#🌹 🖊️ eclipse writes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lupinedreaming · 12 days ago

Text

Title: And she made swine of men

Pairing: M/M (Original characters)

Rating: M (nothing particularly sexual happens here, but there are very much kinks present, so I don’t feel comfortable rating it T)

Summary: A foolish king is transformed into what he always was — a pig.

Content warnings and tags: Animal transformation, self-pity, humiliation, weight gain via transformation, romantic feelings for a friend, generic European fantasy setting

A/N: This story is heavily inspired by a fun conversation I had with a good friend. Thank you for indulging my nonsense <3

Also available on AO3.

It had been several days since that wretched woman had transformed him, and he still wasn’t certain where he was. Edmond had always been much better at directions and spatial awareness … and, oh, how he wished his friend was here now.

Winston squinted his small eyes at the bright morning light drifting down through the trees. It was the fourth day, he thought. He was impressed that he’d even been able to make it four days in the body of a pig. He hauled himself to his hooves, wobbling unsteadily, still unused to four legs – and unused to bearing such a heavy body.

He swung his head from side to side, once again mentally cursing the woman who had done this. Yes, perhaps he could have approached her with more … delicacy, but surely what he’d said hadn’t been so offensive as to warrant this. After dinner and after Edmond had left to check on the horses, Winston had merely suggested that he could take her to bed to show his gratitude for allowing himself and his advisor shelter in a storm. He was the king — wasn’t it a compliment of the highest order to be offered this?

She hadn’t thought so, apparently. Instead, she called him a glutton and a bore, and as he was about to stridently object to her accusation and threaten her with arrest, he found a strange squeal issuing from his throat, and then he was falling to his hands and knees and then, and then — he changed.

Although he knew that witches existed, he couldn’t make sense of what was happening at first, not when his fingers twitched and flexed against his own will, then started to fuse together and harden. He watched it as if in a dream, despite the bone-deep pain that lanced through his digits.

Once his nose flattened and his face started to push outward, only then did he understand what was happening. He listened to another sharp squeal come from his throat and the damn woman just stood there and laughed. Tears of shame at being seen like this flowed, and he raised his head, glaring at her, which only made her laugh all the more. Her dark hair fell into her eyes and the low flames in the fireplace made her eyes glitter like a demon.

His arms buckled and he fell onto his front. A shudder ran through his body. He felt his normally fairly lean abdomen widen, ripping the confines of the red tunic that he wore. Winston now felt his belly press against the dirt floor, expanding and contracting as he panted with the exertion of his change. He closed his eyes tightly but he couldn’t block out another round of raucous laughter from the woman. If he were still human, he’d have had her arrested for this on the spot. But he could do nothing but groan and tremble, falling over onto his side, a thick cheek pressed to the ground.

The first hours after his transformation were a little difficult to remember, but he recalled that she’d turned him out into the muddy pen with her three other pigs. He didn’t even know how he’d managed to make it out there, for he couldn’t lift himself. Winston couldn’t quite understand how to properly stand on four legs for longer than a few seconds before feeling his legs tremble and fold beneath him.

Winston was a man of average height and weight. This body was not. Even lying down, he was aware of the new layer of fat covering his belly and flanks, the way it shifted and rippled as he tried to scoot across the mud and become more comfortable.

And that was another unpleasant thing — the mud. It wasn’t as if he’d never encountered mud in his life, having participated in many hunts, but he was never laying in it, never face down in it. The wet muck coated his body, clinging to his bristling hairs and drying in the crevices of his fat. Winston flicked his ears and made a low, rumbling sound of displeasure in his throat.

Soon enough, however, the sound of footsteps made him raise his head. Through the slats of the pen, he saw Edmond’s legs move quickly with purpose toward the witch’s small house.

Winston’s legs scrambled in the mud, splattering the other pigs with it. One large male pig snorted and looked at him with what he interpreted as disdain. He didn’t care what the opinion of a pig was.

He shoved himself to his front, then propelled himself to stand on four shivering legs. Lifting one leg, he meant to turn toward the fence and run at it, call out his friend’s name, but the moment he lifted another hoof to take a second step, Winston stumbled and fell and no words came, only high-pitched squeals. The steady rain pattered on his skin, the other pigs looking at him with their small, dark eyes.

