Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!
Ao3!
CWs: Lactation; transformation; medical malpractice; medfet; observation
A/N: The first of the Kinktober asks! I've found a graphic with the days of October, which I'll post under the Kabr0z Writes tag when I get around to it. If your ask is on there then that's the day you should expect to see it, otherwise I'll pick either from my reqs or the calendar day on day
############################################
You eyed the pill. It wasn’t what you’d describe as small, about half an inch long, half that again wide. Somehow you were expected to choke that down. You looked at the paper cup of water they’d given you, and at the one-way mirror in the room. Suddenly you really wished you’d read what these "pharmaceutical experiments” were actually in aid of, but rent needed paid and three grand for taking one pill while a team of people watched you was definitely going to help cover the shortfalls in your budget. One last look at the horse-pill you’d been given before shrugging your shoulders.
You planted it at the back of your throat. It didn’t feel like it’d go down, but you trusted the process. The cup of water helped carry it, though you could still feel it even as it travelled down. Then it was gone. You looked again at the mirror, wide enough to fill one side of the room.
A voice crackled over some concealed speaker “Take a seat, we need to hold onto you for an hour or so, make sure there’s no immediate side effects”
You couldn’t avoid your annoyance creeping into your voice as you sighed. Had you known, you would’ve brought a book or something. Instead all you could do was sit on the folding chair and rest your feet up on the table, trying not to get too bored.
Ten minutes in, you grunted. A sharp pain flared in your chest. You looked over at the mirror, expecting a reaction, but none came. A moment later, the pain was gone, as though it had never existed. You felt your chest, the soft flesh of your boobs yielding under your fingertips as they ever would, though your shirt felt a little tighter. Maybe it was warm in here?
Another ten minutes and something was definitely wrong. Your tits ached, a dull pain that seemed to roll over you in waves. After each rush of pain, you felt your clothes were a little tighter. First only around your chest, but now your waist, and your thighs too. Second by second, you were swelling up, your body straining against the fabric of your clothes, stressing seams and buttons to their limits. A button popped off here and there, you fought to strip what you were wearing before you were smothered in your own clothes.
The pain was coming faster, but instead of spreading across your whole body, it bounced around your tits. They were visibly swelling now, even after having gained a cup size and several inches of band in minutes. You could feel pressure building in them, swelling you further before jets of milk sprayed from you.
You sighed, tits still dribbling a slow but steady stream of milk. Completely naked now, you climbed back onto the chair, not used to being as heavy as you now were. As you sat, panting and leaking, you felt a new sensation come over you. A deep emptiness, a need to be filled by something, anything. You felt yourself flush red, your skin starting to heat up, getting hotter and hotter until you couldn’t take it any more. Your hands kneaded your chest as you panted, stretching out to expose as much of your skin to the air as you could. The milk flowed faster, squeezed from you as you pressed down. Every grope of your engorged breasts sent another spray of your milk erupting from you, accompanied by a groan of satisfaction.
Your hands strayed south, soft arms stretching to between pillowy thighs as your fingers parted your fattened lips. You were leaking here too, more than enough to slide three plump fingers up to the knuckle. You pumped your engorged, soaking cunt with one hand as the other squeezed a neverending stream of milk, feeling your fluids mingling on the chair below you as you twitched with orgasm.
You barely heard the voice come over the intercom “Test successful, get her out of here. Let central know we can move to production on this one”
Admittedly not my best work; flash fiction is new territory for me. I easily could have made this twice as long, but I wanted to practice writing under 1k. Hopefully Miss Opal likes it anyhow. 🫡
I flick the lighter open. Closed. Open again. Closed.
The clicking of the hood mingles with the sound of tyres pushing through puddles and water dripping from roofs. Plastic slides against plastic as I bring the lighter to my face and flick the spark wheel, sucking in a deep drag.
Fuck me.
I watch the smoke curl up towards the red lanterns above, disappearing into a shower of pink holographic petals falling from the drone show.
The brick digs into my back. I close my eyes, soaking in the peace of shaking off Atlas. He's been insufferable today.
Somewhere, fireworks go off to the excitement of little kids. Begging their guardians to move up front where the view is better. The parade is starting. I don't even remember what's being celebrated.
When I open my eyes again, it's to the sight of Paradox waving at me.
"'Sup, 'Lychko," she—apparently—says.
"Not gon—"
"卧槽!"
"Damn, Kernel, you got her speaking Chinese."
"Made her drop her ciggie, too," he responds with a barely contained giggle.
I look between the two of them. Where did they come from?
