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Feast of Fools
This is a commission I wrote for a person on Furaffinity.net by the name of Vaughnblondetail. It’s the tale of a homeless person who’s given a chance at living a normal life again, at least for a day. But as many people already know, these sorts of things always come with a price.
Timothy sighed as he soaked in the warmth of one of the fanciest showers he’d ever seen in his life. The jets shot from every angle, ensuring total coverage as the water flowed down his body from either side, and from above. The shampoo smelled of a mixture of lavender and melon, giving sweet, flowery scent to replace the stink weeks of grease had given his unwashed hair. The body wash felt even better with its mixture of herb and essential oils to soften his skin as he used the loofa provided to scrub off the dirt, grime, and dead skin he’d accumulated over his time on the streets. The rack even came with a back scrubber to reach the parts of his body he couldn’t reach normally. When his body was clean, he was loathe to leave the comforting stream. It had been so long since he’d been afforded this sort of luxury. But, sadly, all good things must come to an end, and he knew that his benefactor was waiting.
In an effort that seemed almost to cause him physical pain, Timothy reached over to the control pad, and tapped the buttons that would shut off the water pressure. The steam lingered with the refreshing scents of the wash he’d just had, combined with the scents of an automatic air freshening device and scented candles that seemed to shift the scents every five minutes. What kind of technology must this man have purchased to be able to manage such a feat? Tim sighed again as the scent shifted to that familiar blend of sugar, cinnamon, and spice one only smelled when fresh snickerdoodles were coming out of the oven. His mouth began to water, and his stomach growled as he reached for the body towel.
After the cold, rough nights spent in his little hovel in the back alley (or a park bench, if he was lucky), the towel felt like a down comforter. It smelled of wildflowers and honey, calling back memories of his childhood when his mother used to towel him off after a warm bath. He smiled, even as he felt a tear streaming down his cheek. If she could only see him now. She’d hardly recognize him. He hardly recognized himself as he wiped the fog off the bathroom mirror.
Long, shoulder-length blond hair clung to him like sea-kelp. His beard had grown thick, and bushy, obscuring the man beneath in a mat of dripping hair. His vivid green eyes had been subdued by the bloodshot red that came from lack of sleep and proper nourishment. Even to his own eyes, he looked like a tramp.
“Not anymore,” he whispered to himself as he reached for the scissors and electric razor the staff had provided while he’d been in the shower. His hands trembled as he slid his fingers through the loops of the scissors and brought them to the edge of his wet beard. For the first time in months, he would have a proper shave.
When he’d finished, at last, he looked on his handiwork from the mirror. His hair had begun to dry, so he quickly took the thick silver brush, and rushed to get his hair properly taken care of, before it had the chance to harden into painful snarls. When the work was complete, his hair shone in the fluorescent lights, and seemed almost to dance, as though it were happy. Tim chuckled. After all this fine treatment, how could he be anything else?
He looked down at the brush and couldn’t help but admire its craftsmanship. The handle had been crafted out of the finest silver and brass that flowed upwards around the bristles of the brush. He casually fingered the rough bristles and smiled at the familiar sound of hairs snapping like playing cards in a bridge shuffle. A boar’s head had been painstakingly etched into the metal. Tim ran a gentle finger over the carving, marveling at the time and money it must have taken to achieve something like this. It was a real piece of art.
Almost reluctantly, he put the brush down, and gazed at himself in the mirror. His once-trim figure had now turned gaunt. The bones of his ribcage had begun to show, and his arms, once strong and determined, had grown thin and frail. He leaned heavily on the rose-colored marble as he stared at himself and shook his head. This was a mockery. One night, he’d been promised. One night to have a home, a place to stay, to clean up, to eat real food again, to rest. Just one night. Then he’d have to return to the streets and the harshness of a reality that didn’t care how hard he tried to provide for himself.
“Sir.”
Timothy was jarred from his self-pity as the smooth voice of his benefactor’s butler carried through the intercom.
“If you are ready, Sir, the hair stylist is waiting. I’ve placed a set of clothing for you on the bed. After that, will come your fitting, and then the dinner.”
Timothy sighed and made his way to the bathroom’s door. He pulled it open and stared up at the butler’s protruding brow and thick jaw. His silver-fringed black hair had been carefully parted to the side. His gloves looked closer to baseball mitts, and his back and shoulders remained hunched, whether in an effort to look less imposing or simply out of habit, Timothy couldn’t tell.
“Thank you,” Timothy said as he inched his way towards the bed.
“Any time, Master Timothy,” the butler rumbled. “Master Collin was most insistent that you receive every courtesy. And considering your–” he cleared his throat “–unique background, I can understand why.” In a move that was very un-butlerlike, he rested one of his heavy gloved hands on Timothy’s shoulder and gave a kindly smile. “I was there once, myself. You’ll find your way. Most of the master’s guests do, one way or the other.”
“Um . . . thanks, I guess.” Timothy blushed as he broke contact and made his way towards the bed. The gesture had been nice, but rather awkward.
“You needn’t worry about the bathroom. The staff can take care of that.”
“Um, okay, Mister. . ..”
“Simian, Sir. Just Simian.”
“Well, thanks again, Simian.” Timothy smiled weakly. “It’s nice to hear things aren’t completely hopeless. And hey, who knows, with this new haircut, maybe I’ll actually stand a chance of getting a job again.”
Simian smiled. “That’s the spirit. Now off with you, Master Timothy. Your appointment is waiting.”
Timothy smiled more sincerely this time as he made his way towards the door. “Thanks again, Simian.” He waved at the butler, then shut the door behind him.
Simian frowned as he furrowed his brow, and the creases became more pronounced on his forehead. “Odd. He doesn’t act much like a pig. Could something have gone wrong with Master Collin’s scrying?” He shook his massive head. “Preposterous,” he rumbled as he shuffled towards the bathroom, and picked up the brush Timothy had used. It glowed a light blue, and sparked against his gloves, causing them to singe. Simian frowned and bore his teeth in a snarl.
