Work Text:
The light of a bottled dawn. It sounds simple enough. Poetic, even. Snatching a handful of sky, right in the middle of a glorious sunrise, and forcing it into a glass prison. Like a ship in a bottle… frozen forever at its highest peak.
Grace is only imagining, of course, because she doesn’t have bottled dawn light. This mega-lame spell requires it, and she doesn’t have it — who does? That’s, like, totally eclectic. Not the sort of thing you can order off Amazon.
“Nope,” Binx preens, stretching his sleek body across the bed (getting black fur on her pillowcases, the asshole). “Can’t ‘21st century’ your way out of this one. You’ll have to do things the old-fashioned way.”
Grace narrows her eyes. “If we were old-fashioned, we’d toss you in the oven you and serve you for dinner. I’d turn your hide into a cute little hat.”
Binx hisses. The witch grins.
Nonetheless, her familiar is excited when the day of their excursion arrives. Binx shifts to his human form, trading ebony fur for golden, smooth-as-silk skin and unnervingly bright eyes. He’s bouncing on his heels like a kid. Her familiar, for all his airs and “I’m an all-powerful immortal wizard, not a house pet” graces, isn’t so snippy when magic gets involved.
“I’ve missed the Eternal Market!” he crows. “Haven’t been there since 1173!”
At Grace’s elbow, Baz — their hulking demon of a roommate — looks aghast. “Shit, grandpa.”
Binx curls his lips back in a sneer. “Some here look amazing for our age. Others are 400 pounds, with leather skin, and horns.”
Baz’s hand flies to his own curved ivory horns, self-conscious. It’s not his fault that he looks like he crawled straight from hell. Curses are nasty pieces of work. One day, he’ll get his human form back — and then he’ll show the immortal asshole who’s boss. The day Baz can win a dance-off again, or kick ass at beer pong, it’s over for Catboy!
“Wait,” pipes up Dean, hovering on the outskirts of the group. Despite being one of Grace’s closest friends, Dean’s a mortal. The Other World, and all its wonders, are still a mystery to him. It’s one thing to know magic exists, but to actually go into another realm…
“Are we sure this place is safe?” he asks. “Or, like, even exists? If Binx is going off a thousand year old frame of reference…”
“Don’t worry. It exists.”
Lola, their resident tarot witch, lays a hand on Dean’s arm. Her crystal bracelets clink whenever she moves. Lola carries an air about her — as though she could mediate a war, steady a sinking ship. She’s soothing, self-assured, and doesn’t get ruffled easily. She’s also more knowledgeable about the modern occult than any of them. “I was there last week. Needed a black opal — they didn’t have any, but Melusine has it on back order for me.”
“Thought this place was supposed to have everything,” Dean mutters, scuffing his sneaker on the ground. “Can’t they just, y’know, summon it?”
Grace giggles like he’s said something uniquely witty. When she leans into his shoulder, he gets a face-full of blonde curls.
“You can’t make something from nothing, silly! Magic doesn’t work that way.”
“Whatever you summon must already be in existence,” Binx agrees. “If you conjure up… an ice cream cone, for example. You are taking that ice cream out of someone else’s hands.”
Dean blinks, imagining the heartbreak of leaning in to enjoy your favorite treat… just for it to disappear into thin air. “Wow. That sucks.”
“Which is why the Eternal Market exists!” Grace explains, bouncing in her ballet flats. “It’s like, totally stocked up!”
With a hum of agreement, Lola holds up her shopping list. Binx probably has one in his head, too. Grace only needs the bottled dawn… but she’ll window-shop, picking up some jewelry as she strolls. Baz wants pickled sea serpent. (He’s been getting cravings.) Dean’s just… along for the ride.
With a flourish of her hands and a crisp incantation, Grace summons the portal. A shimmering red door appears in midair; it’s made of oaken wood, heavy and intricate, yet carries an air of intangibility. When Grace pushes it open…
The group steps into a market beyond their wildest dreams.