This woman would be punished, certainly, he thought. It would be suspicious in anyone’s eyes if the king disappeared in her presence without a trace. He lay helplessly on his side, breathing hard, flexing his legs every so often, listening to the voices in the hut. The door was shut, so he could not hear the words, but he heard tones rise and fall, shouts, what sounded like accusations.

A pink and spotted in the sow nudged at him with her snout, trying to push him out of the way. He lifted his head with a snort, offended that this creature would try to shove him aside. She gazed impassively at him. Pushed again with her flat snout.

He managed to roll onto his front, forelegs folded and compressed beneath the bulk of his chest. He lifted his tongue, running it along the foreign teeth in his mouth. Most of them were flat, but he did have tusks. They were not as long as the tusks of a wild boar, but he felt their sharpness with the tip of his tongue. Angling his tusks at her, he snapped, a tusk scraping against her. It didn’t break her thick skin, but it did succeed in startling her. The sow squealed at him, scurrying away on her short little legs.

Satisfied that the sow was no longer bothering him, he set his mind to pondering how to fix this predicament. Clearly, this woman was a witch, and this was some sort of curse. He needed to convince her to reverse the curse even though he could no longer speak.

Winston was capable of being charming and witty. Perhaps that would be hard to translate to a porcine context, but he could try. She couldn’t be completely heartless, could she? She must see that trapping her king in this body would be a terrible mistake for everyone — including herself.

Taking a deep breath, Winston flexed the muscles in his legs and attempted to push himself up to a standing position. For a moment, he succeeded, but soon he fell into the mus again with an undignified grunt.

How awful everything had turned out so quickly, he thought mournfully.

The door to the house slammed open, Edmond stomping out. He raised his head hopefully again, nose sniffing the air vigorously, taking in the Edmond’s warm scent, then emitted several high-pitched sounds at the man, hoping there would be something familiar in the animalistic noises that his advisor would recognize.

He glanced at Winston, and, for a moment, his heart soared in hope as he saw his friend’s eyes sweep over him. Edmond looked grave, his dark hair slicked against his head by rain, his soft jaw set hard in frustration.

Winston soon the grey eyes that typically looked at him with fondness were cold, his mouth drawn into a firm straight line.

One more squeal. One that said, “Please, it’s your king. … It’s your friend, Winston.”

Nothing dawned in his eyes. He turned away, blue cloaking flaring behind him, walking back in the direction of the horses.

Winston was so frustrated and disappointed in that moment that he thought he might cry — but his eyes only stung with the memory of tears. None sprang forth.

He just collapsed back into the mud. The last remnants of the rain drizzled onto his face, clinging to the long hairs about his eyes.

——

The morning after his advisor had left him in the cruel hands of the witch, he awoke to the sound of something thick and wet. Winston blinked and raised his head from the ground. The right side of his face was smeared with a thick layer of dried mud. Pieces of it flaked off.

In the clear morning light, he saw the witch bending over the fence and tossing an assortment of old food scraps into the pig trough situated at the front of the pen. His three compatriots rushed to the trough immediately, shoving and jostling each other for the finest of refuse.

The witch dropped the bucket with a clatter and leaned against the fence. She propped her head up on her crossed arms and smiled wickedly at him. Winston looked away. He feigned disinterest with a snort and an ear flick.

“Oh, what’s wrong Your Majesty, my food isn’t good enough for you now?” Her voice was sneering, and if he looked at her, he knew that she would have a horrible gloating smile on her face.

In the silence, the other pigs grunted and snorted, the trough clanking as they shoved their faces into the slop, their teeth scraping against the metal in their haste to inhale the witch’s offerings.

“I’m quite surprised,” she continued, “considering how eager you were for dinner last night. You practically gorged yourself on it.”

It was another jab at him, he knew that. Letting him know why she’d turned him into a pig.

“Very well, then. I certainly can’t make you eat. You’ll get quite hungry soon, though. Pigs have voracious appetites, as you can see.”