“Now, now, none of that,” he growled as he waved his hand over one of the side drawers. The handle glowed briefly, then returned to normal. He pulled it open to reveal a plethora of brushes, all neatly laid with bristles down and handles up. Horses, dogs, wolves, cats, lions, the collection seemed nearly endless, and even as Simian returned the brush, and strapped it in place, he looked into the space within, and smiled as the drawer continued to stretch far beyond the confines of the counterspace, revealing brush upon brush, each with its own animal carvings. He chuckled to himself. “That never gets old, no matter how many times I see it. I really do have to see about brushing up on spacial distortion some time. It could prove quite useful,” he muttered to himself as he slowly shut the drawer again and waved his hand over the handle. When he pulled the drawer out again, a series of ordinary bathroom supplies cluttered a finite space. He nodded in satisfaction as he shut the drawer, then brought his hand up to view the burns properly. He tutted in frustration at the damage as he saw through the white material to the thick black hide beneath.
“I really do need to speak with Master Collin about those artifacts. Honestly, it’s almost as if he’s testing my resistance.” Simian snorted in disgust as he checked himself in the mirror. He shoved his jaw outwards to get a better view of his sharper canines and flared his nostrils in frustration, then sighed in relief as the scents in the bathroom shifted to the familiar smell of a wet forest just after a storm and tropical fruits just waiting to be picked. His stomach growled as he looked up at his rapidly thickening five o’clock shadow and bushier sideburns.
“The audacity of it all,” he said as his brow ridge extended to form a permanent scowl. He walked over to a large double-door slatted closet and pulled it open as he squatted down on his thick legs. Instead of the usual monogrammed towels that he had been expecting, a bright golden light shone in his eyes. When the light faded, he beheld a cornucopia of bright yellow banana clusters. His mouth watered, and he smiled as he reached in to pluck one of the delicious fruits, while he leaned forward on his fist for support. “Then again, Master does reward rather well, when I succeed.” He expertly peeled the banana, and immediately began to chew contentedly as he felt his collar expand with his neck. He sighed in pleasure as the suit merged into his swelling frame to become shining black fur with a single patch of silver on his back. “I must remember to thank him later,” he said as he pulled out the bushels, took his seat on the heated tiles, and began his meal in earnest, peeling with his large gorilla feet as he feasted on the fruit with his hands.
The soft lull of the string quartet music filtering through the doors did little to alleviate the sudden discomfort in Timothy’s stomach as he stood before the dining hall’s entrance. His bow tie had been carefully selected, along with every other article of clothing, including the cuff links and button hole. Mister Collin had spared no expense. His hair had been carefully cut to a respectable length, then parted down the middle in homage to the older styles of the Victorian era, before solidifying into place with the assistance of gel, pomade, and more than a little hair spray. He doubted even a steam roller could shift so much as a hair out of place. He gulped again. His throat felt dry. How could he stand here, in this place, to dine with all these men? Surely, Mister Collin’s friends were all just as rich and influential. If he’d known this was going to be a party, he might not have come at all. He nearly bolted when he felt a light hand resting on his shoulder.
“Feeling a little skittish, are we?” Mister Collin smiled kindly as he squeezed Timothy on the shoulder. He leaned casually on a gold-tipped cane, and chuckled as he ran a hand through his silver hair. His ice-blue eyes were filled with warmth, and just a hint of mischief as he chuckled, then clapped Timothy on the arm. For a man so far in his years, he was surprisingly vivacious, and the implacable hand of age had yet to pluck the fit build his muscles had offered him in his youth. His olive-green suit matched his skin tone quite well as it emphasized his frame without being too tight. “Relax, my boy. Nobody is here to judge you. Far from it, in fact. It’s just a little dinner, and some entertainment afterwards. Who knows. Perhaps you could make some connections here that will help you find the employment you seek?”
“I don’t know,” Timothy said nervously.
“Trust me, my boy. By the end of this night, I guarantee you’ll be happy as a pig in the mud.”
“You’re sure?” Timothy said as he fiddled with the crystal boar links he’d been given. “And, if you don’t mind my asking, what’s with the whole boar theme? I keep seeing it all over the place.”
Mister Collin chuckled. “Let’s just say it has to do with a bet I made.”
“A bet, huh? This isn’t going to be some kind of joke at my expense, is it?”
“No, no, nothing of the kind,” Mister Collin promised. “My friends and I do this at least once a year. We just like to keep it hush hush.”
“And what happens after?”
“That’s up to you and the others to decide. I’ll leave you with enough to get up on your feet again, if that’s what you wish. Perhaps a recommendation to assist you. My friends and I have a great deal of pull in certain circles.”
“You’re not talking illegal stuff, I hope.”
Mister Collin laughed. “Certainly not, my boy. No need to be so underhanded to get what you want, when you have the American dream. I just happened to achieve the dream a little differently than most.”
“Why does that make me feel less assured?”
“Because I’m a mysterious man who plucked you up off the streets, and nobody acts that way anymore without an angle?”
“Yeah, I’d say that about sums it up,” Timothy said as the two maintained eye contact for several seconds. Then they both burst into a fit of laughter.
“Come along, now. Your dinner awaits.”
The doors swung open slowly to reveal a long oak table that had been expertly varnished and polished to a shine. The carvings depicted various scenes and creatures from nature, including lush forests and vines, thick claws clutching at the legs, lions roaring, and many more. A series of etched grooves came together in the center of the table’s surface to create what looked to be some sort of a star reaching outwards with its flares to touch the edges of the table with vines that blossomed from them.
The table had been occupied by twelve other men of varying ages and builds. Some were completely bald, and covered in tattoos. Others had been carefully preened to give a lofty appearance, including the dirty looks they often gave towards their neighbors. One couple appeared to be college students, though the way they gazed so hatefully towards Mister Collin and the other men standing in the room, one would think they wanted to bite their benefactors’ heads off, rather than thank them.
“Ah, Collin. It’s about time you showed up.” A taller man with black-and-white streaks in his hair smiled, drawing his tight skin up his egg-shaped face. “We were worried we’d have to start without you, you know.”
“Cedric, you know that’s not very fair. As I recall, last year, you made us wait a good two or three hours.”
Cedric blushed, then raised a gloved hand to clear his throat. “Be that as it may, we’re all here now, so I suppose we should begin, shouldn’t we?”
“Do, lets,” Collin said with just a hint of a smirk. “Gentlemen, let’s take our seats. Timothy, you’ll find your chair waiting for you over there, next to . . . my goodness. Is that one of the Jameson boys?”