The square is an ocean of chaos and color. Lanterns bob through the air like fireflies, glass bellies alight with captured stars. The stalls are bustling, overflowing with wares. Canopies hang over each counter, woven from quicksilver fabric or glimmering moth wings; stalls hover inches over the ground, or grow up from roots burrowed deep within the earth. The scent of magic hangs heavy in the air — burnt sugar, ozone, something sharp and crackly.
Anything can be found at the Eternal Market. Nothing is beyond your wildest dreams. (Hell, they sell dreams here.) One stall displays an array of polished crystals; others boast arcane relics, ancient textbooks, spell candles, glittering potions in sealed bottles. Spells leak from their sachets, drifting slowly upwards; they shape themselves into quicksilver fish or fluttering birds before dissolving into smoke. A chorus of voices rings across the square — languages Grace doesn’t know, but each word echoes in her bones like something familiar.
Her head tips back in ecstasy, drinking it in. Around her, the others spread out, incredulous in their own ways.
“It’s… changed since I was here last,” Binx murmurs. “So much bigger.”
“Everything changes, old man,” Baz replies. “A thousand years is a long time. Oh, damn — is that a lady ogre? Selling flowers? I think I’m in love.” The minotaur-demon clutches his chest. “You think she’s into big guys? Maybe I’ve got a shot.”
“Lead with your personality,” Dean advises. “Your sense of humor. And then your killer body.”
Baz could kill someone if he sat on them. He's four-hundred pounds of pure demon, with the armored body and bulging horns to prove it. Maybe some ladies are into that.
“Hell yeah, bro!"
The boys high-five; Dean has to stretch his arm all the way up to meet Baz, who’s massive even by the standards of the Eternal Market’s customers.
The bustling market is overwhelming, but their mortal friend doesn’t look frightened… or even too amazed. Dean’s a ‘roll with the punches’ kind of guy. “So, I just need to know… ‘cause I did smoke a bowl before coming here… does anyone else see those giant bird-people? Is it just me?”
“Those are the Tengu,” Lola replies serenely. “Takashi is one of the nicest people. He’s married to a fire wyvern.”
“How does that work?”
“A lot of singed feathers.”
There are a thousand follow-up questions Grace would like to ask… but there’s no time. Lola heads off down the aisle without hesitation, diving deep into the market; she already knows where she’s going. The others gape after her, and gradually begin to follow — hesitantly immersing themselves in the chaos.
Binx wanders over to a stall of magical clothing. Baz is drawn to the ogre woman, overseeing a stall of exotic, magical blooms. Grace doesn’t have a destination in mind. She just begins to wander, trailing along the aisles as she tries to take it all in.
She’s so distracted by the hustle-bustle, she doesn’t even realize she’s being followed. Only when a familiar presence brushes against her side, and the sweet scent of cinnamon hits her, does she realize — Dean.
“I’ve been to a hundred antique fairs,” he mutters. “Carnivals, farmer’s markets, flower shows. This is… all of that rolled into one.”
They pause to watch a young lady on a raised platform, performing back-bends and contorting her body into inhuman shapes. Impressed spectators drop glittering coins in her bucket; she bows (upside-down) to thank them. Across the aisle, a fae woman in flowing robes is advertising a shawl she swears will turn the wearer invisible.
“It’s insane,” Grace murmurs, at the same time Dean declares, “it’s amazing.”
They glance at each other. Grace laughs aloud. Dean cracks a shy smile, like he’s revealed too much with a single comment. There’s nothing to reveal, though; by now, Grace knows he’s fascinated by magic.
He and his twin sister, Jeanna, run the only antique store in Harbor Point. Their business puts them into contact with all sorts of magical artifacts, and they never even realized it — not ‘til Grace came along. All she did was touch one crystal, and suddenly the shop was alive: cuckoos bursting out of clocks, silverware being raised by invisible hands, secondhand shoes dancing to an unheard rhythm. Grace’s magic is always erratic, but that little slip-up took the cake.
The tall, cute, obviously stoned guy behind the counter gazed around the shop, blue eyes hazy with wonder. That expression lingered when he looked at Grace… and it sent a pleased shiver all the way to her toes. No one had ever looked at her like that before. Like she’s extraordinary.
