#magic boorish

[healthhomecare111]

The Magical Paintbrush:

[based-bobcat]

Vertigo Visions: Doctor Occult was somehow the most misogynist, misandrist and confusing comic I've ever read in my fucking life. I had no fucking clue what was going on half the time. I don't get why this story is in the books of magic omni. It has nothing to do with the stories that precede it that's for sure.

Doctor Occult (and his femme half Rose Psychic) investigate a woman who can't stop screaming (And guess the reason. It's a Vertigo-go-to and rhymes with ape.)

This book seems to imply that Occult and Rose are Male and Female combined, but they fall apart when they separate? Anyway, during their travels to the girl's psyche Rose gets corrupted by something and she suddenly she feels 'desire' and goes out to get her freak on with the shadowy voice who says he knows whats going on.

Rose gets separated from Occult and the plot loses me. Rose turns into a teenage girl who gets caught easily/gets seduced and Occult turns into a slobby, insecure ignoramus.

Here are some out of context panels

My face when reading was

[bump1nthen1ght]

A Very Monstrous Kinktober (2024) Day 23 - Size Difference

Kink: Size Difference

Pairing: M!Reader x M!Dragon

Other Kinks: Master/Pet Dynamics, Cock Worship

Word Count: 1497 words

Kinktober Masterlist

Living in a dragon’s den wasn’t nearly as bad as all the fairy tale’s made it seem.

Is he greedy? Yes, indulgently so, never wasting a moment to savor your supple body and sink into his own desires. Every item of his is gaudish and shining, flaunts immense power and wealth. He’s practically allergic to the word “no”, sneers at the idea of reeling back his own wants. 

But he can also be quite generous, loves to share his bounty and show it off to anyone who would listen. He’s caring, always kind and sweet to his treasures, knowing that he would be nothing, would feel nothing, without them. And while he may be boorish and crude on occasion, you couldn’t help but love his soft attentive touches, the praises he sings for you every day.

Like now, for example.

“Your tongue is quite talented, boy.” The dragon purrs, a palm the size of your head settling on top. “Always know how to please your master.”

You smile brightly, circling your tongue around his bulbous head, still too big for your poor mouth to slip fully around. His compliments always stir the butterflies in your stomach, making you feel extra special. His perfect little boytoy, always ready and able to satisfy his needs.

You kiss down his length, your master’s tail flickering in your peripheral vision. Sweat and pre-cum mix on your face, squishing together as you nuzzle your face into his heavy ball sack. Your master groans, humps into your pliant tongue when you suck each one into your mouth. His cock twitches above you, fresh spurts of pre-cum dropping onto your forehead.

“Yes, right there, pet.”

Your cock aches in your shorts, pushes against the fabric, now wet enough to be see-through. Your master is generous enough to let you touch yourself whenever you want, as greedy for your pleasure as he is his own, but you hold back. It makes whenever he touches you all the more special, your cock pulsing with desire and absolutely desperate.

Hot geysers of steam exhale from your master’s nose, you can just catch a glimpse of them from behind the massive cock taking up your vision. This close you can see the veins throbbing, almost taste the blood pumping below the thin skin. A dragon’s cock is the most sensitive part of them, not scaled like the rest and typically sheathed away. But your master is kind enough to let you view such a rare sight, let you savor it like a dessert.

You dance your fingers up his thick shaft, spit-slick palm rubbing up and down all that it can grasp, other hand busy massaging your master's thighs. If he so wanted he could squeeze them together and snap your neck, his sheer mass enough to crush your poor body. But he won’t; You trust each other like that.

“Hmm, you’ve got me close, pet. As much as I crave your tight throat-” Your master yanks back your head, leaving your tongue sticking out-  “I wish to fill up another one of your holes tonight.”

Your master’s grin is devious, nostrils flared and mouth curled to show each of his glittering canines. Nevertheless the large hand around your head is gentle, lays you onto the ground as he stands up. All  7 and a half feet of his more humanoid shape, the shape he often uses when he lays with you, stand tall and dominant, his cock hanging heavy from its own weight.

“Right where you belong, pet. Below me.”

Your master crawls over you, body moving like a tiger about to pounce. He glances over your weeping cock, tutting his lips.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to make you feel good.” He says, talking more to your cock than you. It’s lewd the way it makes your stomach tighten. 

Your master only needs the one hand to push up your hips, spreading your thighs around his waist and lining you up to his dick. Thank god for magic, cause without the tattoo decorating your lower back, there’s no way in hell you could fit all of him inside of you. 

You’re face to chest with your dragon master, hot streams of his breathe blowing across the top of your head. He’s a massive beast in every department, your eyes already becoming unfocused as his bulbous tip pushes into your asshole. The small bumps circling his head send pinpricks across the back of your thighs, scraping along your insides and driving you wild. 

Hard scales press shapes into your ass cheeks, the hard planes of your masters pelvis unmistakeable. You wear the bruises they leave with pride, another sigil that marks you as his most precious boytoy. The proud signs of being bent over and ravished.

Once he's fully seated, your master huffs and settles in. You clench your lower half, neck having to crane at an uncomfortable angle to see his gritted facial expression. 

“Naughty boy.”

He grunts, but you know he loves it. If he’s not pounding you into oblivion or being serviced by your mouth, your master loves to sit on his throne and let you cockwarm him. Just another chance to be together, to be locked in an embrace.

Nails dig into the plus carpet and through to the stone floor. Long, white stripes are dug by your master's claws, forcing himself to pull his cock from your tight hole, even just a couple inches. Another breath ruffles your hair, your master grunting as he finally reaches his tips.

“Fuck me.” You pant, hands clawing at his scaled stomach. You stick out your tongue for extra effect, head craned to look upward into his slitted eyes. “Please, master, fuck me.”

“With pleasure.”

Your body shoots across the carpet under the force of his cock head, stars exploding behind your eyelids when his thick head presses hard and fast against your prostate. He’s never been one to disobey a begging request from his pet.

“O-oh myyy go-god!” You moan, the sound of skin and scale colliding and ass cheeks jiggling as your master uses you like a sex toy. The mark on your lower back flows, magic fighting against anatomy to amplify your pleasure and suppress any pain, stretching you out just enough that your poor organs aren’t at risk. Nevertheless you can still feel his cock all the way up in your guts, your hole perfectly shaped to his cock.

Your legs struggle to lock around his broad waist, the tops of your toes barely touching while you struggle to ground yourself. You’re left instead merely flailing in air, ankles up to your masters shoulders as he pounds you into the ground.

You don’t realize you’ve closed your eyes until you feel claws digging into your cheeks, your master squeezing your face and forcing them back open. You're met with his panting expression, his long tongue curling around his fangs and his slitted pupils now blown wide open. 

“You look so h-handsome like this.” Your master laughs, eyes shifting between your sweaty face and his cock moving in and out of you. “Taking my cock, what a good little pet. I knew I chose right with you.”

You babble and nod your head, all senses jumping out your skull with each hit against your prostate. If that wasn’t enough, a scaly tail soon wraps around the base of your unattended cock, and you swear you black out for a second.

“I want to see you cum, dear pet.” your master sighs, jerking you off at a sloppy pace, his own hips beginning to stutter. “Cum all over yourself for me.”

It’s not a hard order to comply, your whole body feeling electrified, pulled into putty from both ends. Your hands claw into the ridges of your master’s back, face nuzzling into his defined scaly chest. 

“C-cuming!” You babble, ass clenching around the hot rod inside as your cock jumps in his tail’s grip. Your cum splatters all the way up your stomach, some even reaching your clavicle and spattering onto your master's pecs.

