Growing Confidence

A nerdy wolf girl starts getting bigger and stronger, and not even her boyfriend can stop her. Explicit.

Stephanie tilted the envelope toward her hand and shook the silver pendant onto her palm.

“Oh, wow," she said. “You didn't have to do this. Dinner was enough."

Her boyfriend, the tiger across the table from her, shrugged. “I thought you could wear it to Pathfinder." Though he was trying to play it casual, he watched Stephanie's reaction, hoping she'd like it.

“Yeah," the white wolf girl said, paying more attention to her present. The pendant itself was about an inch and a half in diameter and made of silver. It was shaped like a disk, with the image of a snarling wolf carved into it, its eyes looking forward and its mane making up the outer part of the disk. Its small steel necklace chain had pooled in her palm underneath.

The Snow-Black Fortress

Instead of studying barbarians, a fantasy anthropologist winds up joining them instead. Explicit.

Footsteps dented the snow without any feet to make them. The falling snow and gusts of wind would cover them up within minutes, and then there would be no sign that anyone had been there.

Edward paused, and the footsteps stood still. He crouched down, digging two gloved fingers into the snow and putting a clump of it onto his tongue. He was loath to chill himself any more than he already was, but he'd read in a book that it kept your breath from fogging up.

Ahead of Edward loomed the fortress, built out of greying stone, perched on the side of a mountain. Behind him was the less perilous peak he'd climbed. And beneath him, beyond the thick stone bridge, were thousands of feet of nothingness down to a rocky cleft between the two peaks.. Edward's heart hammered in his chest.

The tracks began to move again, dotting the snow with dark spots where the gray-black flagstones showed through. Edward grabbed the edges of his cloak and pulled them closer together against the cold. On his chest, sitting above his traveling robe, was an unevenly round disc of lead. Stamped on it in a puffy, bulbous way was the image of a half-closed eye.

Fight the Beast

Thrown into the arena, a young lion grows into a tough, brutish gladiator. Explicit.

A blade flowed down with a flourish along the way, aimed directly at him. Milon stumbled back. Cheers clapped his ears, sand twisted his feet, and sun shot through his eyes.

The next stroke was hidden in the glare of the sun. Up, across, stinging, bringing him to his knees. He clutched at his chest. His hands were red. His fur was red. The gash running from his breast to his stomach ached with every motion he made, ached with a pain that was dull and deep, hot and stinging, sticky and trembling and too imperfect to be a dream.

The tip of a sword pointed at his face. The cheers subsided, then roared even more fiercely. Milon's eyes were rooted to the blade. A drop of blood wobbled on the end. He stood still, staring into his life cut into two by the sword.

Hell of a Party

A Halloween party gets more enjoyable for a young cat once a demonic force starts altering reality. Explicit.

Circ had grown out of parties. Well, he didn't want to say it like that and sound like an asshole, but that was pretty much the way he felt. Parties were great when you were a kid and got presents and everyone played games. And he bet that parties were pretty fun when you were an adult and could get drunk and do all sorts of crazy stuff. But when you were a teenager, what was there to do?

He couldn't dance, so trying to would be an embarrassment. It was way too loud to have a conversation with someone. But everyone was was where it was noisy; he couldn't slip off somewhere quiet and find someone to talk to.

The music was hurting the brown cat's ears. Damn it, was he getting a headache? He'd wanted to go trick or treating, but his friends had talked him into coming to the party instead. He was pretty sure he'd be having more fun trick or treating. Only maybe half the people had even showed up in any kind of costume.

Intolerant Lactoid

If milk turns people into cows, what if sour milk turned people into tough punk cows? Explicit.

Jessica lifted the carton to her nose, sniffed softly, then made a small, scrunched face. The inscrutable numbers that were the expiration date didn't offer any help. It had probably gone bad. Then again, she didn't want to waste it. Even if it was a little overdue, it couldn't hurt.

She wasn't always so compulsively frugal. It was just that her temp job had barely given her enough money to keep her afloat and now that was over too, so anywhere that she could cut corners, she would. So there were a few dry drops of chocolate syrup left over in the bottle, and a glass of milk that wasn't smelling so good. She put two and two together, and came up with a slightly chocolate-flavored not-quite-right glass of milk.

We are not meant to be

Hypnotic alien tentacles transform some thylacine guy who was just trying to clean up his house. Explicit.

Jay was happy enough that even with his hands covered in dirt and his fur damp with sweat, he was still smiling. A month ago, he'd gotten fed up with the mess in his small flat. Two weeks ago, a slow-burning desire to clean up had sprouted into a white-hot flame. And now things were great. He'd even put plants in his house. On purpose. And he was watering them. It was amazing.