“Whoa,” Dean had exhaled. Grace giggled nervously — what else was she supposed to do? “I, uhh— promise, we’re not haunted. Usually.”
“No duh,” the witch replied, holding up her hands. “But you are seriously under-charging for these crystals.”
That’s how she met him; that’s how Dean found out about The Other World. The rule has always been, mortals and magic don’t mix. Witches aren’t supposed to perform magic in front of them, aren’t even supposed to talk about spellcraft… it’s all some big, hush-hush secret. Which is fine, Grace gets it. Her Nanna hammered the rule in throughout her entire childhood, and told enough stories about witches being burned at the stake for Grace to grasp the danger. But it wasn’t like she wanted her magic to go haywire that day. She didn’t mean to show him. And sure, she could have found a charm to wipe his memory, but…
Mind magic is hard. If she messed it up, she could’ve turned him into a tall, handsome vegetable! Grace wasn’t willing to take that risk.
(Besides, maybe she liked being looked at with so much wonder.)
“Y’know,” she muses, “you might be the first mortal to ever visit this place.
“No way. Guarantee, plenty of witches have messed up over the years. Maybe someone left the portal wide open — you ever forget to close your front door when you come home? If you’re bringing in groceries or something? — and some mortals wandered right in.” He pauses, then snickers. “Maybe a tour group. With floppy hats and cameras, squinting at their brochures, like ‘honey, I don’t see this on the map…’”
Grace can’t help giggling. Dean lowers his fake brochure and grins.
“I’m definitely the luckiest mortal, though. Got the best tour guide.”
“I don’t know where I’m going either.”
“Okay,” he replies with a lazy shrug. “So we’re taking the scenic route.”
But he’s still looking at Grace. Only at Grace.
Her heart is beating out a samba in her chest; her face feels far too hot. Unthinking, Grace turns towards the closest stall, cluttered with magical jewelry — anything to avoid looking him in the eye. This boy’s going to kill me, she thinks desperately. Whenever he says anything, whenever he looks at me… oh Hecate, I feel like I’ll burst!
She doesn’t actually mean to touch anything. The charm sits innocuously on the stall counter — a diminutive statue of a fat woman, glimmering gold with an inlaid sapphire stone. It… pulses faintly, as if her own heartbeat thrums in the air around them. Grace is drawn closer without even realizing, attention catching on the charm like she’s been snared by a fishhook. Without thinking twice, the young witch reaches out.
The moment her fingers brush the surface, the air fizzles. A pulse of light flares outward from the statue — soundless, yet beautiful. An electric spark shoots through Grace’s veins.
With a yelp, she drops the statue and stumbles back. Dean is right behind her. He catches Grace against his chest, steadying her shoulders on instinct. “Whoa, whoa, what‘s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Grace squeaks. “I was just looking, and…"
Eyes huge with panic, the witch gapes up at her companion. Magic fizzles in her veins, as if she’s standing on a live wire, but she has no clue what she just cast. It could have been anything! An invisibility charm, a love spell, a turn-everybody-in-the-vicinity-into-ferrets curse…
Dean’s expression slowly shifts. His brows furrow.
“Gracie,” he murmurs. “What did you just do?”
Behind the counter, the shopkeeper gives a low grunt. When Grace turns, she finds the woman doubled over, clutching her stomach.
“Oh my gods,” she gasps. “Are you okay?”
The woman groans… and a deep belch bursts past her lips.
“Shit!” Dean exclaims, cringing back. Unconsciously, he pulls Grace back with him; the little witch is tugged around like a ragdoll, her eyes huge.
“What the hell—“
The loud outburst has attracted attention; people glance their way, bewildered. Their expressions slowly shift from confusion to alarm… and then, discomfort. An apple-seller has to put down her basket; a lean elf at the jewelry counter grunts, doubling over.
“Something’s wrong,” Grace exclaims, frantic. All around them, people are beginning to gasp and moan, clutching their tummies. The witch presses both hands to her face, her own stomach tight with dread. “I did something, it’s all wrong, I— I didn’t mean to—"
“Shh,” Dean urges, still holding her steady. When she tries to rush to the aid of an ailing fae, he tugs her back, shaking his head. “Don’t. It’s okay. Just… just keep your distance.”