“Y-yess.” Your master hisses, his forked tongue flickering out, tasting the scent of your cum in the air. “Now take your master’s cum, boy. Take it.”

Your body spasms again once your master unleashes inside you, shooting buckets of cums into the deepest part, the excess spattering out the sides and across your ass cheeks. Your master always knows how to keep you extra full.

Your master stays inside, even as his cock begins to soften, his sheath opening up to retreat the sensitive phallus back inside. But this is just another part your master loves; Holding you in place, relishing in the warmth of your hole. He’s kind enough to bring your ass back to the ground, ease the ache in your back from being bent over in the mating press. If you could you would purr, nuzzling into the hard planes of his abdomen. 

“What a good pet, indeed.”

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

Not sorry for loving you- Tom Riddle x Reader(alt Part two)

request from @serenamultifandom ; hi,If you're not too busy, may I ask for an alternative happy ending for "Not sorry for loving you"? Tom and the reader raise Mattheo together.

here you go, not long-8 pages and 2000+ words, but i feel its satisfying. enjoy!

Part 1 Part two(sad ending)

=

Tom had left for work that day, planning to finally swindle the Locket and Hufflepuff’s cup from that boorish tacky woman; descendant of Hufflepuff she claimed to be. If she was indeed one, it would be a shame to rid the world of the last Hufflepuff blood but Tom would do what needed to be done to secure his prize.

But (y/n), his beautiful wife and very oldest and cherished friend, caught him before he left for the morning, leaving a sweet kiss on his cheek, his family ring glinting on her ring finger just below her wedding ring.

“I have something to tell you when you get home from work,” (y/n) said with a soft smile, squeezing his shoulder as he returned the kiss to her cheek, humming a bit at her words.

“Should I bring anything home for dinner?” Tom asked, guilt already eating at his gut for lying to her, again. (y/n) hummed.

“Get something from that Italian place, you know what I like.” (y/n) said with a chuckle and Tom gave her a quick goodbye kiss, taking the lunch she’d packed for him and leaving their quaint house that sat in the middle of a wizarding neighborhood.

He went to work, (y/n) thought he was working at a magical items shop-which was true, but she didn’t know it was a dark magical item shop; Borgin and Burkes. She’d never find out, he wanted her to think he was safe at a shop in Diagon Alley, not facing dark wizards every other minute and making deals for their dark artifacts.

At lunch he made a visit to Hepzibah Smith, the flirtatious woman who somehow possessed both Salazar Slytherin’s Locket and Hufflepuffs cup. He entered the tacky apartment of Hepzibah Smith, greeting the old plump woman with a charming smile-the same one that made all others swoon at him. The older woman was easily charmed just like the last several visits, inviting Tom further into her apartment for tea where she talked for what felt like hours, before she finally showed Tom what he was there for.

The Locket.

“Burke said he’d bought it off a poor woman-probably stole it herself she did.” Hepzibah said with a chortle and Tom felt hot anger in his chest, hearing his mother being talked about this way. He thought his mother to be weak-dying upon giving birth to him, but in no way would he allow his mother to be talked about in such a way.

“Such a thing was kept quite close in the Gaunt family, the last descendants of Salazar himself, I don’t think they’d part with it easily.” Tom said cooly, keeping down a smirk as Hepzibah ‘allowed’ him to view the locket, his locket, closer. “i heard they were quite down on funds, so I wouldn’t be surprised if one got desperate enough to sell such a precious artifact.”

Hepzibah hummed, sipping at her tea. “I do suppose you have a point Tom,” she rambled on further but Tom wasn’t listening, eyes locked onto the Locket that gleamed in the sunlight pouring through the sitting room window behind Hepzibah.

A cruel wicked plan grew in his mind, glancing around the room, then at Hepzibah’s very old house elf that was refilling Hepzibah’s tea with very shaky hands. It would be too easy, hilariously easy; to frame the little house elf, to poison Hepzibah and implant an easy false memory into the house elves’ mind.

He looked back at the locket, then his gaze caught onto his wedding ring and he paused, turning his hand to look at this wedding band closer, staring at it for a long moment.  

‘I have something to tell you when you get home from work’ (y/n)’s words echoed in his head and he frowned gently, setting the locket back into the protective box.

Perhaps it would be smarter to wait, if he poisoned Hepzibah now, there would be too many links to him being present at the time of her death. No he’d wait, besides-his wife was expecting him for dinner with Italian.

He checked his watch obviously and stood, giving the older woman a charming mile. “Well this has been delightful Hepzibah, but I must be getting back to work.” Tom said, giving a small bow as the house elf escorted him to the front door.

“Of course, of course, and shall I be seeing you again soon, right Tom?” Hepzibah asked and Tom nodded, leaving the gaudy plant-filled apartment to head back to Borgin and Burkes, spinning his wedding band around his finger-curiosity eating at him.

What did (y/n) want to tell him?

-

“I’m home!” Tom called out, locking the door behind him, putting his keys onto the hook next to the door as he carried the paper bag full of Italian food into the dining room-pausing as (y/n) emerged from the kitchen, holding a tray of two cupcakes, a card between the cupcakes. “Did I miss something?” Tom asked, hoping he hadn’t forgotten an anniversary between them, setting the food down and meeting (y/n) halfway-taking the card as she nodded to it.

“No, you didn’t miss anything,” (y/n) said softly, an eager grin on her face as Tom opened the card. He read through it quickly, then again-and then again-his eyes snapping up to (y/n), who was biting her lip, nervous yet excited.

“You’re-“ Tom breathed, the card dropping to the ground as (y/n) handed him a potion pregnancy test-it was positive. “you’re-you-we’re,” Tom stumbled over his words-his eyes wide as he shakily held the potion vile; staring at it as his breath shook.

“I’m pregnant,” (y/n) said softly, quickly setting down the cupcake tray as Tom engulfed her in his arms-squealing as he scooped her up and spun her around-making her laugh as he held her tight.

“How?” Tom breathed out as he sat her down, trapping her against the edge of the kitchen table. (y/n) gave him a look and he let out a huff as he rolled his eyes fondly. “I know how but-how?” Tom asked and (y/n) laughed, shaking her head.

“We’ve never exactly been, careful,” (y/n) said with a shrug and Tom let out a small chuckle. No, they hadn’t. (y/n) did have contraceptive potions and he did usually wear condoms but, in recent months-they’d been not exactly-trying to be careful. Her pregnancy was only a matter of time.

“Is this okay?” (y/n) asked Tom and he leaned in, kissing her softly, sweetly, slowly, letting her feel every inch of his emotions-surprise, happiness, shock, and love.

“It's more than okay, we’re going to be parents.” Tom breathed as he pulled away, smiling as she jumped on him to kiss him again, his arms wrapping around her waist as he held her above him-foregoing their meal as he took her to the bedroom.

“What about dinner?” (y/n) asked with a giggle as he tossed her onto the bed, pinning her a second later. “I’m having mine right now.” Tom purred, hooking her legs over his shoulders-which made her let out a peal of sweet laughter as Tom pulled off her clothes.

-

Much later that night, while (y/n) was asleep, half curled up on Tom’s side of the bed, he slid down to be face to face with her belly-there was no taught skin yet, no sign of the baby-but they were in there, his little baby, his son and or daughter. “hi,” Tom breathed out, rubbing his thumb against the skin of (y/n)’s lower belly. “I’m your dad, I don’t think you can hear me yet, since you’re still so small-no bigger than a seed-but I’m very excited to meet you.”