The wood creaked when she pushed away from the pen. Footsteps crunched against dirt and gravel and the wooden door shut behind her.

After that, Winston had assumed she would keep him trapped in the pen. But that wasn’t the case.

He didn’t know if she changed her mind, but soon enough she was opening the hut’s door, striding pen, and prodding at him with a long rod.

Stubbornly, he wouldn’t leave — he didn’t even know if he could make himself do what she wanted — but the prodding became more insistent and even painful. Winston squealed at her in warning, popping his jaws open and grinding his upper and lower tusks together as he had seen wild boar do before they turned and charged his hunting party head-on.

The witch narrowed her eyes and exhaled sharply. This time, she gave him a sudden thwack to his rump. Winston jerked to all fours then, his flesh throbbing and stinging in the aftermath. She raised the rod again. It lowered a measure, and that got him moving, his body somehow finally allowing him to not just walk by run on four legs. She continued to poke and prod at his hindquarters and sides until they were far beyond her home and were deep in the forest.

Once they stopped, he whirled to face the witch, fully intent on charging her, but she had vanished, leaving him alone. Something rustled in the nearby bushes.

Winston jerked and shuffled to the side, his large ears perked. There had been wolves seen in these woods last winter. No doubt a wolf wouldn’t turn down a juicy ham dinner.

His skin flinched and shivered. The bushes rustled again. But nothing emerged.

He exhaled slowly and gazed around him. The forest was dense and thick, with bushes and undergrowth rioting across the ground. There were no recognizable trails or paths.

He was lost.

——

By that fourth day, he had somewhat managed to come to an understanding of at least how to forage for food.

He hadn’t known much about what pigs ate in the first place, and it didn’t seem that the curse had equipped him with such knowledge. But he did know they seemed to eat anything he could, so he would nose at the ground for whatever he could find and avoiding anything that looked or smelled suspect.

For one of the first times in his life, he wished he’d been born a peasant. Then he might’ve known what was truly safe.

But as he foraged that fourth day, he found his mind turning to his beloved advisor. Surely Edmond would have immediately set about trying to discover what happened to his king.

Winston lifted his head to watch the branches say overhead. A squirrel was leaping across them.

But then …

What if Edmond secretly was glad to be rid of him? It was no secret that many people found him temperamental and childish at times — they simply didn’t voice it. But he knew.

Maybe he thought the witch had done them all a favor. He sat down heavily on his haunches, working a piece of old fruit between his jaws. The thought made his heart heavy.

Edmond was one of the few people he counted as a true friend whom he could really trust. He smiled indulgently at his antics, even sometimes joined him. The man was a cool, steady presence who gave him genuine wisdom when he needed it.

Edmond would probably be a better king that he was.

Winston shook his head and clacked his teeth together. No! That was simply sadness talking. Edmond was a gifted advisor, but he was not born to rule and reign.

Winston needed to find his way back to the castle. Surely Edmond would know what to do. Winston stood again, swallowing the fruit. Hunger still clawed him. The witch hadn’t lied about that.

He was hungry all the time now, never sated. There was always a yawning ache there, his stomach growling in complaint.

He turned to continue his search for sustenance when this time something did crash out of the bushes.

A boar. A wild one.

He raised his head high, glinting black eyes regarding Winston. A chill clutched his stomach. Boar were one of the most dangerous beasts to hunt. Certainly one would not take kindly to another hog in his territory.

As he looked at the beast, he knew that he would be no match for it.

The boar was lean and longer legged than he, the tips of his white-yellow tusks pushing up the edges of his lips. Winston was larger than the boar, but was also bulkier and shorter legged. His tusks were were toothpicks compared to the boar’s dagger-like tusks.

This creature understood the laws of the animal kingdom in a way he never would. He would have no mercy or care for human ranks and niceties for hierarchy. All he knew was that there was another hog invading his territory, threatening his dominion of this patch of land.

Winston began to back away.

The boar opened his jaws and turned to the side, the hair along his back bristling. His head lowered. Winston knew what the beast intended to do.

He whirled away and ran as fast as his shorter legs would allow, the boar crashing through the brush and leaves, growing ever closer. The boar’s long, angry squeals pierced his ears.