“It’s not contagious!” Grace squawks… even though all evidence points to the contrary. All throughout the market, people are glancing towards the commotion… and rapidly being struck with discomfort in their own bellies. They clutch themselves and double over, gasping as their pants begin to strain… fabric groans, buttons complain, and their bellies are alive with a noisy symphony.
They’re all getting… bigger.
Grace’s wide, terrified eyes swivel to Dean. She wants to plead, even beg him… there must be some way to help, something they can do. Her friend has the back of his hand pressed to his face, shoulders tense. It’s not a normal position… and it strikes horror straight into Grace’s veins.
“Dean?”
He shakes his head quickly, shaggy hair almost hiding his face. “It’s fine,” he manages, though his voice is tight, strained. “I’m okay. Doesn’t hurt.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
His stomach gives a thunderous groan. Beneath his washed-out sweatshirt, he looks distinctly heavier; his stomach swells out like an inflating balloon, making every breath labored. Grace chokes on a gasp. “Oh, gods…”
Whatever she did, it’s affected everyone — even the boy she’s been crushing on for ages. Her unintentional spell has gone straight to their bellies, and it’s strong.
“I’m okay,” he says again, giving her arm a squeeze. Even while blowing up, his first impulse is to comfort her. “Just… feels heavy. Like I went way overboard at lunch.”
“I’m so sorry! Dean, I really didn’t— I don’t know what I did. I wasn’t even thinking…” Her panicked gaze swivels around the surrounding stalls. This affliction is rippling through the crowd like a wave… and they’re standing at the epicenter. Whoever glances their way is suddenly struck by a bad case of bubble-guts. “Shit, what do we do?”
Moans and belches ring out across the marketplace. Around them, vendors and shoppers alike double over, clutching bellies that swell and strain against their clothing. A nearby fairy hiccups, her tiny wings fluttering weakly as she rubs her distended middle. An ogre nearly tramples people as he stumbles through the crowd, his gut massively swollen.
“Oh, help—“
“What’s going on?”
“My stomach, I ca-aaAAOURP!”
Panic is as contagious as the spell itself. Shouts and cries ring out through the square. Stalls rattle; wares topple over in the chaos as people begin to flee the scene. With their bellies growing, though, they can’t get far. One rapidly-bloating man clutches his belly as he rushes past, looking six months pregnant.
In the midst of it all, Grace and Dean huddle together, struck dumb with horror. Grace is clinging to his arm; her petite form trembles. Dean exhales through his nose, fighting the pressure in his own gut… but it’s a losing battle. He can’t hold back a deep “ooOUURP!”
The little witch looks downright horrified.
“”Scuse me,” Dean says too quickly. It takes a lot to ruffle him, but even his cheeks are flushed at that one.
Together, they shrink into an alcove, just trying to get away from the crowd. Grace has some delirious hope that maybe if no one can see her, no one else will get sick. What was she thinking right before she cast the spell? She struggles to remember the exact, unfortunate wording. Whenever he looks at me, I feel like I’ll burst…
“Me burst,” she groans against Dean’s chest. “I meant me! Nobody else!”
“Uhh…” Dean isn’t following the witch’s internal monologue — and frankly, her pressing up against him is not helping his stomach. Already, his middle is swollen obscenely beneath his sweatshirt — a tender, heaving dome, growing tighter with every breath. The zipper of his jeans strains, and he doesn’t know how long the button will hold out. Dean’s hand moves towards his belly, then flutters away, self-conscious. He doesn’t want to look like a slob in front of Grace.
“I just touched that little statue, and…”
That grabs Dean’s attention. “What statue?” he asks — and when Grace doesn’t even register the question, he gives her a little shake. “Gracie! It’s okay — but what did you touch?”