Tom whispered out, glancing at (y/n), who was still asleep-breathing deeply, arms up and under her head. “I had plans, ones that would’ve cost me so much,” Tom murmured, lowering his head back down to (y/n)’s belly, where their baby was growing inside her. “I would’ve lost you, and your mother, and both of you are so precious to me. I can only thank you, for saving me.” Tom whispered, he knew if he had gone ahead with this plan-he would’ve never known (y/n) was pregnant, he would’ve made her think he had died, that she was going to go through this completely alone.

Now that ending was for another universe, in this one, he was going to stay, and watch his baby grow.

“Shit I should get a better job,” Tom mumbled to himself, realizing his job at Borgin and Burkes would not hold up for a family of 3.

-

Tom entered Hogwarts after nearly 10 years, the last time he’d been here he was just graduated and had attempted to get the DADA professor job. Now he was older, refined, and experienced. Rumor has it the professor that had taken over for as the DADA professor had left, apparently starting a family and wanting to have a job that would allow them to be at home more often-but Tom knew this sort’ve job would be good-once his child was of age-he’d be able to keep an eye on his baby for 7 years.

“Headmaster Dippet,” Tom says with a charming grin to the old headmaster, the man greeting him with a cheerful grin and open arms, to better his changes, Tom allowed the hug. “it is good to see you again sir,” Tom said, and the headmaster chuckled, nodding.

“It Is good to see you again too Mr. Riddle, it’s been quite a long time. Ten years correct?” Dippet asks and Tom nods, accepting the tea he was offered, stirring milk and sugar. “But I suspect you aren’t here to catch up, are you?” Dippet asks and Tom nodded.

“Yes sir, im here to inquire about the Defense against the dark arts teaching position. I know when I first asked, you said I was too young-now that I look back, I agree. I was far too young, fresh out of school, and immature. However, now I hope you’ll reconsider.” Tom said with a charming smile, easily swaying the old headmaster as he chuckled.

“Yes yes, I’m glad you understand why I originally declined your request, you were much too young-so many things to see and do at 17. I heard you and Ms. (last name) married, how is that going?” Headmaster Dippet asked and a real smile grew on Tom’s face, his eyes softening.

“Wonderful, I couldn’t be happier, and we’re expecting a child now. Which is why I'm here, I wanted a stable job that would allow me better understand children and ensure my child's future.” Tom says, completely honest for once and Dippet smiles.

“Oh my! Congratulations Tom. And you’re just in time, our current professor is resigning for nearly the same reason, his wife is heavily pregnant and he is looking for a job that allow him better time at home. Now, I must ask, what experience do you have with dark magic? Or rather, defending against it?” Dippet asked, resting his hands on the desk in front of him as Tom pulled out his papers, handing them to the old headmaster, who was impressed by it all.

Of course, Tom was top of his class in all 7 years of DADA, as well as every other class he took in his years at Hogwarts-after all Tom was the brightest student Hogwarts had seen since Dumbledore. Tom’s experience against dark wizards at his clerk job had gained him points as well, defending against them when necessary and he’d even invented a few spells-all in aim to better protect (y/n) but now-they landed him the job he’d been wanting since he was young.

He returns home, a grin on his face and a pep in his step-opening the door to tell his wife that he’d gotten the job he’d wanted for so long. “I got it!” Tom yells into the house, slamming the door closed behind him in his excitmet. He years (y/n) gasp from the dining room and he quickly makes his way to her, beaming as he spots her sitting at the table-eating her lunch.

“Oh, Tommy that’s great!” (y/n) says with a cheer, throwing her hands up as Tom gets closer, he leans down to kiss her-then pulls back-making a face; which made (y/n) laugh. “Sorry,” she giggled as Tom looked at what she had been eating that tasted bad to him. Egg salad on a pickle.

“Eugh,” Tom groaned, pouring himself a cup of water to wash his mouth from the taste while (y/n) kept giggling, finishing her pregnancy-craving lunch. “go brush your teeth love-I’m not kissing you when you taste like that,” Tom said with a scrunch of his nose while (y/n) snickered.

“You’re plenty eager to taste me in other places,” (y/n) teased, wigging her hips at him and squealing when he smacked her butt-sending her down the hall.

“That’s different! You taste heavenly, a pickle and egg salad are gross.” Tom said after her as she went down the hall and she let out another laugh before going into the bathroom to brush her teeth. When she re-emerged Tom took her into his arms and kissed her, nodding in approval. “Never kiss me again when you’re eating egg salad.” Tom said and (y/n) let out another giggle, squealing as he picked her up and carried her to the couch in the sitting room, keeping her tight in his grip as he sat down.

“You kissed me first,” (y/n) defended herself, snickering as he kissed her deeply again, forcing her back into the couch-her legs automatically wrapping around his waist as he climbed on top of her.

“No excuses,” he murmured against her lips and she laughed again, wrapping her arms around his neck as he kissed her again, deeper and longer.

He pulled away, kissing her cheek, then her jaw, then neck, trailing down till he was level with her lower belly, pulling up her shirt to leave the softest kiss on the just barely there baby bump. “Stop making your mom eat gross stuff,” he whispered and (y/n) let out a loud laugh, kicking him playfully as he smirked against her stomach.

As the months went on, (y/n) and Tom got excited for their baby, Tom got a temporary job at the ministry to help buy all the stuff their baby would need, since he wouldn’t be starting at Hogwarts until September, their baby due in November so Tom also would have to find a good substitute while he helped (y/n) care for their newborn.

(y/n) and Tom watched the baby grow within her, the sight a blessing as they breezed through the 2nd trimester, soon it was summer-and only three months left till their baby boy was born.

They agreed on his name soon after finding out the gender. Mattheo, after Tom’s middle name, Julius, because (y/n) liked it, Riddle. Mattheo Julius Riddle, a perfect name for their first baby.

Tom started his teaching job at Hogwarts on September first, interacting with children of all ages from 10 to 17-18, he enjoyed it, being back at Hogwarts, helping other understand the dark arts better, both to use it and defend against it.

(y/n) went into labour on November 27th late at night, thankfully while Tom was home. She smacked him awake after he’d knocked out from a very long day-he jolted up-eyes widening as (y/n) looked down at him, holding her belly and he felt fluid soaking the bed. “shit-baby-“ Tom cursed, almost falling off the bed as he went to help (y/n) get out of bed.

Contractions started soon after, but were pretty far apart-Tom didn’t call the midwife until 3am the next morning, hours went by, and at 7am; November 28th 1958, Tom’s first son was born, all red and wriggly and crying and perfect.

The moment he took his son into his arms, his new love, someone brand new-all his. His to protect, and raise, and love.

In that moment, his plans all shattered, transforming into something new.

He was going to make sure Mattheo grew up safe and happy, he’d never worry about someone hurting him, or being without his father. Tom would make sure neither him nor (y/n) would lose him. Tom changed that very moment, love overpowering everything else.

At that moment, Voldemort died for good.

-end-

[slashingdisneypasta]

Disgraced Prince Hans of the Southern Isles x SleepingCursePrincess!Reader || Oneshot

*feat the Evil Queen, Ursula and Maleficent as 3 evil witches.

Plot: When Hans' true loves kiss actually breaks a curse. // Or // Imagine prince charming waking you up from your sleeping curse,, except YOUR prince charming is bound in cuffs and chains and a guards big strong hand on his shoulder when you wake.

Also, Hans is having recurring nightmares of being stalked by 3 long-dead fairytale witches (Well, 2 and a fairy) from somewhere very far away (Or very far below). That cant have anything to do with this sleeping curse can it?? 🤔

Warnings: Save for the cursing- nothing that's not already in Disney Movies. Unedited. Also may or may not make sense at all.

Tagging: @asperol-with-izzy , @disney-android-foundation , @lady-love88 , @marinerainbow , and @ryantryan6969 .

