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She’s not usually in the habit of killing cats — but this cat in particular has made her reconsider.
“BINX!” Grace booms. The entire house rattles with a concussive blast. Hell hath no fury like a witch scorned. If it’s enough to push Grace’s limits — the same Grace who habitually leaves her shoes in the hallway, her thongs in the kitchen, and once tried to butter toast while it was actively in the toaster — it must be bad.
The black cat glances up from his spot on her dresser. With a sigh, he continues grooming his paws. Business as usual.
Within twenty seconds, the bedroom door slams open; in storms a five-foot-two hurricane, all wild blonde curls, glittery nail polish, and incandescent rage.
“You. Absolute. Bitch.”
“Mroww?” inquires Binx.
“No, fuck you!” Grace retorts, and makes a lunge for him. Binx is two seconds ahead; by the time Grace slams into the dresser, he’s already leaped off, and is halfway across the room. “My boots!” the witch shrieks, taking a swing at him — not with a spell, but with her straightening-iron. “You peed on my boots! And you knew—“ He’s on top of her bookshelf now. She starts climbing. “You fucking knew I was going to wear them out! Just because you want me to stay home and watch The Secret Life of Pets—“
As the top shelf rattles, Binx lets out a yowl.
“And there’s fur all over my swearer,” the witch continues to rage, “and claw marks on my fucking bed, which isn’t even the point but all your fault, you hairy ass—“
She manages to snag his tail. Binx starts to scramble, and manages to knock every item off her shelf in the process.
“Bloody hell, get off!”
Of course the cat talks. He’s a witch’s familiar. Moreover, before being turned into a cat, he was a powerful spellcaster — Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine’s personal sorcerer. The queen relied on him for all her day-to-day power plays, intrigues, and protection spells; she was the figure on the throne, but he was the true power behind it, operating in the shadows, feared by everyone who glimpsed him at work.
Long ago, he had power. He had prestige. The name Benedix Armand Rollant de Mirefleur used to mean something!
Until that cursed rebellion, when a band of rival mages ambushed him in a ruined chapel in Poitou. He fought back, of course… but they overpowered him. The curse overtook him like a tidal wave — a brilliant mind smothered beneath animal instinct. They turned him into a damned cat. He spent centuries prowling through gutters, chasing rats… with no memory of his past life. It was not merely an embarrassing existence, but a disgrace.
Now… he’s a blasted house pet. Bound to a flighty 21st-century witch. Grace wears knee-high boots and sparkly eyeshadow; she sleeps her mornings away, parties with her friends at night, and never actually wants to study spellcraft. She’s named him after a Disney character, bordel de merde!
Binx’s life is very difficult.
If he wants his witch to stay home and study for once, sue him.
“The last thing you need,” he hisses once the witch has tossed him onto the bed, “is another night partying.”
“Don’t tell me what I need!”
“Afraid that’s my job, dear,” the cat retorts; he’s on his toes now, midnight hair standing on end. “If I don’t, who will?” The witch needs someone to take care of her. And… Binx, reluctantly, needs her.
He proves as much with his next action. A ripple reverberates through the cat, like rain droplets on a midnight canvas. Binx’s limbs spasm, then begin to warp; his dark fur fades into warm, supple flesh. Within seconds, in place of the cat, a young man is stretched out on the witch’s bed. The sharp cut of his cheekbones and well-defined jaw echo a long-dead aristocracy; the hazel-gold of his eyes, so vivid as to be unnerving, gleam in a distinctly feline way. He stretches out, lean and languid, and regards the witch with a disdainfully arched brow.
“If you refuse to study, you’ll never learn. How will you protect yourself when faced with a magical threat?”
Better question — how can she protect him? If anything happens to a witch, her familiar shares her fate. Once, Binx could cast protection spells that would bring an army to their knees… but his days of spellcraft have passed. Now, he has to keep Grace from getting tipsy and walking in front of a damned taxi. If she dies, they’re both fucked.
“Protect mys—“ Grace gapes at him like he’s just called her grandmother ugly. “I can protect myself just fine!”
“Yet,” he drawls, “you couldn’t protect your clothing.”
In retrospect… he crossed the line there. One might even say he asked for it.
Grace’s eyes flash pure silver, her lips curling back in a snarl. He could have attacked her magical ability, her finances, her family — but going for the clothes is a bridge too far.
He sees the spell coming an instant before it hits. Her hands lash out, and a wave of magic slams into him — like getting struck by an oncoming semi-truck. An incantation rings around the room, Grace’s voice pitched in pure fury. Binx doesn’t catch all of it, but he makes out the phrase maximus calorifica.
Which isn’t real fucking Latin, Grace, but okay.
He has a half-second of hope. It might not work — magic can’t be made up on the spot, this is why they study, this is what he’s training Grace not to do —
Then the spell kicks in.
And everything gets… heavier.
An unwilling grunt is knocked from the shapeshifter’s lungs… followed by a deep-bellied burp. Startled, he claps a hand over his mouth — but the movement takes more effort than it should. His limbs feel slow, like he’s swimming through a pool of honey. A sudden taste floods his mouth, overwhelming in its sweetness; Binx groans, curling in on himself.
Except he can’t, because his belly’s in the way.
His belly? His moan turns into a cry of alarm. Bolting upright, he cradles his stomach with both hands… but that’s not enough to contain the blubber suddenly spilling over the waistband of his jeans.