The witch extends a small, shaky hand towards the jewelry stall. By now, the proprietor is slumped on the ground, cradling a belly that sits heavily in her lap; her assistant is stumbling around like a drunk, belching helplessly every time his tummy roils. A heavily-bloated warlock staggers past, knocking into the stall as he passes. Several kitschy trinkets tumble to the ground… but the tiny bust of the fat woman doesn’t even tremble, weighed down by its own power.
“That,” Grace whispers.
Dean doesn’t know much about magic, but for some reason… looking at that statue makes his stomach feel even tighter.
His belly groans — a deep, rolling sound that makes him clutch his middle instinctively. The pressure is intense, like he’s swallowed a huge antacid… and it’s rapidly fizzing within him, expanding. His breath comes faster, shallower, as his stomach tightens beneath his hands.
“Ohh…” He doubles forward, unable to hold back a pained moan. The trouble is, they’re pressed so close, his face lands against Grace’s shoulder. Dean tries to pull away, but the pressure in his gut… he can hardly move.
He just has to breathe through it for a minute… yet breathing has become the hardest thing in the world. It hurts. He’s so freaking tight, it’s feels like he’ll…
Like he’ll burst.
From a few stalls away, someone’s screaming. A belly-deep dread has settled within Dean, and the helpless panic on his friend’s face isn’t helping whatsoever. Deep inside his gut, something burbles. Dean stifles a groan, pressing himself back against the pillar. He’s not sure how much longer he can remain standing; already, he’s dangerously off-balance.
“Grace…” It’s an effort to keep his voice calm, patient. “Come on. Your magic did this. You can fix i—uuOOooRP.”
Fuck, that was a big one. Dean inhales through his teeth, quietly mortified.
At least Grace doesn’t seem to mind him burping like a bear, right in her face. She’s got bigger things to freak out over. “How? I don't know what I did!”
“Figure it out!” Dean grunts. A new wave of pressure rolls through his core. He can feel his gut pushing out… growing even heavier. His legs spread, stance adjusting to support his new, hefty weight.
Grace’s green eyes are huge in her delicate face; her brows are furrowed, like she wants to cry. She’s a delicate thing, all slender limbs and fine features, like a porcelain doll… but so much power thrums beneath her skin. A power Dean has never known before — never even been close to. Sometimes, being near Grace feels like standing next to a live wire. He can feel the energy thrumming through her… and never knows if it’ll electrify him.
A panicked elf rushes by, clutching a massive belly. One of the shopkeepers is panting on the ground, unable to keep himself upright; his stomach rests heavily in his lap, like he’s swallowed a whole pumpkin. The man’s flushed face is pouring sweat; he looks dazed, desperate.
Dean knows the feeling. He can’t help groaning as his stomach bloats even further; by now, it’s a heavy, round dome, stretching out his baggy sweatshirt.
“Grace,” he beseeches… and on pure impulse, seizes her hands. He guides the witch beneath the hem of his sweatshirt, to lay her hands upon his belly.
It’s huge, solid, pulsing with constricted air. Every strained breath makes Dean’s belly shudder… and emit a deep rumble. Grace inhales a gasp. He’s so round, so… tender…
“Oooh.” Dean can’t restrain a moan. His eyes flutter shut, then squeeze tight. He had no idea how sensitive he was… but now Grace is touching him, and it’s all he can feel. His belly is tight as a drum, and needs attention. “Grace… I… mmm, fuck…”
A shiver runs up the witch’s thighs. She’s not doing anything, just stroking his stomach — cautiously, carefully. Trying to soothe the storm brewing within him. It roils at her touch, a thunderous grrrrruggll rolling out. Dean doesn’t flinch; instead, he leans into her.
His breaths come heavy, labored, filled with need. For a moment, he’s not himself — not the easygoing man she knows, perpetually calm to the point of seeming like nothing bothers him… but Grace has seen through that facade. Seen how he cares for his sister, the antique store… his friends. Seen all the love and compassion Dean holds within him, quiet but constantly present. That’s the boy she cares for, but this— this man, with his eyes gone dark, flushed face glistening with sweat, his sweatshirt hiked up to expose a pale, swollen dome of a belly…
This is a completely different beast.