All the way back home, Hans was having dreams. Or nightmares. Nightmares of sharp nails scraping and grabbing him, eyes on him, and mysterious whispering voices. He'd wake up and he'd still be half back there, he would still hear their voices, even with the ship swaying and dipping under his body and dirty water trickling under the door into his cramped little cupboard-cabin. The long journey felt even longer with these dreams hanging over him; there being nothing else to occupy his mind except the humiliating near-miss Hans suffered in Arendelle.

Ugh.

He's new~ What's he in for, hmm?

You know I don't know that, sea witch. He's no use to us anyway.

Some powerful witch, you are. We can see him but we don't know anything.

-I don't see you doing anything, fairy.

No matter darlings~ He's cute. Much better then our old one-handed captain barnacle breath, hm?~

Don't get too excited, Ursula. He could be as boorish as Gaston.

Oh don't say that. What do you think, queenie?

Whatever.

The names swam around in his head like whatever beasts lived under the sea beneath the ship. Ursula, Gaston. But then there were more.

What are you hoping to find in these baby villains you keep watching, anyway, queenie?

I don't know. A necromancer, maybe. We need to get out of here, don't you agree?

We already had one of those, remember? That 'horned king' creature was no help to us.

I'm open to suggestions, fish. Well? Any ideas in that tiny pathetic goldfish brain?

Oh, certainly none for you~

Great. Get out, go harass Claude or something.

What the hell was a 'horned king'?? That wasn't something that Hans would imagine himself. He's never had an interest in dumb fairytales, magic was no use to him. Power was power, and that came from being in charge. Being King. But... the closer to land Hans got, the fainter the voices became. As if the ocean had a closer connection to the source, like a looking glass. And that, surely, was the work of magic wasn't it??

... -then it got worse.

I think you need to leave this one alone, Hildie. He's becoming aware, like Yzma.

She was crazy, Maleficent.

Still.

Maybe its a good thing if he knows we're watching. It has been a while since we had any quality entertainment...

... Oh, now now dear Hildie~ Don't short-change yourself; you make an excellent fool.

Just for that, I'm not going to tell you what I plan to do to him.

By the time the ship docked, the disgraced Prince was all-nerves. And not entirely about seeing his dumb older brothers again or the punishment they're bound to enjoy giving him. What were those nightmare-witches talking about? 'do to him'?

It never crossed his mind once that whatever that meant could hurt you.

~

When Hans left, you were perfectly fine. A little upset that he was leaving you, and you knew his plan to marry the Queen of Arendelle- but, mainly fine.

So why are you laying in your bed in the middle of the day, now? Why did you look... dead?

Hans found his voice for the first time since Arendelle, an accusatory tone lacing through his words, turning to look directly at the dignitary that lead him here to this room. He was loud and clear, as if he was still important here. "What happened to them?"

"I believe they were cursed, sir, while you were gone." When Hans eyes narrowed slowly, the little man sped on. "Your- your brothers do not wish for you to know ab- about this, but I believe it to be the only way to save the princess."

"... how do you mean? Talk faster, or I'll have your throat slit in an instant."

Surely the man knew that line was just an empty promise, because he clearly had no power anymore- he had bars wrapped around his wrists, a short chain between them, and a guard (Well-paid by the dignitary) glaring at his back. But the dignitary spoke faster anyway; a nervous man. "I- I believe a true loves kiss could wake her, sir! I believe that true love to be you!"

"True loves kiss?" Jesus christ, that pissed him off. If he never heard those words again it will be too fucking soon.

The man looks surprised, at this harsh reaction from the prince. His voice goes pathetically small. "... Well, aren't you and the princess be- betrothed!??"

"Yes." That was true. You were. And you did love each other- since you were kids. Since he was 6 and you were 5, and you would send him letters every week even when everyone else forgot he existed.

That didn't make Hans like any of this any better.

"P- please your highness." The dignitary begged, his eyes flickering from him to you and back.

Hans looks back to you, a scowl still on his face. You looked alive, at least. Just... very still. And you never slept this way, flat on your back. graceful. You weren't supposed to share a bed until you were married, but you had- so he knew you slept like a graceless freak. There was definitely something wrong.

And there were those dreams... "The witches." Hans whispers, glaring at your form. Except he wasn't glaring at you, he was glaring at Them.

Not that you weren't used to that look on his face. That was pretty much just his face.

"... P- pardon me?"

"What!?"

"You said some something, sir."

"No, I didn't." With that, Hans shrugs the guards meaty hand off his shoulder and kneels by your bed. Picks up your hand on his and holds it to his chest. His eyes soften a tiny bit this close to you, where the other men in the room couldn't see it happen.

Goddamnit, he thinks. Its worth a try.

~

When Hans' lips touch yours in that quiet room, watched by a cranky guard and a nervous dignitary, he feels scarcely a breath slipping past yours. The only way that he knows you're alive is by the very very slow rise and fall of your chest.

In just a manner of moments, though, your fingers come to life and grip his, and you breath in deep through your nose, kissing him back. Like magic.

Despite himself, a small smirk slithers across his face after he finishes kissing you, watching your pretty eyes open up and look foggy- then confused- and he's yanked back up to his feet by the oaf of a guard in charge of him. "Time to go."

"Hey! Wait, I demand you- "

"You're no boss of mine these days, princey." The man growls into his ear, a note of cruelty in his voice. What did I ever do to this guy? Hans wonders, scowling again.

"Wait!- " That was your voice, oh so confused. Your eyes are big and round, taking in the scene. The dignitary quickly helps you to stand, but doesn't let you approach Hans.

"Please princess, he has to go. Everything will be explained."

"But- "

She cuts herself off, this time. But she doesn't need explanation. Hans watches the realisation dawn on her as her calculating eyes drift slowly from the guard, to him.

The plan went awry. Now he's in serious trouble.

"Don't worry, Y/N."

"How am I supposed to not worry!??"

"Just promise to write to me, huh? Promise."

"... fine." And I'll yell at you with every letter of the alphabet, her eyes tell him. He chuckles. Yeah, I got it.

"Come on now, lover boy. To the tower."

~

Not 10 minutes later, the tower cell slams shut on him. Dust from the roof falls down on his shoulders and hair, and his cuffs are still clamped down tight around his wrists creating dark purple bruises.

... after a moment, Hans curses and kicks a hard stone wall. "Fuck!"

-and then a familiar voice creeps into his mind again. The witch. 'Hildie'.

"Great. Now that I know you're hearing me, prince, I have some instructions for you.

And understand; if you don't do as I say I am fully prepared to give your sweet little princess another gift. One she wont be broken so easily out of. So listen carefully.

... first of all my name is not 'Hildie'. You may call me your majesty."

[chaifootsteps]

Sooooooo Bee can be the “Queen of Gluttony”, magic foods and drinks into existence and literally shove them down people’s throats without their consent, but anytime Mammon eats to excess while genuinely enjoying it, it’s disgusting and boorish and grosses Bee out in a major way…. Sin of Gluttony my ass…

This episode proved (as though it were ever in doubt) that you can get away with literally anything in Viv's shows if she likes you.

[buffy-vanserra]

Beneath the Stars

Rating: T | 2k | Tamsand; Rhys & Rhys's Mother | tags: angst/bittersweet, minor comphet

After a night in Spring, Rhys returns home to find his mother sewing.

Read below the cut, or here on ao3!

tamsand tag list: @lovely-vanserra-sunshine @g00seg1rl @the-darkestminds

dividers from @tsunami-of-tears!

In Windhaven, spring is a muddy affair.

The ground, thoroughly soaked with snowmelt, clings to Rhys’s boots as he walks. Here and there, he steps into the shallow edges of snowbanks, savoring the satisfying crunch of days-old snow underfoot.