“My— my stomach!” he gasps, pinching the newly-formed gut. It wobbles like a ball of fresh dough, soft enough for him to press his palms into it. This triggers a deep gurgle from his gut… and the sensation is so intense, it draws a whine from his throat. “Oh— fuck—“
He’s got clothes on, of course. When the familiar transforms, he materializes in a skintight black t-shirt and skinny jeans; it has to be close-fitting, they’ve found, in order to survive the shape-shift. Loose pants and cardigans aren’t an option, but at least he’s not morphing into a nude human whenever the mood strikes. Binx has often admired his reflection in these sleek, 21st-century clothing; he wears them well.
Now, though… his seams strain. A curse escapes him as his t-shirt is pushed up, the swollen dome of his belly leaving no space for air. At the same time, his seat is widening; he can feel him sinking down into the bed, his ass swelling, his thighs ballooning outwards. It’s too much for his jeans to take. Within seconds, they’re uncomfortable tight; in the space of a few breaths, he can hear the denim creaking.
“Putain! Grace, stop this now—“
The witch has taken a large step back. She stared, wide-eyes, as her familiar blows up to epic proportions.
“Grace,” he appeals again, desperate. Binx cradles his gravid stomach with both arms. Another burp is forced out of him — gods, he feels full. Like he just ate the meal of a lifetime. His waistband strains painfully, and he can feel his seams at their wits’ end. His shoulders heave; the fine fabric of his t-shirt comes apart with a shrill rrripp!
When Binx raises an arm, it weighs a ton, a layer of soft flesh coating his forearm. His upper arms feel like plump drumsticks.
What the bloody hell did this witch do to him?
He can no longer breathe; the button on his jeans pleads for merch. “Make it stop!” he beseeches, slumping back to try to relieve the pressure. This is a mistake — all the newly-acquired weight is suddenly bearing down on him, and Binx is pressed into the mattress whether he likes it or not. When he takes a breath — the button of his jeans gives way with a sharp plink!
Damn it, his favorite pair! His belly surges out, at last free from its confines… but the pressure doesn’t let up. Desperate hands fumble at his massive gut, another pained whimper escaping. “Oooohh— uuUURP!”
Fuck, he’s huge. He’s swollen like a grape, his clothes literally tearing themselves to shreds around his massive body. Within the space of a minute, he’s gained… two hundred pounds? (That’s being optimistic.)
“Grace!” the sorcerer whines, panting heavily. All bravado has fled now; he’s no longer a smug feline, but a helplessly rattled (and rotund) young man. Binx’s fingers dig into the blubbery flesh of his stomach, leaving scratch marks against the tawny flesh. “You have to stop this! P- please, I— I’ll break the bed!”
“That would suck,” Grace agrees mildly. She crosses her arms, tapping her foot idly against the carpet. “But, hey. There’s a spell to fix that.”
Binx lets out a furious hiss. Tilting his head down, he tries to take in his body… but it’s impossible to see past the jiggling mountain of his stomach. His neck feels thick, doughy; when he tries to lower his head, he’s stopped by a brand new double-chin.
Any hint of a jawline has vanished now; his elegant cheekbones are hidden beneath a thick layer of fat. Binx’s face has grown round, his thighs swollen like pillows, his belly a massive bowl of pudding. It jiggles with his every breath. Low groans and gurgles still ring out from the rotund gut… but there’s nothing to soothe within. Only magic, rippling through his every cell… forcing them to grow. To expand… to soften.
By the time Binx finally stops growing, he’s 500lbs of pure blubber — splayed out helplessly on the bed, limbs akimbo at his sides. They’re too heavy to lift; he can’t even raise his head. His stomach gives a thunderous groan, but even resting a hand over it is too much effort.
“Ohhhh,” he whines instead, tipping his head back. The familiar has to focus on breathing for a few moments; it’s so difficult, when his body hears the strain of all this extra weight. His head feels from the sheer influx of calories… for that’s what it is, when you get down to it. Not merely fat, but the accumulative effect of eating massive meals for ages on end. No portion control — no nutrition. Grace managed to speed-run five years of fast food in five minutes.
The witch takes a delicate step closer. Perched on her tip-toes, she peers down at her suddenly bed-bound familiar.
“Like, for real,” she drawls, and gives his belly a poke. “This could work for us.”
Binx curses aloud — then burps again, as his entire stomach ripples. His jeans hang in tatters of denim around him; they’ve completely given up the fight. Gods, he has no clothes that fit him now; he could drape himself in the curtains, and it still wouldn’t be enough.
“No, I mean it,” Grace babbles. “You’re way too big to pee on my stuff anymore! I can go out all I like, and you’re not going to be able to trash my house…”
Channeling his inner cat, Binx gives an indignant mewl. Grace snickers.
“You are a horrible person,” he declares. “And an even worse witch.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m totally wicked!”
Yet he’s bound to her anyways. At the mercy of her whims… and her diabolical revenges.
“How long,” Binx grits out, struggling to steal beneath the 400lbs of new weight bearing him down, “do I stay like this?”
“‘Til I get my dry-cleaning bill back,” she retorts.
Again, he yowls. “Grace!”
A sharp-edged cackle — perfectly befitting a witch — follows her out of the room. That’s the only way Binx knows he’s been left alone; it’s not like he can raise his head to look.
Left stranded on the bed, all the rotund familiar can do is lie there… helpless. He hopes Grace can figure out a cleaning spell as quickly as she can conjure calories — or else he’ll be here for a long time.
Serves me right, he thinks with a miserable mewl.