Cedric shrugged. “He embezzled from his family and got caught. He’s dead to them now. You know how it goes.”
Collin shook his head. “Such a shame. Such a shame.” He sighed as he led Timothy over to the chair. The dark-haired Jameson remained staunchly silent as he stared ahead, not even deigning to acknowledge Timothy’s presence. His hand clenched tightly around the fabric of his pant leg, and his jaw showed clear evidence of gritting teeth as the muscles near his cheek bones strained.
“Pay him no mind, Timothy. You’re my guest. If he has objections he will have to take it up with me, and with his host.”
Jameson’s arm began to tremble as he struggled to control some clearly evident rage. Timothy took his seat hesitantly and did his best to avoid eye contact.
The remainder of the men took their seats, and Mister Collin took the gilded chair at the head of the table. “Gentlemen, welcome to our little gathering. Each of you was chosen for a particular reason to join us this evening. The events that led to your circumstances vary, but the result is the same. It is our hope that, as our guests, you will enjoy this meal we’ve had prepared in your honor, and that you will find yourselves significantly heartened by the end of this evening’s activities. We’re not ones to stand on ceremony, so, please, feel free to begin. If you have need of anything, you need but ask the servants. They’ll gladly assist you in any way they can. Bon appétit, gentlemen.”
In a flurry of motion, decanters were poured, bottles emptied, trays and platters left open on the table, and so much more. The alluring scent of rich food caused all thirteen guests’ stomachs to growl in anticipation. Steak, pork, beans, chicken, fried foods, gravy, sausage, bacon, salad, Asian, Italian, Mediterranean, and so much more. How the table managed to hold it all, Timothy couldn’t understand, but it did, and he couldn’t wait to try it.
Some of the men managed to show proper restraint, exercising manners as they reached to serve themselves, before offering to pass to the others. Unfortunately, some of the men weren’t so kind. Grease and juices clung to their hands as they reached, and grabbed what they could, and stared suspiciously at their fellows as they hovered protectively over their plates. A veritable mountain had begun to form on more than one as the men tore into their meals, and let their appetites do the talking.
Jameson shook his head, and took a casual sip from his wine glass. “Shameful,” he muttered to himself as he lowered the glass, and picked up the corresponding fork and knife, before cutting into his filet mignon.
Timothy blushed as he took his own first bite, and did his best to avoid eye contact. The fried chicken was surprisingly good, and the barbeque even more so. He winced as he watched further down the table, where several grease and sauce stains had already begun to spatter the men’s shirts and suits. How could they do that when their hosts had gone through such trouble just to tailor the suits for them in the first place? He continued to use his fork and knife, being careful to avoid dripping.
“Well, at least you have some class,” Jameson grumbled as he reached for a dinner roll. The bread was warm, and flaky, almost falling apart in the man’s hands as steam rose from its interior. He slathered them artfully with soft butter and took a small bite. A heavy sigh left him as he closed his eyes in pleasure.
“My family taught me how to eat.” Timothy shrugged. “I may not be upper class, but good manners are universal,” he said as he polished off his fifth drum stick and started into the mashed potatoes and gravy.
“So you would think,” Jameson said with a smirk as he chewed further on his steak. “But I think they are inclined to disagree.”
Timothy gaped. “Did that man just take–?”
“A whole hock of ham? Yes, yes he did.”
“Hey, you, rich boy!” the bald one with the tattoos barked over the table, even as he continued to chew. “Toss me some rolls!”
“Honestly,” Jameson growled as he picked up the basket and passed it across the way. It was snatched faster than Jameson had time to react. In a matter of moments, half the rolls were gone, and the men were biting into them like apples, chewing and laughing as they guzzled their drinks to wash the food down.
“Barbarians,” Jameson scoffed as he finished his glass. He raised it and motioned for one of the servants to refill it. “And leave the bottle here. I think it’s going to be a long night, and I’m not sure I have the constitution to face it without a little assistance.”
The servant nodded and relinquished the wine.
Timothy did his best to keep on Jameson’s good side, though it wasn’t that hard as the dinner progressed. Soon one bottle turned to two, then three, then five. Jameson’s cheeks were thoroughly flushed as he drained his glass. “Aw, to hell with it,” he snarled at last, “give me those ribs.” A half rack was promptly dropped onto his plate, and he dug in with gusto, gnawing at the bones as he got every piece of meat he could, while the sauce slathered his face and hands. A collective cheer rose up from farther down the table, followed by a rally of belches and laughter.
“Didn’t know you had it in you, rich boy.” The bald man from earlier chuckled as he downed another glass. “How’s it feel to eat like the rest of us, hmm?”
Jameson didn’t seem to hear him. He continued to scarf at his food, reaching for whatever he could serve, and consuming more, downing another few gulps of wine or sherry as the mood took him. A rather loud series of pops ripped through the air, followed immediately by crude laughter. It would seem some of the men had gas, and they didn’t care who knew it.
Timothy shifted his legs uncomfortably. His suit felt strangely constrictive as he took another bite, this time from an egg roll dipped in orange sauce and stuffed with a piece of orange chicken he’d taken from his plate. Everything tasted so delicious, yet he still felt like he could eat more. His stomach growled, even as he fed it. How was this possible? He stared down the table. The others had been stained and smeared almost beyond recognition. Buttons had been undone, ties torn away or hanging loosely on their chests as their mouths bulged with food. All the grease and sauces had left a dark, sticky stain on their fingers and nails, even as servants removed the old plates and replaced them, so the men could keep eating. He winced as he rubbed his sore jaw. He’d been eating so fast, he hadn’t given it time to rest. Everything felt so swollen. He took a moment to sit back and get his second wind.
Another titanic belch sounded, this time from right next to him. Timothy gaped as he turned to Jameson. In the few moments he’d turned away, the man had undone his tie and the first couple of buttons on his dress shirt. A loud tear sounded as he spread his legs as wide as he could manage and leaned closer to his plate, using his elbows and upper arms for support. “When in Rome,” he grunted in response to Timothy’s stare, and then returned to his plate. His bare legs were exposed beneath the torn material of the suit, and he didn’t even seem to care as a bassoon sounded from beneath his chair.
Timothy blushed and did his best to avoid eye contact, even as he felt his own gut rumbling for release.