Though Starfall came and went weeks ago, and daylight now stretches into the evening, a stark chill persists in the early hours of morning. In the predawn light, the camp is cast in muted shades of brown and grey.

Rhys makes no effort to hide his arrival. Most males would have started training hours ago, the females well into their domestic duties. In Night, there are always reasons to be up and about before sunrise. Rhys could be coming from any number of places suitable for the Night Court’s heir.

The suspicious glances and stray, loud thoughts that follow him as he passes have nothing to do with the early hour.

After nearly half a century of spending most of his time in a backwater Illyrian village—his father's words, mind—the scrutiny is unremarkable. Familiar, even. Like stiff leathers that, worn with use, accommodate the contours of one’s form. Tight in some places, still strained, but a comfort nonetheless.

An incongruity wherever he goes, there’s always a part of him that doesn’t belong. Always a part of him half hidden in the shadows. He’s a snob and a brute all at once—too sophisticated, too boorish, too discordant. Too half-bred.

At least in Windhaven, no one insists that he hide his wings.

The weight of his mantle is heavy at times. Concealing the full extent of his magic has its costs. His power rattles against him, perpetually demanding to be unleashed. His brothers have never understood; his sister, too lost in her daydreams to notice. The burden is unknowable to those who do not bear it. To be an heir is a lonely thing.

Rhys brushes a hand against his pocket with a soft smile. Recently he’s found that being lonely is not quite the same as being alone.

The ghost of a warm breeze kisses his skin as his mind drifts back to the previous night. When he closes his eyes he can see the will-o’-the-wisps, silver as they dance beneath the moonlight. He scents the lavender fields first, then the alluring earthen aroma of fresh rain and new grass.

“Come on, Tam, I know you want to,” Rhys says, running a hand through sweat-dampened golden waves.

They’ve been sparring for hours and, matched as they are in strength, Rhys has found himself pinned beneath Tamlin’s arms just as often as he’s claimed victory. This round, though, Rhys has won.

Beneath him, Tamlin’s chest rises and falls in tune with his own.

“We’re here now, aren’t we? Who’s going to stop us?”

His efforts are futile, he knows. Tamlin will push him away as he always does, grumbling about impossibility and circumstance.

Training is one thing. They can be allies—friends, even—under cover of night. But Tamlin, ever the fatalist, has long resisted Rhys’s attempts to convince him they could be something more. But how can he be expected to cease his coaxing when Tamlin's forest green eyes hold the same unmistakable longing as his own?

Rhys braces himself, but the rejection doesn’t come. Instead, Tamlin looks at him with a crooked smile—the one so rare that Rhys could swear he saves it only for him. It strikes Rhys like lightning in an early spring storm: sudden and spectacular, sending tingling shockwaves rushing through him.

“Go on, then,” Tamlin says, the hint of a growl beneath his teasing tone. “Convince me you’re worth it.”

So Rhys does.

Afterward, they lay side-by-side. Against Rhys’s back, the meadow is impossibly soft—always young and sprouting. Something has settled between them, now. A charged feeling in the air has been replaced with contentment.

Beside him, Tamlin is quiet in his usual way. So—as is custom—Rhys fills the silence.

One by one, Rhys points out the stars and tells Tamlin their names, occasionally recounting their accompanying myths. They look different in Spring from the angle of the southern sky. Rhys says as much.

“Do they really all have names?”

“Of course.”

“Hmm."

“What?”

Tamlin doesn’t speak at first, and the silence hums between them. “You must spend a lot of time looking at stars.”

Rhys cranes his neck to look at Tamlin. Holds his gaze. In velvet, hushed tones, he says, “I like to spend my time looking at beautiful things.”

Tamlin tilts his head thoughtfully, and a wry grin spreads across his face. “You don’t have to look so far, you know.”

“No?”

Tamlin rolls over, and suddenly, he’s atop Rhys. “No,” he breathes against Rhys’s neck, and then, in a swift movement, his lips are on Rhys’s again.

It’s gentler this time. Before, they were all sharp teeth and bruising force, frenzied and unrestrained. Now, they are languid as they drink each other in. A hand cups Rhys’s face, warm and calloused, and Rhys rests his palm atop it. Even now, an undeniable strength emanates from Tamlin’s lips, pressed tenderly against his own.

Rhys doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the taste of him, the feel of him. There is a wild force that lurks beneath that coy, crooked smile. A snarling beast that prowls behind his taciturn facade. The thrill of setting it free is nothing short of intoxicating.

It’s over too soon, though, when Tamlin pulls away. Mischief is alight in Tamlin’s eyes as he says, “There’s beauty right here.”

Then his hand is on Rhys’s, slipping something—no, somethings—between his fingers.

Rhys looks down, laughs. A bunch of lavender, haphazardly gathered, now rests in his hand. “Am I to be your Spring maiden now? Courted with flower bouquets?”

“If you were a maiden before tonight, Rhys, you’re certainly not now,” Tamlin says drily. Then, in a tentative whisper, “But you could be mine.”

When Tamlin’s cheeks flush rose red, something warm blooms in Rhys’s chest.

“Don’t you know?” Rhys tucks a lock of hair behind Tamlin’s ear, letting his hand linger there. “I already am.”

They don’t sleep.

All too soon, the sky begins to lighten, and with reluctance, Rhys slips through the folds of space and back to Night.

Would that he could have stayed longer, Rhys thinks, as he makes his way up the path toward the cottage. But it’s hard enough to get away as it is.

As he opens the door, he glamours away the sound of rusted hinges. No doubt his mother is already up. The floorboards are quiet as night beneath his footsteps as he slinks toward the staircase, despite their usual creaking.

“Is that you, Rhys?” a voice calls from the parlor in Illyrian.

With a sigh, Rhys turns from the stairwell and crosses the foyer to the entryway. How does she always manage to hear him?

“Good morning, shimá,” he answers in the common tongue. Alternating between the two languages, their conversations are a melange of tones and pitches—his words lilting where hers are glottal.

Seated at her sewing table behind a mountain of shimmering fabric, she raises an eyebrow at him.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Training,” he says with an easy, unaffected smile.

She smooths a length of fabric along the work table.

“All night?”

Rhys shoves his hands in his pockets. His fingers brush against the flowers. In a bored tone, he says, “Time got away from me.”

She sets the fabric down. Head tilted up, she peers down her nose, long and hooked like his own, and flashes a knowing smile. “You’re sure that’s all you were doing?”

Rhys shakes his head as if he finds her tedious, even as cold sweat beads along the back of his neck. She’s harmless, just a female. And he’s been careful—so careful.

“I can’t imagine what you mean by that,” he says with practiced nonchalance. Deception is a skill he perfected at a young age—a necessity for males like him. “What’s this you’re working on?”

Behind her, the dress form is out. The fabric draped upon it catches the first rays of sun spilling in through the window, glittering.

“What, this?” She laughs to herself—a tittering, disquieting sound. He’s never liked it. “Just a new dress I’m working on.”

Well, he can see that.

“It’s lovely,” he says. “I’m sure it will come out beautifully.”

His mind is still full of Tamlin—the set of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. It almost feels wrong to think of him in front of his mother—as if her hazel eyes might see into his mind and all the sinful thoughts that live there.

He turns to leave.

“Could you hand me the thread? Just over there.” Without looking up, she points a finger toward the spinning wheel against the opposite wall.

Rhys spins on his heel, walks over. He grabs a spool of gold thread, freshly spun, from the bench. His mother has always spun her own. She’s proud of her trade, renowned in both Windhaven and Velaris. “This here?”

She nods. “Thank you, dear.”

