"Boi-belle? Lawsy mercy, de whole dang team be's awl topsy-turvy righ' now...an' mebbe fo'eva if we's don' do' sompin' 'bout dis."
Awat from the groping of Robert and the contempt of Clara, here in her kitchen (which was the one place she truly felt comfortable and at home) the meek Mammy American was able to exert some slight control over herself. In the presence of the meek, willowy
boy-girl Petra Laveau, Mammy Americans newlound motherly instincts took over, and she held out her thick, blubbery arms and waddled towards Petra. She enfolded the ealler boygirl in her arms, laying her head on her own massive, pillowy bosom. Petra began to
cry softly, and Mammy began to rock her, soothing her with comforting words spoken in her sweet, soft voice. Captain Americas leadership and Mammy Americans motherlyness combined into a desperate need to make everyone happy, and as Petra cried and Mammy rocked
her...Mammy began to feel stronger. More confident. More like the man she'd once been (was it a million years ago, or just a few hours?) and she smiled. The smile was sweet and beautiful in its simplicity. The smile of a madonna with her child. She began to
sing to Petra sweet southern songs of home and family, and gradually...Petra stopped crying. She hugged the obese black woman and sighd. Always running...always hunted if not chassing something he'd never obtain no matter how fast he was. He'd been a desperate
and unhappy man most of his life, and now...his own sister had done this to him. Taken his courage, confidence and swagger and replaced it with meekness...girlishness...sweetness. Petra knew he was a superhero named Quicksilver...but he also knew he was tall,
willowy Petra Laveau - a boy raised to walk, talk, look and act - heck, even think - like a girl. He knew he had a bedroom upstairs that was just as frilly and fru-fru as could be. He knew he owned not a single pair of pants or flat shoes, but closets and
closets buldging with hoopskirts, bloomers, hose, petticoats and corsets. All from the late 1800's and all just what he wanted to wear. Though he fought it, Petra WANTED to be girlish. To be soft. To be vulnerable and sweet. Not to be strong or brave, but
whispy, insubstantial, gossamer and diaphanous as chiffon.
She smiled at the immense black woman, and felt so safe in her arms. Good old Captain America. Even under all the powerful changes to his body and his mind, the Captain was still trying to keep his team together...and happy.
"Lawsy, don' be cryin', lil' Petra..." Mammy soothed, feeling a warm contentment filling her whole body. "...we's ina bad way, but we's gotta do is stay togetha' an'...an'..." she trailed off into soft singing again, the feeling of motherly contentment erasing
all her bad feelings. So what if she was at the bottom. So what is she was owned property. So what if Mistres Laveau ordered her around, Mistress Morris talked to her like she was a child and Massa Morris wanted to hump her like she was a sow in a pen? It
meant...she was wanted...needed...and now, perhaps even loved.
Petra Laveau smiled and pulled herself away from her fat ol' Mammy (NO! This was Captain America...wasn't it?), but not before kissing her blunt nose and pinching her blubbery cheeks.
"Oh, Mammy...y'all's so right. We do need to stay togetha, no matter what. It would be wrong to leave mah sister alone, an' if she wants her big brotha t' be a sweet lil' ol' southern boi-belle, then who am I t' argue. I'll jus' wiggle on up t' mah room
an' put on mah prettiest dress. You're such a treasure, you sweet ol' thing."
Something about this didn't seem right, but Mammy just smiled at Petra and said "Yo makes such a pretty girl, Petra. Jus' a sweet Louisiana princess." as Petra drifted out of the room, as light as a balloon on a string. Mammys head cleared as Petra left,
and she sighed. Poor Petra. Doomed to live in a prison of lace, powder and frills forever. Oh well...at least she'd be happy.
Then...someone entered the kitchen. Someone VERY different from the whispy princess Petra Laveau.
It was the She-Hulk...mostly. She was MUCH larger than she'd been the last time they'd been together. Nearly as brawny and big as her cousin, she was a gigantic, lumbering slab of muscle. Her features were thicker and more brutal than before, powerfully
negroid and heavy. She rubbed her temples and muttered to herself.
"Damn, mah head be hurtin'..." she rumbled in a deep, bass voice. Mammy - knowing that she needed help - went to her and led her to a chair, cooing and soothing her as she did. She saw the out of her tight costume, a cock the size of a mans forearm buldged...balls
like a pair of fists.
"Jennifer? Oh, yo po' girl. What happen' t' yo?"
Jennifer Walters looked confused, then snorted a laugh. "Jennifer? Mah name be Jen Wally, but eva' body cawls meh de Bull Gator. I does rough work fo' de Laveaus'. Pullin' stumps an' hawlin' stuff..."
As she spoke, her clothes became rough, torn purple pants and shirt, tied below her still huge breasts. She looked rough and common...
Then...she looked up into her eyes and rumbled "Cap? Is dat yo?"