“Thanks, sweet cakes. Why don’t you stay a little longer? We could have some fun,” the bald man said as he leered at the waitress refilling his glass. Rather than act offended, she giggled.
“Maybe later,” she said as she caressed his beard stubble. “I like my men thick and meaty.” The man’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath of what Timothy could only assume was perfume. His eyes rolled in the back of his head, and he panted as the buttons on his suit coat burst, spraying the table with plastic. His throat bobbed, like he was trying to swallow something, but all Timothy could make out was some sort of grunting. Was he trying to clear his throat?
“Muriel,” Cedric said warningly, “this is neither the time nor the place.”
The girl sighed. “Yes, Sir,” she said sadly as she made her way back towards the kitchen.
Timothy coughed. Come to think of it, his throat was feeling rather dry. Maybe it was all the alcohol. He waved one of the serving folk over. “Could I maybe get some water, please?” he rasped. Things really must have been getting bad for him to have that much difficulty. He could swear his voice nearly cracked.
“Of course, Sir,” the servant said obligingly. He soon returned with a crystal pitcher and poured the liquid into a new glass. “Will that be all, Sir?”
“Y-yes. For now. Thank you,” Timothy said. Then he started to cough, and quickly downed several gulps of the life-giving substance. Cool relief flooded his throat, and he sighed contentedly as he did his best to clear it of any obstruction.
“I say, Timothy, are you doing all right?” Mister Collin asked. It was the first time that evening anyone from the head of the table had spoken to him.
“Fine,” Timothy managed to say. Just . . . a little dry,” he grunted as he took a few more gulps. Was he coming down with a cold?
“I recommend you try the chow mein next. The pork is excellently cooked, and the sauce is positively addicting.”
Timothy’s stomach rumbled, even as the suit seemed to cut into his waist. But how could that be? It fit just fine when the tailor had taken his measurements before. He struggled to keep his focus on Mister Collin, rather than the food, even as he tried to keep his rumbling gut from expelling the gas that doubtless waited for release. “Um . . . Mister Collin.”
“Yes?”
“Something feels . . . off. I . . . I think I must’ve eaten at least five or six plates by now, but I still feel hungry. It’s like I haven’t eaten anything. And . . . and the suit you gave me. It’s–.”
“Perfectly understandable for you to eat so much. You’ve been malnourished for far too long. Your body is simply replenishing lost nutrition. As for the suit itself, of course you can keep it. That is what you were going to ask, wasn’t it, my boy?”
Timothy felt so hot. It was hard to think, especially as the churning increased. Was that what he wanted to ask? Everything felt so dizzy.
“Eat, boy. Eat. Put some meat on those bones,” Mister Collins insisted.
Timothy couldn’t breathe. He clawed at his collar and the black silk bow tie came free, followed by the first button. Cool air washed over his neck and chest as he breathed deeply, filling his nose with the delectable scent of the feast. A heaping helping of pork chow mein now sat on his plate. He couldn’t quite recall serving it, though. Had one of the servants done it while he was adjusting?
Eat.
His stomach growled.
Eat.
His mouth watered.
Eat.
His throat bobbed as he gulped. He was so hungry.
“You gonna eat that?” Jameson’s cheeks bulged with food to the point they seemed almost to hang like jowls. His dark eyes stared greedily at the mixture of vegetables, shredded pork, and fried noodles on top. His lips smacked together as he chewed and swallowed whatever swill of wine and food he’d been nursing in his mouth. His ruby-studded cuff links remained surprisingly untouched by the filth he’d brought onto himself, their boar eyes reflecting the candlelight and flashing into their eyes.
“I . . . I, uh . . ..”
That strange sound came again, this time from Jameson as he cleared his own throat. “Damn itching,” he growled as he reached towards Timothy’s plate. Makin’ me–” a mixture of a snort and a grunt eeked out from his throat as he closed in on his prize “–sound all funny.”
Everything seemed to spin for a moment as Timothy lost track of the room. The next thing he knew, he tasted pork and salt, and felt the familiar crunch of fried noodles in his mouth. He shuddered as he felt a warm, moist sensation surrounding his mouth and dripping down his chin. He swallowed and stuck out his tongue to taste it. As he suspected, his face was now covered in chow mein sauce. But when had he gone for it like that?
Jameson scowled. “Fine,” he grunted as he took a handful of wings and ribs and began to lay into them. His lower canines flashed as he continued to eat, and he soon grinned as he was lost in the euphoria of stuffing his face again.
The bald man pointed to some corn on the cob and grunted, not even deigning to ask as one of the other men reached over and smacked the platter down in front. The man immediately grabbed the cobs and stood up, pushing his chair back, before he dove in face-first and started chomping the corn cob like a typewriter does paper, one row at a time. Flecks of the corn clung to his bristles as he continued to grunt and eat. His shirt sleeves now flowed down onto the table, and his chest was bare to the world as he continued to feast. The others soon followed his example, leaning on the table as their rears strained against the seats of their pants with the occasional fart mixed with their snorts as they scarfed their food.
Jameson laughed as he licked his lips. His stubble had grown significantly, spreading down his neck and over his face as he relished in his slovenly behavior. He let out another belch, and as he did, his pants burst against his thickening thighs, revealing the silk underwear he’d been given and a significantly heavy bulge that lay beneath.
Timothy blinked owlishly at the other diners. They all seemed to be stripping, their clothing tearing like so much tissue paper on Christmas day. A pleasant tingle ran through his ears, hands, feet, and crotch as he watched.
Eat.
He didn’t even know what he was chewing on. He just had to eat. Every time he finished, more food was shoveled on top.
Grow.
He was hardly aware as the button on his pants burst off, and his belt buckle slammed against the underside of the table. He had to eat. The more he shoveled down, the hungrier he became. It was like all the food was being taken, even as it dropped down his throat. He snorted, then coughed as he drank too much and felt it rush up his nostrils. That didn’t stop him, though. He just exhaled violently through his nose and kept right on eating.
Swell.
Timothy grunted as he felt the tingling intensify below. He groaned in pleasure, and couldn’t help but stand as his glutes twitched. Something heavy and warm expanded between his legs, amplifying the sensation as he bowed the limbs to accommodate it.
Release.