Finally, the beast gained on him and turned his head with open jaws and sliced Winston on a back leg with a tusk. He shrieked and stumbled just as the boar turned away, trotting back into the forest, satisfied that he had removed an intruder.

Winston fell to the ground, groaning and whimpering softly to himself. A steady stream of blood leaked from the gash. He couldn’t imagine what sorts of dirt and filth were getting into the wound. It could even get infected. He’d seen one of his hunting dogs die from an infection that had originated from a wound much smaller than this.

He closed his eyes and pressed his back teeth together. No matter what body he inhabited, he was still a king. That could not be taken from him. He couldn’t waste time pitying himself.

With a loud grunt, Winston pushed himself up. This hind leg protested with a new jolt of pain but he ignored it.

Spurred on by a determination not wallow in pity, at least for the moment, he walked in the opposite direction of the boar’s territory. He traveled, leg growing steadily more pained, until he came to a small stream. The water was unlikely to be truly pure, but he hoped that it could at least wash away some debris that had gotten into the gash.

Winston slowly walked across the pebbles on the bank of the stream, his hooves dangerously sliding against them. His whole body tensed until he managed to enter the stream. As the cold water touched him, an immediate shiver ran through his body. His lips curled up but sat in the stream to submerge his hind leg in the frigid water. He trembled again, but there was a sense of relief at the feeling of the slow moving water passing over the gash. The wound still stung, but the cold of the water soothed the burning, inflamed flesh.

Perhaps he would be able to survive long enough to return to his castle after all.

——

Winston awoke on the fifth day with a startled grunt. The long brush and grass he’d pulled over himself to create a nest trembled with nearby footsteps.

He lay still beneath the bent foliage and listened to the cadence of the steps. They were the steady rhythm of human feet. Winston tensed. A human was now a potential predator to him. Many individuals would see a lost, plump pig as a blessing in disguise. A large adult hog could easily feed a family for quite a time if stored properly.

But something made him second guess his decision to remain hidden. As the steps grew closer, an intimately familiar warm, masculine scent drifted between the leaves of his den.

Edmond.

His heart soared. He had another chance! Now that he was no longer confined by a pen, surely he could convince Edmond of his identity.

Winston burst from the grass and brush just as Edmond walked by, an exciting squeal coming from Winston’s throat against his own will.

The other man jumped back, hand going to the sword at his side. His eyes still held no recognition.

How to make him understand? First, perhaps he needed to set Edmond at ease. Edmond’s fingers still flexed hesitantly near the sword.

Winston flicked his tail from side to side as he had seen happy pigs do in the past and grunted in a way that he hoped seemed friendly. Edmond finally lowered his hand to his side.

“I’m certain someone is quite upset that they’re missing a big hog like you, but I have more important matters to attend to,” Edmond said, turning from him.

Winston’s tail stopped flicking. No, no, that wouldn’t do at all! He had to make his friend stay.

He rushed up to him and grabbed the hem of the man’s cloak in his jaws, tugging insistently at it, trying to drag him along with him.

Edmond stiffened and pulled back, pulling at the cloak to extract it from his jaws. He wasn’t successful. If nothing else, his jaw muscles were now much stronger than they had once been. He jerked his head and Edmond stumbled forward.

He was met with a swat on the snout. “Let go of me. What are you doing?”

Winston ignored Edmond’s annoyance and further strikes to his snout and instead dragged him over to a patch of dirt. He released Edmond’s cloak. He hoped he could act quickly on this plan. He’d given it thought last night as he’d drifted off.

Edmond frowned at the wrinkled and saliva soaked patch on his cloak. He drew it up in his hand.

“This was one of my favorites, you know.”

While Edmond was distracted, Winston nudged a large stick with his snout until it was in a position where he could grab it in his mouth.

Winston looked up at the man. Edmond’s brow furrowed and he blinked.

“What are — “

He began to jab the stick into the ground, head tilted to the side to see what he was writing. Slowly, and crudely, he scratched his name into the dirt. He was displeased at how the writing looked like the scribblings of a brain damaged child, but he supposed that couldn’t be helped.

Winston rolled his tongue and adjusted the stick in his jaws. He looked up at Edmond.