He hands it to her, and she clasps his hand. Rhys holds back a sigh as she runs a finger over the lines of his palm, murmuring to herself.

He averts his eyes, needing to look anywhere else, and takes in her workstation. A collection of fine, pale blue gems sits in a small bowl. Diamonds have been sewn onto delicate strips of fabric. Even unfinished, the dress is already one of her finest. It’s beautiful. Regal.

“Something new for court?” he asks.

With a satisfied nod, she releases him. “Hmm?”

“The dress. It’s beautiful, shimá. I—” he stops. “You’ve forgotten to leave room for your wings.”

With nimble fingers, she begins unwinding the thread. “Nothing’s been forgotten.”

“No?”

“Rhys, darling, don’t give me that look. It’s not for me—not for your sister, either.” She sets the thread down. “I like these details, don’t you?” she asks, one hand on her chin as she gestures to the sewn-in gems. “The final effect should look like…like liquid starlight—if I can get it right.”

“Whoever it’s for,” he says testingly, “is bound to love it.”

And his father is bound to disapprove if he finds out his wife is wasting so many precious gems—no doubt from the family vault—on a dress for someone outside of the High Family.

“It’s for her,” she says with a conspiratorial grin.

Rhys looses a breath, his shoulders relaxing.

Despite his bewilderment, he matches her knowing expression. Rhys knows better than to ask who she means. “Well, I’m sure she’ll be very pleased.”

“You think? Oh, I hope so. I won’t…” she trails off, her expression clouding. She blinks her eyes shut. When she opens them, she’s smiling again. “I want her to always have a piece of me.”

The Illyrians say she’s kissed by the stars. His father says she’s half-mad. All Rhys knows is that when his mother starts spouting nonsense, it’s best if he doesn’t push too hard or try to interrogate it. Delusions or otherwise, she's harmless.

His mother has been talking about her for more than a decade now.

He shouldn’t ask. He never asks. He's seen it play out time and again: the paltry excuses for answers she gives when questioned about her ramblings only breed more confusion. But his mood is light after his night with Tamlin, so when curiosity beckons, he decides that asking—just once—is harmless.

“Who is she?”

She raises a bemused eyebrow, and a sinister, creeping feeling overtakes him. It trails down his spine and twists in his stomach.

“Your mate, of course.”

Rhys’s mouth goes dry.

Unable to look her in the eye, he stares, unblinking, at his mother’s hands as she resumes unspooling the thread.

“Shears, darling?” she asks.

He passes them to her in a stupor, still hardly able to make sense of what she’s said. His… “Mate?”

“Mate,” she agrees. “I’ve seen her.”

Her. Not—

In his pocket, his hand wraps tight around the flower stems.

“Are you…sure?”

He’s imagined a mate before. With mated parents, who wouldn’t wonder? But…

Her.

“The stars always know.”

Right. Of course. Even the Mother knows High Lords need heirs.

Shaking, he pulls out the lavender bouquet. The tips are wilted. The petals are already browning.

She holds the thread up to the window, measuring carefully. In the light, it’s the same gold as Tamlin’s hair.

Flowers are temporary. Flowers die. But stars…

Rhys watches as she lifts the shears. Snips. 

The thread is severed. Cut clean off.

Stars are eternal.

[glowingbadger]

YES A FELLOW GALE LOVER! i can't resist those big brown eyes.

F, K, W for Mr. Gale bg3?

I love our beautiful dork of a mage!!! Also I got another request for Gale but the only difference in letters was that they requested D as well, so I'll just put all of those in this post.

Also, writing for BG3 characters is so weird because there's like... actual, canon information about their sex lives? Like, I'm so used to taking what's in canon and extrapolating what sex with a character might be like in a purely hypothetical sense, but with BG3 it's like... I have actually fucked Gale. I was there, it was awesome.

Alphabet prompts - Gale (BG3)

D (dirty secret), F (favorite position), K (kink), W (wild card)

NSFW 18+

Dirty secret: Over the years, Gale has maintained something of a preoccupation with envisioning all of the erotic potential in magic, to the point that he has a mental (maybe physical too) list of spells he wants to experiment with sexually. From the more obvious, like utilizing illusions to create more stimulating visuals, or Mage Hand to add to how he's able to touch you, to the somewhat creative, like the myriad uses of Alter Self, all the way to more eclectic options, like utilizing Web or Shape Stone for bondage purposes, or... with a HUGE amount of focus applied to doing so safely without harming you... some experimentation with Evard's Black Tentacles. With time and trust, he may even be willing to delve into mind affects like Dominate Person, if you request it. Needless to say, he's imagined it all.

Favorite position: Leaving aside whatever position one would consider "melding consciousnesses in the weave," to be- even while being intimate in a more traditionally "physical" way, Gale prefers to feel as much of your body against his as possible. He wants to be positively tangled in you, immersed in your touch, your scent, every amount of you he can feel and cherish. This means he's happy with missionary, with spooning you, with fucking you deep and steady from behind while pressing his body against yours on the bed- anything so long as he can hold you close and feel as intimately connected to you as possible.

Kink: I suppose we've already discussed extensively what might be considered a "magic kink" of sorts- but other than this, it absolutely has to be a praise kink. Telling Gale in no uncertain terms exactly how good he makes you feel and how dearly you adore him will have his cock throbbing hard and his pulse pounding, desperate to truly earn such praise and show you how eager he is to live up to it. That said, he will absolutely give as much as he receives; Gale can't tell you enough how breathtaking you are and how he'd give anything to hear you cry out his name each and every night. His silver tongue will never get tired- no matter how it's put to use.

Wild card: Listen. Maybe this isn't much of a headcanon, since his "flirting by asking you if you've ever read books where the heat of battle makes people horny" moment in act 2 basically implies this as canon- but Gale is a regular smut connoisseur. He's the type to get extremely invested and rather snobbish about it as well- my guy has got some hot takes. He's picky about the tone, quality and realism (for the sake of immersion, of course, he's not so boorish as to insist on realism at the detriment of artistry), but when it lands, he'll read with rapt attention, finding himself incredibly attached to the characters, their dynamic, the romance of it all. It only makes him long for you more desperately; yours is a love that would shame any prose or poetry, after all.

[pastshadows]

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 4: Magic and Mischief

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 7K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [not in currently posted chapters; possibly upcoming - I haven't decided] Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions.

You hear the beating sound of wings, and your bed lurches, causing you to drift in and out of your trance. Your eyes flutter, but you continue to bob between the waking world and your meditative state. Pressure on your chest pulls at the edges of your trance, and it crumbles down around you. You groan in lamenting protest at the intrusion on your rest. You urge your eyes to open and see Tara’s round green eyes staring down at you. Her little face is twisted in a fuming scowl.

“Your vampire is in a petulant mood this morning.”

That’s nothing new.

You stifle a yawn, “What do you mean?”

“I was hunting a mouse in his room, and he hurled a pillow at me! The audacity!”

Better a pillow than a dagger, I suppose.

Blinking, you rub the sleep out of your eyes, “Are you okay?”

“Oh yes, he was far too slow.”

Your still half-asleep mind processes her words sluggishly.

Too slow…

Wait.

Too slow?

A swell of unease tightens your chest, causing your heart to palpate sporadically, and worry creases your forehead.

What did she mean by too slow? Astarion was never slow. Unless… 

“I’m sorry he did that, Tara. You might want to consider his room a no-hunting zone. I will speak to him.”

Her tail sticks straight up, and her ears pin back, “Be sure you do. That kind of boorish behaviour will not be tolerated.”

She jumps off your bed with a furious huff and skitters out of your room through the small opening of your door, where she no doubt let herself in to apprise you of the vampire’s ill-mannered behaviour.