Without a second thought, Timothy relaxed his bowels. The sudden expulsion of gas was nigh-on explosive, detonating like a firecracker. He blushed at the others’ reactions as laughter filled the room, and the men continued to point, eat, and spray their food and drink over the table.
Eat.
Expand.
Feed.
Feast.
In a matter of seconds, Timothy found himself buried in his food again as his stomach roared, and his senses cried out for more. The seat of his pants had constricted, causing greater discomfort, but he was too lost in the need to eat to care. The euphoria was too intoxicating.
Eventually, the big fellow with the tattoos interrupted again, and pointed with darkened fingers, even as he lifted a leg to release another spurt of gas, then scratch his crotch with his other hand. “Hey, everybody, look at Richie over there!”
Jameson’s eyes had become unfocused, his face painted in a cocktail of barbeque sauce, hot sauce, gravy, and all manner of substances both liquid and semi-solid. One of the servants had replaced his wineglass with a bowl that he sloshed his face in from time to time to drink, before returning to his meal. He continually grunted, clearing his throat as his Adam’s apple bobbed between swallows. His beard had consumed his face, and his hair had grown disheveled as he slopped through who knew which serving. His nose was so heavily caked with mashed potatoes and other starchy products, it looked more like a snout, even twitching as he flared his nostrils from within. His lower lip bulged, and two tiny points were visible from time to time as he smacked and chewed his food as noisily as possible. He didn’t seem to care about what he looked like anymore, or even if anyone was staring, for that matter.
“Food,” he grunted between. “Feed me.” The server obliged, shoveling a thick helping of beef stroganoff onto the man’s plate.
Timothy furrowed his brows in confusion as he looked more closely at Jameson. His body looked . . . thicker somehow. Tiny bristles glinted in the light from his legs and torso. As he squinted his eyes to take a closer look, he noticed the cuff links on Jameson’s wrists. With each movement, something caught in the light, almost like a sort of spider web.
Must eat.
The instinct was so strong. Timothy wanted to return to his own feasting, but he had to figure out what that was. Something didn’t seem right. He pulled his thoughts from the mire of his tenth helping of mashed potatoes and fried chicken to watch Jameson. A few moments later, he managed to hone in on the glint. It looked . . . yes, it was, a golden thread. It stretched from the cuff links, joining the two together, and then stretching up to his nose. Occasional spurts of the stuff would glint from Jameson’s food and drink, almost like they were discharging it. Just what was he seeing, some sort of gluttony-induced hallucination? He turned to look at the others. Each of them had their own threads, some reaching to their mouths, some stretching over the edge of the table, and down beneath. One man’s hands were completely encased in them. Just what was going on here?
“Sir, might I interest you in some mud pie?”
Must consume.
Timothy turned, and the room seemed to spin as he did so. His throat bobbed naturally now, scratching itself as he let out a confused grunt.
“Pie, Sir. Would you care for some?”
The scent of chocolate, cream, and bananas assaulted Timothy’s nose as the server brought it closer. The golden threads writhed from its perfect, glinting surface, as if to entice him. His mouth watered.
“I . . . I–.”
EAT!
The threads snapped, latching to his cufflinks, his nostrils, his mouth. His tongue felt so thick, so heavy. It wanted more. He could practically taste the graham cracker crust, the caramelized bananas, the rich, creamy chocolate. There wasn’t room in his mouth anymore. He had to let it out. And then, he did taste it as the pie was pushed against his tongue, his mouth, his face covered in cool chocolate filling. Everything was chocolate. Everything sugar, and filling, and food. So much food. So good.
He snorted through the chocolate filling, till he reached the bottom, and inhaled the smell as he scraped against the crust, licking, chewing, crushing, until he could gain proper purchase to lever it up with his thicker, longer tongue, and into his mouth. He felt a slight tug on his jaw and grunted in appreciation as the leverage grew easier. He adjusted his mouth to dig his canines under the crust, breaking it up, so he could shovel it in.
More.
“More. More. MOR–” the demand was broken off by a sort of a hiccupping sound that carried for the next few seconds. Timothy looked up, resting his cheeks in the crater he’d formed in the pie tin to see Jameson scrabbling at the table with his hands. His fingers had been stuck together by the combined sugary substances he’d been consuming practically non-stop, and he fumbled ineptly with the trays and saucers as he struggled to get more of the delicacies. The threads had wrapped over his arms and hands now, and were starting to thicken along his torso and legs as they inched their way along. Jameson reiterated the sound over and over again as he ate, sustaining it longer and longer each time between snorts and grunts. His swollen nose twitched as he guzzled his plates for all they were worth, even going so far as to lick them, before the servants came with new additions.
Grunt.
Squeal.
The noise was soon reiterated across the table as the other men joined in. The threads throbbed around their throats, thrusting up and down, forcing the grunts out, until they left, and the bobbing continued on its own. The threads reached up to the eyes and dipped through the tear layers. Then they pulsed like pumps as the color slowly drained away, darkening, shifting to the point where one could hardly tell the difference between the rich dark brown of the iris and the black of the pupil. As the tendrils withdrew, the grunting intensified, and the hiccups turned into squeals.
Next came the ears as the threads reached up, latching onto the cartilage, and pulling it, stretching it to flop down over their ear canals. Timothy watched as they rose and surged into the men’s newly-shaped ears, pulsing and throbbing as the men ate. Their fingers slowly shifted into lumps as their eyes glowed and the grunting increased.
Let go.
Forget.
Timothy watched all of this, and his heart began to race. Something was wrong. He pushed himself away from the table, but as he tried to stand, he felt off balance, top heavy. He felt a set of hands brace him, and turned to look at his server.
“Easy, Sir. You’ll fall, if you aren’t careful,” he said. His nostrils flared, and his uniform strained against his muscles. Two nubs pressed out from his forehead and slowly expanded as he shifted along the floor. The clip-clopping cadence of heavy hooves met Timothy’s ears, and his eyes widened in fear as he watched the servant grow all the taller. Cool, hard hoof-tips pressed into Timothy’s soft flesh as the man’s vascular arms lifted him towards the table again. A powerful animal scent cut through the aroma of the food, dispelling the fog.