Paradox tilts her head up, then looks over my shoulder towards the crowd, clicking her tongue. "You know," she says, dragging out the 'know'.
But instead of finishing her thought, she graps my wrist. Like an icebreaker through the seas of Lux Terminus, she forces her way through the crowd, uncaring of my protests and attempts to free myself from her iron grip, Kernel following close behind.
Before I can even process what's happened, I'm standing on rickety scaffolding tall enough to overlook the parade. Every movement shifts the metal beneath our feet. I shoot them both a sceptical look.
Kernel taps me on the shoulder and points up when I turn my attention to him. "Time to climb," he chirps happily, and I follow the direction of his finger.
Are those... cables?
"This is a rather... elaborate form of attempted assassination, I must say."
"Don't worry your pretty little head, 'Lychko. If those ropes"—oh, thank heavens—"can support Gunshow over here—"
"Gunshow?!" Kernel protests.
"—they can support you, too."
As if to emphasise her point, she clambers up the side of the scaffolding, dragging herself up and over the ropes, and carefully slides into a standing position. "See? It's fine!"
Then she steps out, right over a several hundred meter drop, smoothly dodging a drone. She turns right back around, holding out a gloved hand. Kernel nudges me from behind.
This is suicide.
So why am I climbing up?
I slide my hand into hers. Kernel's grips my shoulder.
Then we move. The wind buffets us, blows my hair in my face. I look down.
Way down. My foot slips.
They both steady me, four strong hands gripping me tight. Kernel slides a hand over my eyes. Paradox guides me forward.
"Easy does it, Theron" Kernel whispers. That's a first.
I suck in a breath and let them guide me across until I feel concrete beneath my feet. Kernel withdraws his hand. "Welcome to our little slice of heaven," he murmurs.
I open my eyes again, breath catching in my throat. The entire parade is visible from up here. I lean over the edge, catching sight of the holo-dragon sailing through the crowd.
Kernel and Paradox both join me, Kernel sitting down on the edge, dangling his legs off the side.
"Sit down," Paradox says, dragging me down with a sigh. Kernel has materialised a guitar. Paradox looks at me, red eyes boring into mine.
The witch heard a crash, and a scream. She slams her book shut and rushes to where she heard it, the first floor kitchen. There, she sees her doll, collapsed around a puddle, cradling the key snapped off of its back.
"Miss... It hurts..." the broken toy looks up, apologetic.
"Oh, Lullaby!" Norae kneels down, gently cupping the doll's hand in hers. "Please, show me where it hurts."
The good doll does as it's told. It turns from its side to its front, arching its back as it supports itself with its elbows. Its hair falls down in its face, dishevelled from the fall.
Miss feels along where the key should be, finding the brass implant that should reach into the doll's clockwork motor. The base of the key broke off, warping the opening and lodging a piece into place. If the warping extended further inward, then it needed a lot of pieces remade and replaced so it could be wound again.
"It's... okay, it's okay, this is... fixable." The witch takes one of the doll's hands in hers, wrapping the other around its frame. "C'mon, we need to get you to the workshop. Please tell me if this hurts..." They slowly rise together, the doll only putting some of its weight on its Miss. "It's fine, Miss... thank you."
They stumble in tandem through the halls. With every step, Lullaby seems to get just a bit heavier. "When was the last time you wound yourself, dear?" It hesitates for just a second too long. "This one suppose... it was supposed to do it earlier, but it... could wait until it was done, and it jus' got carried away, and..."
The witch pulls it closer, steadying its support. "Shh, it's okay, don't worry. Find stillness for me, okay? We'll have you fixed in no time."
Lullaby tries to reaffirm its loosening grip. "Yes, Miss. Thank you Miss."
The witch can already hear the ticked getting softer.
Her mind starts to buzz. This was her fault, wasn't it? She should've been there, she shouldn't have overworked the poor thing, she shouldn't have let it wind itself...
Through the double-doors to her ornate clockwork workshop lies an operating table surrounded by tools, mundane and magic in equal frequency. With heavy, groggy steps, and with some lifting from the witch, the doll climbs up the stool and collapses onto its front, just as asked.
A brief moment of stillness. It's not the stillness this one is used to, it's not a clear-minded pleasantness. It's a heaviness, the doll's mind too weighed down to move.
The witch places a hand on the doll's back. "Are you still with me, Lullaby?". The doll lifts its head, craning its neck to look back at Miss the best it can. "I... won't be able to fix this before your core stops. It'll just be like... being asleep. Do you remember that from before you became?"
It lets its head slump against the pillow, looking away from its witch. There is a long stillness.