A soft laugh exhales from his mouth. It’s so out-of-place, incongruous with what his body is going through… Grace can only stare at him, hypnotized.
“Gracie,” he says softly, “your hands are burning.”
“Hmm?”
“Your hands,” he says again… and he actually smiles. It’s strained, labored… but such a Dean gesture, she could cry. “They’re on fire. You gettin’ hot and bothered over me?”
The little witch’s eyes widen. She jerks back — her hands, her whole body pulling away from him. Dean is left leaning against the pillar, panting and disheveled, with his heavy belly exposed for the world to see. His eyes are downright glassy, and the way he’s looking at her… craving her hands, all over again.
Grace really might burst into flames. (Thank Hecate she didn’t cast a spell like that!)
“You guys!”
A booming voice cuts through the chaotic din of the marketplace… and Grace would know it anywhere. She spins around, just in time to see Baz thundering down the aisle towards them. His heavy, armor-plated body — a freakish cross between a buffalo and a lizard — is larger than she’s ever seen it. He’s gotten a little thick these last few months (a consequence of his insatiable demon appetite) but this…
A massive belly swells in front of him, as if he’s fermenting an entire keg of beer. He cradles it as he walks — lumbers, really — through the crowd. The moment he spots Grace’s wild blonde curls, he’s beelining towards them.
“Bro, this is wild! You see all these people? There was this dryad, she was trying to run away, but she got way too heavy… so she turned into a tree. You ever see a fat tree before? Not kidding, shit’s crazy. And this witch was trying to cast a counter-spell, but she couldn’t even get the words out ‘cause she kept burping— brRaaAAAUURRP!”
Baz cuts himself off with a thunderous belch of his own. The nearest stalls tremble, jewelry and crystals shuddering like they’re caught in an earthquake. Baz pauses, thumps once on his chest… then grins.
“Freaking wild, right?”
Yeah, their resident demon jock is fine.
Except he’s not alone. On Baz’s heels slinks a lean sorcerer with sharp golden eyes and a jaw like cut marble… and he does not look pleased. Beneath his black sweater, a massive, swollen belly is churning; he’s doubled over, usually-proud posture abandoned just to keep himself upright.
Grace meets Binx’s gaze and shrinks. If looks could kill, she’d be embalmed and buried.
What did you do? her familiar’s expression demands.
Why do you think it was me? her own face answers.
Because I know you, Grace! his infuriated glare replies.
Grace whimpers, and her familiar actually hisses — like the pissed-off cat he is, deep down. From the size of him, he’s having kittens. Binx’s tight jeans hang open, the button having given up and popped off; with another deep growl, his belly inflates even more, and the seams of his pants strain. Oh man, he’s going to kill her — he ordered those from a Paris fashion house (on her debit card).
“You,” he hisses, “cause problems wherever you go, petite maléfique!” He pauses to burp, his chest jolting and the sound rumbling through his closed mouth. She’s never seen Binx look so incensed… and she once turned him from a black cat to a bubblegum pink one. “Fix this!”
“I don’t know how!” Grace exclaims, at the same time Dean pipes up, “she’s not sure how.”
They glance at each other; Grace instinctively shrinks a little closer to him.
The way Binx slinks closer is actually terrifying. Her familiar has spent so many hours instructing her in the arcane arts, trying to teach her to hone her magic… to keep it under control. Somehow, it always blows up in his face. But this, actually blowing up himself… putain de merde, this is unacceptable.
“You do,” he snarls, inches from her face. “Your magic is running rampant through this market, Grace. Like a rabid dog, infecting everyone it passes. Rein it in. If you do not get this under control…”
He doesn’t have to finish that statement. Whatever this spell is leading to, it’s not good.
Another thunderous rumble, and Baz groans, clutching his massive belly. “Yeah,” he chimes in. “Not to pressure you, G, but… ruUUuurp, ohh. This is not a fun time.”
“I know,” Grace frets, covering her face. “I know, I’m so sorry…”
Binx swipes at her shoulder. When he’s a cat, it gets his frustration across; when he’s human, it just hurts.
“Hey!”