Timothy tried to scream, only for a loud squeal to leave his throat. He thrashed and struggled, but to no avail as the glamour faded from his server to reveal a giant black-furred minotaur. He looked down to see, not the stains of food, but three massive fingers with black tips slowly drawing together. He crossed his eyes to see the much longer bridge of his nose as he snuffled and snorted. The tips of a pair of tusks were slowly growing more prominent, and that filled him with adrenaline as he squirmed in his captor’s grip.
The minotaur turned to the head of the table. “My apologies, Masters. I’m afraid this one became aware, before the binding could complete itself.”
The twelve laughed as they pointed to Mister Collin.
“Looks like you were a little sloppy there, Collin,” Cedric gloated. “Mine’s already nearly finished.” He patted his stomach contentedly as he looked down the table to where Jameson, or rather, the hog that had once been Jameson, blinked sleepily. The tendrils pulsed around his form, squeezing, teasing, shaping as the pig expanded to prize-winning proportions. “Ah. There it is.” Cedric chuckled darkly as the tendrils constricted, then pulled violently. A glowing apparition of Jameson floated limply as it drew closer and closer towards Cedric and a large silver ring he wore. Meanwhile, the two cuff links that had been around the pig’s hooves snapped onto its neck, and energy arced outwards from them to surround the swine’s neck, creating a thick leather collar that soon became etched with runes and other patterns. The pig grunted and snuffled at the table for a little longer, before dropping down to the floor and settling to sleep. The apparition dissolved into a golden mist that slipped into the grooves of the ring as the runic engravings pulsed.
“Much better,” Cedric said with a smile. “Not the best magic I’ve had, but it will suffice. And besides, the boy will make much more money now than he would have in his former state.
“I’m sure it helps that his family paid you,” another of the twelve said with a chuckle.
“Well, every contribution is most gratefully received. It seems only right to pay back one’s friends, wouldn’t you say?” Cedric asked with a sneer.
Timothy continued to struggle as he watched the others fall one after the other, leaving nothing more than hogs and boars snuffling at food, before taking their places on the ground to sleep. Mister Collin watched with a hint of curiosity as he folded his hands and stared at Timothy. His cane’s head glowed as the golden threads attached to Timothy fed whatever it was these men were taking into the alloy.
“Bring him here, Minos. Gently,” Mister Collin instructed as he continued to stare.
Timothy tried to shout something, anything, but his vocal chords wouldn’t let him. All he could manage were guttural grunts and squeals. His nose twitched against his will as he snuffled, sampling new scents and smells he never could register before. He could smell the other hogs, the expensive cologne the men wore, the scents of the various servants as they shifted to become centaurs, satyrs, and a variety of other forms both animal and mythical. He knew each one, and could even identify what some were feeling, because of the smell. He shuddered back from that. Though the ability would doubtless be useful, it also meant thinking more like a boar, and he didn’t want that.
At last, Timothy flailed helplessly in front of his former benefactor. His malformed limbs continued to twitch as the threads did their work. He felt his hips shifting into proper hindquarters as a long tail began to twitch and expand. His spine tingled as it extended, and he looked fearfully at the man who had been so kind before.
“You intrigue me, young man,” Mister Collin finally said. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve encountered someone so resilient, so in-tune with the world around him. Most of the people I’ve changed hardly put up a fight. You saw through our spellcraft. That’s a feat few, if any beginners can manage, let alone a person who’s never so much as touched their gift before.” He reached out, and stroked Timothy under his chin. Despite himself, Timothy couldn’t hold back the grunts of pleasure that rose from the sensation of the fingers on his bristles.
“Get on with it already, Collin. We have work to do.”
Mister Collin turned with blazing eyes on the man at the edge of the table. “I’d watch my tongue, if I were you, Wryma,” he snarled. “Or have you so easily forgotten just how close you were to joining the ranks of the animal kingdom yourself?”
Wryma gulped.
“I raised every one of you from your miserable condition to be what you are today, and I am grateful to call many of you colleagues, even friends, but don’t you dare to assume that I’ll broke impertinence in this circle.” Satisfied with the tongue lashing he’d given, Mister Collin turned his attention back to Timothy. “Now then, young man, I see potential in you. And it seems quite clear to me that you’d rather retain your intelligence and sapience. Is that not so?”
Timothy nodded vigorously, even as he felt the tears starting to run into his . . . his fur. Even as he listened, it was getting harder and harder to put the words together into proper sentences in his mind.
Mister Collin noticed this, and quickly snapped his fingers. The tingling stopped, and the pulsing from the threads ceased. “Your mana is too valuable a resource for me to simply let go, especially since there are those who still hunt our kind, even if they’re ignorant of our true desires.” He sighed and slumped in his chair as the weight of years past pressed on his shoulders. “So, the question is, what to do with you? The way I see it, you have two options. I can either finish what I started with you and take all of your mana and potential for myself, which, as you can see, effectively leaves you little more than a beast of the field. You wouldn’t even be aware of your loss, and you would be well taken care of for the rest of your days, however long or short they may be.”
Timothy let loose a series of grunts and snorts with a single drawn-out squeal.
“The other option?”
Timothy nodded.
“Well, the other option is to agree to a contract with me. You get to keep your mind and your mana, but you lend me that power when I stand in need of it. You won’t be human, of course. Not at first, anyways. That form is earned over time, through hard work and dedication, but you might find you prefer this form to that, by the time you reach that point.” He chuckled. “Most of my servants do. So, what do you say? Grunt once for the first option, twice for the second.”
Timothy grunted twice, then nodded vigorously.
Mister Collin grinned viciously. “Excellent. Put him down, Minos.”
“Yes, Master,” Minos said as he gently placed Timothy on the floor.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to spend the next few weeks in a more porcine state of mind, friend. You have to learn how to use your body properly, and to accept the animal side of you. But don’t worry, it’s not permanent. You may even come to enjoy it.”
Timothy felt a strange yanking sensation somewhere in his gut and his head as the collar began to form along his neck. One of his hocks tingled, and as he turned his head to view it, he noticed a brand taking shape in the form of an archaic C with a nail piercing through it. He tried to protest, but suddenly things felt fuzzy. He couldn’t quite piece together why he was upset. His tusks felt in place, he had just been well fed by the man-things, his . . . owners? Yes, that felt right. He grunted in pleasure as he felt a strong surge of energy flowing through his body and walked forward. He felt strangely unsteady at first, but things soon righted themselves again as he drew closer to his master. Yes, that’s what he was. If he could smile, he would have as he approached the extended object. He snuffled the cool metal head of the cane, and it glowed brightly, blinding him for a time, but he didn’t feel alarmed. When the light was gone, and he could see again, he felt the gentle hand of his master stroking his mane. It felt good to be next to his master. The other man-things gaped at him, but he didn’t care. He was there to be with his master. He rested his massive head on the arm of the chair as the gentle strokes continued.