Norae shook it, ever so gently. Please, not yet. "...Lullaby?"
"Mmn..." It slowly blinks. "No... S'rry Miss..."
"It's okay, please don't be sorry." The witch walks around the table, kneeling to meet her doll's face at the front. Its eyes are lulled, and the witch can't hear its fading ticking over the sound of her own heartbeat.
"I'll see you soon, okay?" The witch holds its face in her hand, rubbing a thumb across its cheek. Lullaby shifts its weight to feel closer to the touch. "I love you very much, and I won't rest until I can wind you up again. I promise."
"...Thnk'you Miss." Barely above a whisper. "Luhv..."
Harry got home a little after two in the morning, bleary-eyed, mouth bitter with the taste of airport canned-air and mints. Rolled the suitcase as quietly as he could, probably making a racket: two in the morning, and he was dizzy-tired, all emptied out from the long layover, and the two-hour wait on the runway, and the taxi ride he absolutely insisted on when his flight was delayed yet again.
Gently, gently opening the door, which creaked so loud the whole world had to have heard. Sneaking inside his own apartment: Draco would be fast asleep, would need to be up at half-five tomorrow for work. Harry’s chest squeezed at the thought, Draco all wrapped up in their duvet, rumpled and sleep-warm, and—
On the sofa, all twisted in between the cushions, arresting and lovely and still in his fancy trousers. With his mobile clenched in his fist. His neck’s going to kill him, and Harry forgot how to breathe.
“Darling,” barely able to swallow the grin. “Draco. Darling.”
“Hmm?” long eyelashes blinking. “Harry? What’s the—fuck, I fell asleep?” grumbling himself up into sitting, flushed and so, so, sweet. “I was going to stay up.” Frowning. “I was going to pick you up!”
“Sorry,” laughing, wrapping an arm around him, trailing kisses down his nose, cheek, neck. Draco’s scent, warm and lemony and familiar, intoxicating. “Silly creature. You have work in the morning.”
“I haven’t seen you in ten days,” Draco yawned into his neck. “Did you bring me anything.”
Still laughing, “Of course. C’mon, let’s get you to bed. It’s so late and you’re—darling, come on.”
To Draco’s grey eyes blinking up at him all sparkling with delight. “Gift first. You know the rules, Potter.” There was a mark on his cheek from where he rested it on his wrist. Harry felt lightheaded with it, a rush of fizzy, scorching affection.
“All right, but don’t get your hopes up. It’s truly a small one this time.”
Leaning away for his case with Draco hanging on to him, smile so thick it hurt his face. “You’re not making it easier,” mumbled into his hair, and a kiss on top of his head, irresistible. “Here, darling.” From the front zip pocket he produced the tiny stone, dark grey with a thin white vein crossing it. “From an actual river this time. I woke up at five the last day of the conference and hiked up the hill.”
“You’re mad,” Draco said, but his smile gleamed. “It’s hideous. I love it.”
“I’m the mad one,” herding him up and then down the corridor, “it’s three in the morning, you absolute knobhead. You’ve no time to sleep.”
“What a tragedy,” Draco said, then turned to pull on Harry’s tie, to pull him closer. “Suppose you’ll have to find a way to keep me up.”
Harry was knackered. He hadn’t slept well in ten days and the flight, and the delay, and the layover. In his own bedroom, with the sheets that smelled like heaven, with the soft light and, god, his bed, his real actual bed, so inviting and so—looked at Draco, felt this warmth sizzling in his belly and growing only warmer.
“Suppose so,” he conceded with a grin, and kissed him again.
It’s been ten days. The plant on the cabinet grew at least three new leaves. Harry missed this place so badly he was sick with it: now, with his partner in his arms, with his back muscles screaming and a no-sleep headache—now he was happy enough to melt. Did, a little, in Draco’s arms.
Home.
(For flufftober day 23. Find the soft AO3 collection here).
Realized this morning that all my Hollanov fics fit the skate prompt too…. Oh well 🤷♀️
Also, it’s crazy to me how many fics are being shared on Threads. My face to face friends can find me there. That terrifies me. They all know I write fic, but I’ve always told them “if you can find me, you can read my stuff”. Posting there seems… really brave. Anywho, I’ll just stay here for now, if my fics make their way to Threads organically, so be it.
[hey, so this is sad and i'm sorry. Spoilers for tlou season 2/Part 2, 636 words]
Ao3
It's 10pm.