Too slow…

Tara’s words echo, reverberating off the boundaries of your thoughts. The only time Astarion was too slow was when he was hurt or starving, but he had seemed fine last night when he came to check on you. Without the daylight from the windows streaming in, it’s hard to discern what time it is, but it can’t be much later than early morning.

He typically isn’t even awake this early.

You slip out of bed in a flurry and slip your housecoat over your nightwear, tying it tight around your waist. You trot down the long, dim hallway. The wooden parquet flooring creaks under you, and your heavy footsteps echo off the walls. In your rush, you don’t even bother to light the candles to illuminate the space.

You knock on his door lightly, “Astarion?”

“Go away.”

His voice is unusually tense, bordering on strained. Your perception strikes like lightning, awakening all your senses in a sharp trill of foreboding alarm.

He doesn’t sound like his usual cavalier self.  

“Astarion, what’s wrong?”

“Please, just go away.”

Something is very wrong.

“No. I’m coming in.”

Swinging the door open, he scowls at you in a haunting grimace, “I said GO AWAY.”

Did he actually just yell at me?

Astarion had shouted at you before, but not often with such a pointed edge of malice tingeing his voice. If you were not so worried about him, it might have given you pause, but you shrug it off without much thought. Astarion would never hurt you.

Well… not physically or purposefully, at least.

The darkness obscures your vision, and although you can naturally see in the dark to some extent, it limits your ability to see details.

You whisper a cantrip, and fire combusts from your palm, forming a bright glowing sphere that hovers and revolves as if you were holding a small star in your hand.

Astarion barely reacts to the sudden emittance of fire. His eyes squint slightly at the unexpected bright light, and he looks from the fire to you with an unspoken query.

Narrowing your eyes, you peer at him observingly, studying him. His body is taught. All his muscles are tense as if he’s ready to fight. He trembles so violently you can practically feel him vibrating the air around you. His jaw is clenched hard, making the muscles in his neck protrude unnaturally. His eyebrows knit together in a frightening expression that makes your hair stand on edge.

He closes his eyes with a grimace and struggles to make himself appear relaxed, but you can see his knuckles strain and tremor under his death grip on the door. His other arm is bent behind his back, and even though you can’t see it, you know it’s clenched in a tight fist as he battles with himself.

“Darling, please, leave me be.”

You recognize this look. When you had first entered the Shadowlands, you had been so focused on trying to find a way to survive that horrid curse that no one had clued into the fact that there were no animals in this place for him to eat. Astarion never mentioned it to anyone and instead had suffered in silence until you found him in the furthest corner of the camp one night, away from everyone.

You toss and turn on your bedroll. The shadows of this place whisper and taunt from beyond the light that keeps them at bay. The corruption here is strong. It leaves you feeling unsettled, making slipping into a meditative state almost impossible.

Walking around camp as quietly as you can, you check on your friends, hoping it will ease some of the anxiety you feel. You mentally check them off in your head as you walk around.

Shadowheart. Gale. Wyll. Karlach. Lae’zel. Halsin. Scratch. Owlbear cub.

When you get to Astarion’s tent, he’s not there, and you look around the camp, confused for a moment.

Did he go hunting?

But how would he survive the curse?

Wait… What would he even hunt? Nothing survives the curse here, which means even if he could go hunting, there’s nothing for him to eat.

Fuck! How could I have been so blind?

You jog around but refrain from calling out to him. The others need their rest. You had been travelling through this damned land, fighting off all manner of creatures, and everyone was exhausted.

“Withers, where is Astarion?”

You pray the answer out of his mouth isn’t a demand for coin to cleave soul to body once more, but he simply points to an obscured area at the furthest edge of the camp.

You take off in the direction Withers is pointing in a hurry. As you turn a shallow corner, Astarion finally comes into view. He’s lying on the ground, curled up and writhing on the spot. His arms crossed over his stomach, his eyes squeezed shut, his forehead creased in the unmistakable grimace of agony.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You skid down and fall to your knees beside him, reaching for him, but he lurches away like a coiled spring, finally snapping free from the pressure.

“Stay away from me.”

“Astarion…”

He snarls at you like a wounded animal trying to protect itself from further harm. His mouth is set in a hard line. His jaw clenched so hard he can barely speak, teeth grating together with such force you can hear them rasping.

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

“Who’s counting?”

His voice shakes, tinged with a pain you’ve never heard in it before.

“How long, Astarion?”

“A ten-day, give or take a day, or two, or three. Time itself stills in this place.”

“Hells! Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It didn’t seem important.”

“Not important!? You are important! You should have said something!”

You bare your neck to him, “Here, feed on me.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no? You’ve never had a problem with it before.”

“You need your strength. In this place, everything is hungry.”

“Don’t be foolish!” You chastise him, “I… I need you.”

You haven’t yet told him about your feelings for him. They remain a secret, sitting uneasily and unspoken in your heart.

“I said no.”

“Please don’t make me do this, Astarion. I’m begging you.”

He shakes his head at you, his arms wrapped around himself as he trembles like a leaf in the wind.

You sigh, “I’m sorry. You leave me no choice.”

The last thing you want to do to him is take his agency away from him, but he cannot go on like this. He can barely speak, let alone continue travelling through this cursed land. You won’t, can’t, allow him to perish here.

With a quick maneuver, you unsheathe his dagger from his hip and slice a deep gash into your wrist. Blood rushes, gurgling out of the wound, dripping onto the dirt. Breath hisses from him harshly as his eyes focus on the bleeding cut.

You bring your wrist close to his face, “I need you, Astarion. Let me help you.”

His eyes dart to yours before he gives in with a growl, and his lips wrap around the bleeding slash. You can feel him draw your blood from you in large gulps. He moans low in his throat, and his body starts to relax, bit by bit, limb by limb.

You can feel yourself start getting lightheaded as he siphons your life out of you. Your skin starts to cool and pale, and your eyes feel heavy. Your heartbeat starts to slow to a feeble thump.

With a snarl, he throws himself back, detaching from your hemorrhaging wrist. Bright red blood is smeared on his lips and dribbles down the sides of his mouth.

He looks at you with alarm in those vibrant scarlet eyes and scrambles back to you. Astarion grasps your wrist tightly, elevating it above your heart. You waver slightly on your knees and then fall backwards into him, eyes fluttering towards him.

“Do you know how stupid that was? I could have killed you!”

He’s angry with me.

“I trust you, Astarion.” 

He growls, “You shouldn’t.” 

“I shouldn’t do a lot of things. It’s never stopped me before. I don’t see why it would now.”

His eyes bolt to your wrist. Despite his death grip putting pressure on your wound, blood is seeping out from his hand, gliding smoothly down your arm, painting your skin red.

“You cut too deep.”

“I’m fine, just a little tired.”

You close your eyes and float.

He jolts you, “No, wake up!”

“It’s okay, Astarion.”

You’re cold, you drift, and you feel your consciousness slipping.

He bellows, “SHADOWHEART!”

Astarion tries to swing the door shut on you, but you slam your hand into it with a loud thud, causing the fire to vanish instantaneously. Scowling defiantly at him, you push past him and barge into his room. The door rattles violently on its hinges as he slams it behind you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He seethes.

His room is dark, and you hurl fire into the fireplace, lighting the room in a warm glow.

You turn on him savagely, “You’re hungry, nearly starving by the looks of you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

He sighs loudly, “I may be a tad hungry.”

“A tad? Look at you! You’re trembling all over.”

You reach out to him, desperate to comfort him, but he backs away. Dropping your hand, you let your eyes dart to the floor so he won’t see the crestfallen look in them.

Why does he always hide things from me?"