“Gods, man, that thing is massive!” one of them exclaimed.
“It has to be at least four feet high!”
“Four feet, nine inches, I believe, Mister Edwards, and a good three hundred pounds, I should think, possibly a little more. He makes quite a stunning wild boar, wouldn’t you say?” Mister Collin chuckled as he ran his hands through the boar’s thick gold mane. Its green eyes had remained, and deep mahogany bristles coated the rest of his hide with just a hint of lighter brown speckles near the mane.
“If that’s his size when he’s feral, how large will he be when he regains his humanity?”
“If you’re referring to his partial form, I would assume a good seven or eight feet at least.” Mister Collin laughed. “It seems I win, after all, gentlemen. And I get a new servant out of the deal to boot. I’d say our little feast of fools was quite the success.” He handed a truffle to the new wild boar. “Wouldn’t you say so, Vaughn?”
The newly-named Vaughn grunted happily as he snapped up the truffle. Master was so good to him.
Critter that walks around snorting all day
hey guys if you’re planning on making a vaguepost on the dashboard can you message me with the details and some of the lore behind the vague post you’re making. a vaguepost for the dash and a detailedpost for me. because i like to know what’s going on. if you do this i will automatically take your side because you’ve done the right thing by letting me know what’s up. thanks in advance ❤️
Wieso hört KF eigentlich immer nur die allerbekanntesten klassischen Stücke dies gibt was ist er denn für ein Mainstream Opfer 🙄🙄
i got tumblr again just to post this
I'm cackling
Jungkook and I being so soft in the DMs and so horny on main
I Got You- Jayroy Fanfic
Words: 2,086 Request: No Type: Gay
Roy was aware that the best thing to do would be to leave Gotham as soon as possible, knowing that the Batman was on the hunt for a certain Red Hood. Roy was also aware that if Batman were to find them, they were both likely to be thrown in prison- or rather Arkham Asylum. At least, that was where Jason was going. But, Jason was bleeding, and Roy needed to stitch him up as soon as possible. So as Roy struggled with the lock of his hideout on the outskirts of Gotham, he peered behind himself one more time, his eyes scanning the rooftops for any sign of a masked vigilante. When the archer was sure it was safe to enter, he kicked in the door and hauled a bleeding Jason into the hideout.
It wasn’t the nicest place, but it would do for the time being- they wouldn’t be there very long. As Roy tried to plan out what he was to do with Jason, he dropped his bow on the ground with a loud, echoing, clank which made Jason let out a whine. Wrapping his arm tighter around Jason, who leaned his head on Roy’s shoulder, Roy began to practically drag Jason to the bathroom. There, Roy lowered Jason into the bathtub, fully clothed. Roy quickly scrambled to the sink where, in the cabinet, there was a first-aid kit filled with an assortment of tools. Situating himself back at Jason’s side, Roy began to pick at the first-aid kit, pulling out what he thought would be useful, and once he had everything he needed set to the side, he turned his attention back to Jason. Jason still wore his helmet, or at least what was left of it. Roy reached behind Jason’s head, releasing the helmet from his head. Pulling the shattered red remains from the mop of black hair, more injuries were revealed. A swollen eye, and scratches across his cheeks and forehead. A dislocated arm and cuts that needed to be stitched were among the other injuries that were scattered about Jason’s body.
“Alright, Jaybird,” Roy sighed, pulling Jason to sit up by his good arm. It was a struggle, but Roy managed to work off his coat and upper armor. Bruised, maybe broken ribs, Roy thought. Watching Jason’s chest heave up and down rapidly, Roy realized that Jason was more than likely panicking, which wouldn’t help with the blood pouring out of his body, or feel too good on his ribcage. Roy hummed as he moved back to the cabinet, grabbing a bottle. It was an anxiety relief, which he was hoping would work for Jason. Shaking one out of the bottle, Roy returned to Jason. “Here, take this, it will help,” Roy said. Jason remained still, his eyes squeezed shut. Roy sighed, leaning forward to open Jason’s mouth and drop the pill in before he closed his mouth again. “Swallow it.” Jason seemed to listen, taking a hard gulp, wincing again.
As Roy got to cleaning and stitching the larger cuts, Jason’s breathing slowed. When the copious amount of bleeding ceased, Roy moved to Jason’s bad arm. This, Roy knew, was the worst of it, and Jason wasn’t going to like it. Who would? Having an arm relocated wasn’t a walk in the park exactly. But it wasn’t the dislocation that hurt Jason so badly, it was who had done it to him that was the cause of the tears rolling down Jason’s reddened cheeks. Roy, without giving a warning, relocated the arm in one quick motion, to which Jason yelped and writhed. Not knowing it’s coming is better than expecting it, Roy had been taught by Oliver.
Next, Roy moved to Jason’s ribs, which he assessed, and came to the conclusion that at least one was broken, but he couldn’t wrap Jason’s chest yet, as the man was still covered in uncleaned cuts and blood. So much blood, that Roy couldn’t tell what was a cut and what wasn’t. Great.
“Help me take off your pants,” Roy said, a hand running down his face. Jason’s eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.
“What?” Jason’s voice cracked.
“I need to wash you off so I can find the rest of your cuts, clean them, and wrap your chest and ribs up,” Roy explained. Good thing Roy had already seen everything, Jason supposed. As he slowly wiggled from the rest of his clothes, he pondered that which was his relationship with Roy. They were never official, technically, though everyone knew that the two of them were something. They were exclusive. They had spent countless nights together. Unofficial dates, mostly because neither of them wanted to call it a ‘date’. It was mostly the fact that neither of them had the balls to ask the other if they were officially boyfriends.
Jason tossed the rest of his clothes, boots included, out of the tub, and the water was promptly turned on. The hot water that poured down into the tub felt heavenly on Jason’s aching body. Muscles and joints were sore and limp, and the water seemingly worked wonders on aiding that discomfort. Roy knelt beside the tub again, leaning against the side of the porcelain bath with a tired groan.