Past her curfew. If she had one, that is. She hadn't known what that meant until Tommy teased her about it once. Joel had never explicitly told her she had to be home by then, just put his hands in his pockets like an old man and talked about how he'd prefer he knew where she was after dark and so on. The exact time was just a boundary she'd made for herself, to have a number, to get to tell her friends that she needs to be home by a certain time. It's novel, for someone to care about her enough to want her home on time and safe. Feels like she's part of something.
It's 10pm.
She's on the couch in the living room.
It's dark, only illuminated by the tv light.
They're watching an old action movie that she can't remember the name of, full of fake violence and gore that doesn't even come close to the real thing. Joel had said she'd probably like it, freak that she is. She'd punched him in the arm for that.
Her head is on his shoulder. It's her favorite place to doze off, but she'll never admit it. He's so warm, like a space heater. Even when she starts off at the other end of the couch, she ends up here. Pressed along his side. Safe.
It's 10pm.
Joel's fast asleep beside her. The cadence of his breath usually a comforting white noise that threatens to pull her down in turn. She'll lie and say he snores when he wakes up.
He hasn't breathed in a minute, though, and she nearly lifts her head to check he's still asleep.
wait, no.
It's 10pm.
She's on the couch in the living room.
They'd had a full day of hiking, he'd taken her out special. Found a new abandoned store, practically untouched. Full of books he thought she'd like. They'd gotten lucky and ran into a music store so he could find her new strings. He's teaching her a new song tomorrow.
Her ribs hurt so badly. She can't take in air too deeply or the pain sends sparkles across her vision.
fucking, no. stop it.
It's 10pm.
They've made up. Were they ever fighting? Did it ever matter?
The VHS video crackles on the screen, lines scrolling past, distorting the images into something unrecognizable.
Joel will tinker with it after breakfast tomorrow. He'll make her eggs and complain about her chewing and the rudeness of it. And then he'll loudly slurp his coffee in the middle of Tommy's sentence just to make her laugh.
The side of her head is damp where it rests on him. Blood's soaked through his clothes into hers. There's so much of it.
The puddle is growing under him, she can feel it just starting to go cool and tacky on her skin. He always told her head wounds bleed like a bitch.
please, please.
She doesn't know what time it actually is.
She's laying on the frozen floor of the lodge.
Joel's bulk is underneath her, she's as nuzzled into him as her broken ribs will allow. Even just clawing her body over to his left her winded and half blind with the spots in her vision.
He's nearly as cold as the floor, now. All of that radiating warmth and affection gone like the light in his eyes.
There's distant yelling echoing off the walls. Jesse, she thinks. Looking for her. She doesn't care.
She clamps her eyes shut tighter, pressing her face into Joel's shirt. Wills herself back to that house, that couch. Back in that moment she'd made just for her.
She lays there, tucked against him, and she pretends.
The air is heavy with exhaust trails crisscrossing and dissipating in every direction. Streaks of light scatter in wide spreading arcs. Missiles, both surface to air and air to air, and the tracers of anti air guns far below. I think I even see the odd burst of flack, but i have to be imagining that.
Been in this fight too long, minds playing tricks.
It's getting harder to see my allies in the thick of all this, I check the radar. Their IFFs keep getting fewer and farther apart. I hear a screaming tone and a womans voice, I reflexively shove the stick as far to the left as it'll go and send the fighter rolling wing over wing. The missile streaks past and the warning system goes quiet again, leaving me with my thoughts and the groaning of the airframe.
The National Armory has taken the MiG-29M far beyond it's limits, no airframe, no matter how old, can be wasted in this war. The Super Fulcrum flies higher, faster, runs better and can take twice the beating she could take when she first rolled off the assembly line in 2005. She's even achieved the rare distinction of so called "Hyper-Maneuverability." The aces in their modern 7th gen fighters may look down their noses at us second liners in our "salvage jobs," but i know i can take a sort of pride in knowing I'm twice the pilot they'll ever be.
Shame how little that means now.
Raw skill and technical capability fails in the face of an enemy with technological and economic superiority. What good is dog fighting against a swarm of fighter sized drones that has you outnumbered 10:1 with the ability to kill you before you even see them on radar?
The sound of the burning metal of my flight leads plane falling over me is your answer. Sounds like the rain. I pull out of the roll and enter a dive, radars a mess with blinking red IFF signatures all over me. I have to keep maneuvering for now, look for an opening.