“We’ve done this before,” Binx insists. “Finding the thread of your magic and twisting it to your will. Do you remember this lesson?” He stares hard at her, expression unwavering, until the panicked witch has no choice but to meet his gaze. Recognizing the raw fear in her eyes, Binx’s voice softens. “In the garden. Remember? You turned the lawn chair into a rose bush… and you had to turn it back.”
“That was different,” Grace whimpers. “This was, like, a magic shockwave, and now—"
“Grace.” Binx leans closer, his voice a steady rumble. “It’s the same principle. You ground yourself, you regulate your magic, and you make the spell listen to you. Whatever this is, it’s your magic. Only you have control over it.”
That’s the key with Grace: control. When she feels like she has none, she panics — and when the witch panics, things get much worse. She has to be reminded that she’s the master of her own magic… never helpless, so long as that power thrums through her veins.
A long beat passes… before Grace meets his gaze, and nods shakily.
“I’ll anchor you,” her familiar promises. “You won’t be doing this alone.”
From an outside perspective, it’s hard to understand how they work. How an arrogant shapeshifter with an attitude problem can ground a flighty, excitable witch. Yet Binx and Grace have been working together for two years now — bonded in the sacred, unshakable way of a witch and her familiar. Their souls are connected; they can feel each others’ magic, even their emotions at times. No one knows Grace better than her faithful familiar. No one knows her magic better.
Something sharp and painful twists in Dean’s gut, looking at them. Just a cramp, he tells himself, rubbing the bloated dome hard… but a cramp wouldn’t ache all throughout his chest, like he’s being hollowed out.
Grace murmurs something about the charm, and Baz lumbers towards the nearest stall to find it. Within moments, he’s returned, holding the stupid thing like a hot coal; the demon is belching fiercely, his chest heaving. It looks like he’s out on fifty pounds in a matter of seconds.
“Don’t know wh—huuurp— what this is, but— aaOOUURP, ohhh, fuck me— but it packs a crazy punch.”
Binx’s eyes narrow as he takes in the charm. “Ancient Myndalian. I’d recognize that craftsmanship anywhere. Tricky little items.”
“Cursed?”
“Not quite.” Plucking it deftly from Baz’s fingers (even the demon’s hands are plumping up), Binx holds the charm between him and Grace, clasping it between theme palms. He shifts in discomfort, stomach growing even tighter — farewell to this pair of jeans — but pushes through.
Their heads bow together. Hands clasped tight around the tiny statue, Binx lets his nails dig into Grace’s soft palms — a way to ground her. To remind her, we’re in this together.
“You’re doing great,” he murmurs. When they’re close like this, his accent is softer, like a rich vintage wine. “Close your eyes. Match your breath to mind… that’s it.” His stomach growls fiercely, but they don’t lose their rhythm — even as it presses against Grace’s own middle, like she’s embracing a pregnant friend. Binx shifts, mentally tugging on their familiar bond; a channel of warmth courses through Grace. At once, her nerves steady.
“That’s it,” murmurs Binx, his voice a guiding thread through the market’s chaos. “You’re doing it. Feel the magic. Don’t fight it. Just… redirect the excess. Tell it this game is over… you no longer want this
It shouldn’t be enough. Breaking a curse is never so easy. It requires rituals, materials, time… but none of that is on their side right now, and Binx is being *gentle.* He guides Grace through the counter-spell like be believes she can do it, with nothing but magic on her side.
And Grace believes it too.
She feels it, then — the tight, swelling pulse of power she’d unleashed, like a frightened animal curled in her chest. She sends it a thought, a soft release. Within their clasped hands, the tiny statue begins to grow cold. The current of magic surrounding it fades as its power source is cut. Cracks appear in its tiny stone foundation. The statue trembles, them falls still in their hands.
The market goes… quiet. Unnaturally so. People are still running around, clutching their swollen tummies and panicking… but Grace can hear none of it. She’s in a bubble, disconnected from the rest of the world…
And she’s growing small. So small, so light. No bursting here, she thinks with determination. Just… deflating. Letting everything go back to normal.