“You took a Klonopin for your anxiety, so no pain reliever for a while, alright?” Roy said, his head rolling back to rest on the side of the tub. He waited for Jason to respond, but when he did not receive one, he peeped one eye open. Roy slid on the floor, turning around to face Jason, who finally seemed calmed. “You awake?” He tried softly. Jason seemed to mirror Roy’s previous action and opened one eye in response, though Roy wasn’t sure he could actually open the other eye anymore.
“I heard,” Jason said, his voice hoarse and worn. Roy scowled. For a moment he contemplated his next actions, before deciding to follow his instinct. Without anymore spoken words, Roy slid his hand up to Jason’s, which gripped the side of the bathtub in a tight hold, where he pried at Jason’s fingers for a moment. Slowly, as if fighting off the pain, Jason released his grip, letting Roy card his pale fingers between Jason’s tanned, and bloody ones. Squeezing tightly, Roy brought Jason’s limp hand to his lips briefly, a gesture of both affection and concern.
“You wanna talk ‘bout it, baby,” Roy yawned, his other arm coming up to rest on the side of the tub, his head resting in the crook of his elbow. Jason shifted a bit, moving closer to Roy as much as he could. Roy took notice of a slight shake to Jason’s hand and squeezed a bit tighter.
“No,” Jason said, his mouth pulled into a tight line.
“S’okay,” Roy mumbled, rubbing at his eyes, “I gotta finish stitching you up, eventually,” Roy pointed out.
“Later,”
“Not too much later, Jay, you might still be bleeding,” Roy reasoned. Jason said nothing in response, choosing rather to sink further into the hot water. Roy felt his mouth twitch up involuntarily as he watched Jason finally seem to relax. Crawling onto his knees and leaning down to Jason’s level, Roy gently, in a mindful manner, placed his lips on Jason’s, who reacted almost immediately. It was a sweet, simple kiss, one that held meaning. It said, ‘I got you,’ and ‘I’m glad I got there in time.’
When the two separated, Jason’s grey eye (the one that wasn’t swelled shut) met Roy’s bright green eyes that were slightly creased as the archer smiled. Jason pulled Roy back shortly thereafter, as a continuation of the first kiss. It felt, to Roy, as if it were a response: ‘Thank you.’
When it came time to pull Jason out of the bath, Roy disappeared from the bathroom for a moment, going to retrieve a clean pair of boxers from the dresser by the bed. When he came back, the water had been drained, and Jason had already begun to dry himself off with the towel Roy had tossed at him. It was less of a struggle to put clothes on, then it had been to take them off. Once Jason was no longer entirely naked, Roy assisted him out of the tub, and into the main room where the bed was.
The bed was large. Roy had insisted upon getting the largest bed he could find, as this was the hideout that he and Jason usually spent time together in. The enormous amount of mattress also made it much more comfortable to sleep beside each other on. The bed was layered with an absurd amount of blankets- Roy guessed at least six at this point. Jason ran cold, Roy thought it might have been a symptom of dying and being resurrected, so the larger man had to pile blankets on himself to keep warm. And the hundreds of pillows that were splayed about the bed and floor were Roy’s idea.
Roy, as he had been doing all night, was gentle with Jason as he set him down onto the bed. Jason let out a sound that made Roy think he was in pain, but as his eyes scanned over Jason, he realized it had been a sound of exhaustion.
“I think you need a few more stitches, and then I can work on your ribs,” Roy said, mostly to himself. The redhead retrieved the kit once more and began to fix the damage that had been done to Jason.
Roy thought himself lucky, and Jason too. Roy had been working a job on the east side of Gotham City and had seen the live projection of the execution. Roy guessed what would happen next and was quick to head in the direction of Jason (it was also lucky that the news report also gave the location.) He was almost too late, as when he arrived the Bat had been in the midst of dragging Jason’s limp form off to Arkham. Roy pondered where Jason’s new friends- Artemis and Bizarro- had run off to. Unreliable friends, Roy thought.
As he placed the last stitch, he grabbed the bandages, and carefully assessed Jason’s ribs before wrapping them. A broken rib near the top, Roy decided.
“You can’t move too much. We can go to the car, but after we get to where we’re going, you stay in bed,” Roy said, his voice affirmative. Jason scoffed, then coughed. “Take deep breaths, you’ll get pneumonia.”
Roy was careful not to wrap the ribs tightly. When he finished, he set the bandages down and brought his attention to Jason’s eye. Roy hissed.
“Ouch,” Roy guessed.
“Yeah,” Jason said in a sigh. “Ice.”
It was a demand and one that Roy was willing to comply to. Shuffling off to the kitchen, Roy rummaged through the almost bare freezer and settled on frozen peas and corn. One for the eye, and the other for the ribs. Jason hummed in approval, placing the frozen bag over his eye, and then the one on his very sore rib cage. Roy felt himself begin to relax as he watched Jason finally rest. They couldn’t stay long, but sleep was sleep. Roy busied himself with packing.
Where Roy was planning on going already had his and Jason’s clothes stored away in it, but he knew a few things that Jason would want. Namely, the red sweatshirt that had an array of holes in it, and had loose threads hanging from it. Roy wasn’t sure why Jason was so attached to it, but the black haired boy took it almost everywhere with him, often slept in it. And then there was the plain black turtleneck. Alfred had given it to Jason the year after he returned to Gotham, the butler wanted him to have something decent to wear. Roy had taken note months ago that Jason wore it on days he was missing home- not that Jason would admit to it out loud.
Roy made quick trips out to the Jeep, storing their bags and gear in it. He knew he had to be quick, Batman was sure to be gliding about overhead, looking for his son. If Jason was his son anymore. Roy didn’t want to think about that. Starting up the engine of the car, he made the last trip inside which was to retrieve Jason. Running a hand against his scalp, Jason shook back awake with a grumble. Standing up, more steady then the last time he did, the two made their way to the car and sped off out of Gotham City.
Oh no. Look at that I’m learning how to make more shitposts for twst :3 I’m not even sorry.
Oh my god! this could so be Thomas after the whole missing engines turning animals and humans thing.
NO