The man was staring at him with a hand covering his mouth. His eyes flicked from the writing in the dirt to Winston and back again.

“Your Highness, is it … ? But — “

Winston’s demeanor brightened, his tail flicking from side to side again.

“But how?”

Winston pressed the stick into the dirt and laboriously wrote “witch.”

Edmond’s expression fell into a deep frown.

“Ah. I see. The thought had crossed my mind, but I doubted the likelihood of it. We did go back to that woman’s house to search or but … “ he spread his hands, “she was gone.”

Winston closed his eyes. Despair welled up again. While magic wasn’t unknown in this region of the world, its practitioners were few and secretive. Without the witch, what was he to do? He dropped the stick from his mouth, about to pace, when a hand touched his snout.

Instinctively he flinched, almost expecting to be struck again, but as he opened his eyes, he saw Edmond kneeling down and gazing at him with open fondness. His heart pounded. That was the look he had been hoping for from the moment he awoke in the pen. His tail flicked more vigorously than ever.

“Don’t lose hope, sire. It may certainly be harder to reverse this without the help of the witch, but we’ll return you to your true form.”

Winston pushed his snout into Edmond’s hand in gratitude, almost nuzzling it. He wasn’t shy about being affectionate towards his friend, but he felt that there was something deeper to this, though he wasn’t sure what.

Edmond slowly removed his hand from his snout and his eyes roamed across Winston’s body, presumably taking in his new appearance. Shame rolled through him. He was certain he was quite an unpleasant sight. He’d caught a glimpse of himself in the stream yesterday — the first time he’d seen his new reflection. And he’d flinched away from it.

In that stream, he saw a pink hog with thick jowls, a long, flat snout covered with a splatter of dirt and leaves, and uneven whiskers and bristles growing from his chin and cheeks. His lips were pushed up slightly from the presence of his tusks. His eyes were small and beady, gazing back with a pathetic, forlorn look in them. For the first time, he thought of himself as ugly.

He could only imagine that’s what Edmond saw now — a pudgy pig covered in the dirt and debris of the forest floor, a beast fit for the muddy wallow, not the throne room.

But as his friend touched his body, he didn’t feel any trembling or hesitation. Winston risked a glance at Edmond’s face. His lips were pressed together, hand slowly brushing down his side. Fingers paused as they approached his hind leg. Edmond frowned. His index finger drifted toward the gash in his leg.

Winston’s skin shivered and twitched, suddenly oversensitive and he found he had to look away from Edmond.

“Winston, what is this? How did come find by this wound?”

Edmond rarely addresses him simply by his name. Hearing the man speak his name with such concern made his skin shiver again.

The finger circled the wound, though not touching it. It drifted a little further, and suddenly Winston was aware that Edmond was touching his rump. He had never been touched there by his advisor. There had never been any cause for it, but now he found embarrassment and something else squirming inside him as he did so and he wondered if he wouldn’t mind being touched there again by Edmond if he were human.

But certainly Edmond wasn’t thinking of that. Why would he? All he saw was his friend, though now a pig.

Silently, Winston moved away from the touch and stood. He snorted, hoping to catch Edmond’s attention. Edmond blinked and looked in his direction. He looked startled and a little sheepish.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

Winston looked in the direction that he thought his castle might be and back at Edmond.

“Oh. Yes, yes of course. We must get you back home.” Edmond gently placed a hand over Winston’s shoulders.

“I’ll take you there.”

Home, he thought. Home with his friend again by his side — just as it was meant to be.

The worst part of all of this perhaps hadn’t this new body but being parted from Edmond.

Edmond smiled softly at him, patted him across his pink shoulders and stood.

“Come along, your highness.”

As Edmond turned and walked away, Winston followed, tail flicking joyously.

#Ough … I am nervous about posting this but I have tagged everything appropriately so those who aren’t into this stuff can easily filter it #Or scroll by #I guess I’m in my “posting weird stories on main” era #YOLO (as we used to say back in my Youth) I guess #Time to post the weird queer art I want to see in the world right?? 😅#🌹 🖊️ eclipse writes

6 notes · View notes