Getting hard to think. The comms are a mess. AWACs is gone, not sure when that happened. Chain of command has collapsed, everyone's talking over each other. Brass won't give the order to withdraw and stopped answering our calls. Blues theory we were just a diversion for commands golden boy's mission is looking more and more right by the minute. I wonder-
A burst of gunfire streaks past my cockpit. I ease the stick up out of the dive, aiming for a sheer cliff face, the drones haven't let up. The afterburner is on full and the cliff is filling my view screen. I wait until it's all i can see before rapidly decelerating and angle the nose for another climb, at least four fighters overshoot me and slam into the cliff face. Six are still on me, I kick the afterburner to maximum again.
Chaos still reigns on comms. I check the IFF, Blues signature is gone. I think about retreating. I'd have to go AWOL, retreating without authorization would be desertion and desertion is treason and traitors are shot. I keep climbing, I can't do anything with these things on me.
There's a grinding noise, sheering metal, and I begin spinning out uncontrollably. I look to my left and see my wing is gone. The old girl finally gave out after all this time.
I key my comms, "There's a hole in my left wing." I report and turn off the radio, the drones peel off in my peripheral vision. The cockpits rattling, airframe failing, and warnings blaring create the chorus to my last minutes. I fight with the stick to keep us pushing upwards into the heavens through the death spin, the canards and vertical stabilizers are forced to fight beyond their limits in support of my lost cause.
The altimeter clicks higher in my HUD and I can see the sky begin to shift from cloudless blue to twilight purple. The automated system begs me to eject eject eject ej-
I disable the warning system. At last, i reach my zenith. The purple twilight is stretching into the beginnings of stars. I let go of the stick.
I unlatch the breathing mask, like taking a muzzle off my snout.
McShep, Rated G, first kiss, fluff, getting together
Post shrine. Because Rodney running to John's room meant more to both of them than they admitted. And they both knew it. (inspired by this post from @johnsheppard-assshaker)
John sat at his desk, staring at the cursor blinking on his screen. Mission reports sucked. Mission reports detailing the near death and stupidly risky brain surgery of your best friend? Those sucked ten times worse. He already couldn't get the images out of his head. Rodney's dazed expressions and awkward movements as his body and mind were stolen from him. Taking a deep breath, he looked to the ceiling, staring at the light there until dots danced across his vision in an attempt to chase away the thoughts.
A swift rapping came at his door and he shut his eyes, rubbing his palms into them in an effort to correct his vision. "Come in," he hollered.
It was Rodney. Alive and well, granted very tired looking and with a bandage still across his forehead. "Uh, hi."
"Hey," John greeted back and stood walking around to be next to his friend. "She released you? I hadn't heard."
The scientist humed softly, not quite meeting John's eye as his hand drifted up to lightly touch said bandage. He seemed off–nervous but not in the panicky way his nerves normally presented.
"Everything okay?" John prodded shifting closer and thinking the door closed.
"I, uh, this is awkward," Rodney started and cleared his throat. "About when I was sick, I remember a lot of what happened actually, and about that night…"
John swallowed tightly as a lump settled in his throat, choking him off. Yeah, he remembered too. Was trying really hard not to. It hurt, it hurt too much.
Rodney rushing to his room, pounding on his door, bursting in and holding onto him like he–John–was the only anchor left to his sanity. How frantic Rodney had been about waking up without him there. The unspoken things that had passed between them in that short conversation, that had hung high and loft above them as they sipped beer together under the stars.The evening hard and touching, intimate and depressing all at once.
"What about it?" John made himself say and he knew it came out tight and froggy.
"I'm sorry for how I acted, for running here and– I mean because that was ridiculous, right? Acting like that, like you were–" he drifted off, the last few words being spoken softer, sadder as he lost momentum.
"No," John rebuffed quickly, taking a half step closer. He wanted to reach out to grip Rodney's shoulders just like he had that night. Wanted to say so many of those unspoken things, but he didn't know how.
Rodney met his eyes, and John knew he didn't have to say anything. He couldn't pretend like things hadn't shifted between them, and if the soft nearly pleading look in Rodney's eyes was any give away he couldn't either. So John did it–did what he'd wanted to that night and held back because Rodney had been sick and vulnerable, and it wouldn't have been fair.
Dipping in to kiss the other man was easy for multiple reasons. One because he was already so close; and two, because Rodney didn't put up a fight. Stood there and let it happen, meeting him halfway, head subtly inclining to John as he moved.
"Did I say something I don't remember that night?" Rodney asked when they parted. His tone was thoughtful, and John got the impression that he was asking himself the question more than anything.
"No," John supplied, bringing his hands up to hold Rodney like he had that night. Hands on his shoulders squeezing with reassuring and possessive fingers. "You didn’t have to say it."
"Maybe I want to," Rodney said back, but those were the last words said for some time as John pulled him in for another long deserved, well overdue kiss.