And the last of the magic fizzles out, dying all at once. Around the market, the many victims of the curse — hugely bloated shopkeepers, swollen fae, witches with gravid bellies and monsters belching into the open air — feel an oppressive weight lift from their shoulders. At once, the air feels lighter.
Whatever curse this was, it’s gone.
Grace sags with relief, looking suddenly exhausted. “Binx…” she exhales… then turns towards her friends, beaming. “Guys! I think it worked.”
A collective exhale runs through the group. Baz shifts on his feet… then belches again, groaning as he cradles his drum-tight belly.
“Yeah… great job, team. Ten outta ten, bonus points for collaboration. But…” He gives his belly a resounding slap. It’s still… rotund, to put it mildly. “What’re we gonna do with this?”
Dean answers with an involuntary ruUUuurp, then grunts, pressing a hand to his mouth.
“Think we gotta wait it out,” he mutters. It’s impossible to meet Grace’s eye now, not when she’s still so close to her familiar… practically in Binx’s damned arms, being held up while she sways on her feet. The sight kindles a thousand emotions he doesn’t know how to deal with — or how to even begin. Easier to focus on his aching stomach.
“No way.” A pregnant pause follows Baz’s words… and then the demon exhales in a gust, bowing his head. “Aww man, c’mon! I’m more bloated than I’ve ever been — like, ever, in my life—“
“Nineteen years,” Binx says flatly. He’s stroking his own over-inflated belly, the way you’d soothe a clingy cat. “Versus my nine centuries. Please, by all means, tell us what you’ve experienced.”
“Dude, you’re such a freaking grandpa. Like, I’m sorry you're ancient, okay? Just ‘cause your arthritis is acting up—“
Binx hisses, baring his teeth. Grace can’t help giggling.
“Guys? What in stars happened?”
The question pierces their tentative calm like a hot knife through butter. As one, the entire group turn… to see the last member of their group, Lola, making her way down the aisle. The witch neatly sidesteps swollen shoppers and patrons as they stumble around; her eyes trail them for a moment, brows furrowed. When she reaches her friends, she takes them all in: Grace swaying on her feet, Dean burping into his fist, Baz looking like he swallowed a prized pumpkin, and Binx with tattered clothing hanging off his bloated frame.
It’s… a lot to take in.
“Did I… miss something?” Lola asks slowly, tilting her head. “Y’all get cursed without me?”
She’s still conspicuously slim — supermodel-gorgeous in her tight jeans and flowy satin top. Her flowing black braids aren’t even disheveled; her makeup, as always, is flawless. Binx eyes her with no small amount of envy.
“Did it not spread to your side of the market?” asks Dean. “Seemed like it was everywhere.”
The other witch shrugs. “People started screaming, so other people started running. I decided to walk towards the chaos.” Which is so perfectly Lola. She holds up her wrist, revealing a dark, intricately-spiraled tattoo along her forearm; protection tubes are inked deep into her skin. “Not much can hurt me, so, may as well, right? Besides…” Her gaze turns wry. “Figured y’all had something to do with it.”
“Whoa,” Baz breathes. “Could you, like, sense Grace’s magic?”
“Nah,” Luna replies. “I just know her.”
With a groan, Grace buries her face in her hands.
Gently — because he is capable of gentleness, when it’s Grace — Binx takes her by the elbow and begins to steer her down the aisle. They have to sidestep moaning forms and bloated bodies; a cacophony of belches (and other, ruder noises) ring throughout the market as people attempt to relieve their bloat.
There’s no way for anyone to know it was Grace behind the curse — not yet, at least. Yet her magic still hums faintly in the air, and all it will take is one talented scrying witch to locate her. No one wants to stick around for that shitstorm.
“Yeah, come on,” Dean agrees tersely. “Let’s, uhh… get outta here before we get sued.”
“I have no money,” Grace bemoans.
“Walk faster,” Dean advises.
The group hastens out of the Eternal Market — as fast as they can, nursing bloated friends and huge bellies. They leave a trail of chaos in their wake.
At the last second, Grace remembers to toss the tiny statue over her shoulder. The little fat woman hits the cobblestones, and rolls away, out of sight.