads to great things. His plans often involve food, which in her eyes, is always a plus.

Noora is more severe with him. But Grace doesn’t mind the pressure of her regal presence occasionally suffocating him at times; her surliness is part of the package. Her wrestling career means she isn’t around as often as he’d like her to be, but that doesn’t stop him or Edith from cheering her on at her matches. His heart belongs to Edith, but his eyes still wander, and wander they do; up and down the Arcanine’s statuesque physique. He keeps the rest of himself well away from Noora. He hired her to be his muscle mommy keep him safe from nonexistent threats, and there’s plenty of Edith to keep his hands occupied. Noora’s thighs would crush his head like a grape if he dared to try.

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Two profiles in one day? And a second pokemon OC!? I’m full of surprises today.

Art by  futonmania / Futonmania on Bluesky / View the piece here: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/59778414/

Saatchi is  saatchi

Grace belongs to me