“Haven’t you been hunting?”

“Of course! Well… I’ve tried.” He groans, “This damn city is too large and entirely too noisy. There isn’t exactly a ton of food readily prancing about.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I… I’ve visited enough pain upon you.”

Oh, for the love of… Not this bullshit again.

“I am not a child, Astarion!” You roar, “How do you ever expect us to work if you keep treating me like some wounded babe that needs coddling?”

The harsh look on his face lightens, “Us?"

Did I just say us?

You sigh, “You need to stop hiding things from me. I want the truth from you, even when it hurts.”

No more running.

"If you can do that, we will see if there can be an “us” again in the future.”

Astarion runs his hand over his face, “As you wish, my dear. I will endeavour to be more open with you going forward.”

“Good. Now, come with me. You need to eat. You’re grumpy.”

He laughs, “Grumpy, am I?”

“Very grumpy.”

Taking his hand, you lead him to your room and close the door, locking it behind you. You light the candle on the dresser with a whispered cantrip.

“How long has it been since you ate?”

“Oh, not too long.”

“The truth, Astarion.”

“Ugh.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut so hard his forehead creases, “About six days. Why?”

“I wanted to assess which strength Potion of Healing I’m going to need.”

“Healing potion?” He blinks, “Why do you still carry those around?”

“Old habits, I suppose.”

You pull the potion out of your bedside table and set it down before removing your housecoat. Throwing it on the bed, you take a step closer to him. You watch his jaw tense and relax repeatedly, and his hands clench into fists.

“You can’t go on like this. Feed on me.”

“I-,”

“Don’t make me get another dagger.”

He snickers, “You do have awfully terrible knife skills.”

“And Shadowheart isn’t here to save me from my own grave ineptitude.”

“You frightened me that night, you know. I hadn’t been that scared in,” he pauses, thinking, “decades. Not even when Cazador would pull me into the kennels…”

He steps closer to you.

“Astarion…”

“You wanted truth in all things, darling.”

Astarion grabs you by the waist, tugging your body flush against his. Bowing his head, he runs his lips down your neck and along your collarbone. As it always does, the temperature contrast sends shivers shooting up your spine, and you gasp. You roll your head to the side, exposing your neck to him further.

Astarion delicately kisses your neck, “You’re a gift.”

You feel that familiar icy pinch as his fangs sink in. You inhale sharply. The sudden stab of pain makes your hands go to his biceps, anchoring yourself, squeezing hard. The sharpness of the pain dissipates rapidly and becomes nothing more than a dull throbbing ache.

He groans against your neck, and you feel your essence being drawn out of you in steady, calculated pulls.

His tongue laps at your neck, savouring every drop. Astarion’s grip on your waist tightens, and he bucks his hips into you. His arousal is obvious, and he wants you to know it - feel it.

With a moan, you can’t help but gyrate your hips demandingly against him in response. You’re full of fevered need for him while he fills himself with you.

Your life spills into him, and you can feel yourself flowing through his veins, powering his muscles, sating his raging hunger. It’s an odd sensation - like you are one person inhabiting two bodies simultaneously.

Or perhaps that's the light-headedness talking.

Your head swims dreamily, and you close your eyes and let yourself begin to drift into him, enjoying the familiar serenity of this moment. The act of him feeding on you has always felt intimate. Your body shakes excitedly, and your heart croons the siren song of desire.

It feels like it ends too soon as Astarion removes his fangs from your neck carefully. He places his cool palm on the wound, putting firm pressure on it to staunch any residual bleeding. He reaches over to the bedside table and uncaps the healing potion with his teeth before bringing it to your lips.

“Drink.”

You do as you’re told, and Astarion pours the viscous sweet liquid into your mouth in deliberate increments, giving you time to swallow until the bottle is drained.

“Good girl.” He purrs as his thumb slides across your lips, wicking away any drops that may have spilt.

His eyes are lidded heavily with a carnal lust you would recognize anywhere. The crimson hue of his irises is so vibrant that they look like polished glinting gems, and you’re captivated by the dazzling incandescence.

Astarion eases the pressure on your neck momentarily, checking to see if the bleeding has stopped before reapplying it.

“Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, “Gentle as a babe.”

The tapered points of his ears are flushed rosy-pink, and his body is no longer clenched unnaturally. He looks happy, the way you like to see him, and you smile at him.

“What are you smiling at, my dear?”

Sighing softly, “You.”

“And why ever would that be?”

“You look happy.”

His eyebrows rise, and he cocks his head, “Perhaps, I overdid it.”

“No, you didn’t.” You bring your hand to the one he’s holding firmly against your neck and slide your fingers around his wrist, “I just like seeing you like this; the points of your ears flushed, your body relaxed, smiling. I like seeing you happy.”

His voice softens into a low, seductive timbre, “Is that so? Do you know when I am happiest?”

“Elbow deep in gore, if my memory serves me correctly.”

He chuckles, “Oh no, my love. I’m happiest when I’m deep in you.”

Promptly, you once again become exceedingly cognizant of his hard length pressed firmly against you. Using his index finger, he gently tilts your head so that you’re meeting his gaze. The passionate intensity in his eyes makes your heart leap, and you draw in a sharp breath. Your lips part intuitively as you stare back up at him, letting your eyes devour his beauty.

I should stop him.

He lowers his mouth to yours in a tender caress, and your eyes flutter closed. Your tongue traces his lips, and he parts them for you with a deep moan, allowing you to taste him. His mouth harbours the metallic tang of you, and it only pushes your arousal higher.

Your fingers nimbly pull the hem of his shirt free from his pants, desperate to feel his satiny, cool skin. Your hand glides up the contours of his lithe body greedily. You let out a shuddering breath as you feel the aching need in your already swelling flesh.

Astarion hugs you firmly to him as he walks you carefully backward until you’re anchored between him and your bedroom wall. His erection presses into you, and you grind against him, desperate for the gratifying friction. He groans, driving his hips further into you with an eager whimper.

He breaks the kiss off, nipping playfully at your lower lip, and looks down at you with heated eyes, half-lidded with arousal.

“Tell me what you want, my love, and it’s yours.”

What do I want?

Him.

Just him… forever.

You tremble against him, and your voice comes out in a breathless pant, “You.”

He trails his finger down your neck, featherlight across your chest and between your breasts.

Oh.

“You’re beautiful like this, you know. Skin flushed, teeming with need, begging to be tasted.”

Fuck.

His finger continues its lazy route down your stomach and over your belly button. Your skin prickles at the sensation, and tension coils hot in your abdomen. You can feel your knees buckle as the walls of your core spasm and contract.

So close.

He continues his relentless teasing advance. His fingers sweep under your night shirt and brush over the silk shorts covering your swollen clit, and you let out a shuddering breath.

“Fuck.” He hisses under his breath, “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”

“Astarion…”

“I want to hear you say it.”

You feel bashful all of a sudden, heat rising to your face. Your voice quivers pleadingly, “I want you.”

Astarion pushes his hand past the waistband of your shorts, and his finger slips between your folds. You have to stop yourself from crying out at the decadent sensation of his bracing fingers cooling the fiery heat pooling between your legs.

The pad of his finger teases your clit, drawing leisurely circles around the swollen, pulsing bundle of nerves. You moan, bucking your hips, and sag into him.

Your bedroom door rattles loudly, and Gale’s muffled voice rings behind it, startling you, “Are you in there? Tara told me something is wrong with Astarion, and he’s not in his room.”

“Gods, his timing is horrendous,” Astarion whispers near your ear.

Or it’s perfect. I let that go too far.

Your entire body whines with displeasure as Astarion stops the delicious onslaught of sensation and withdraws his hand.

It takes you a moment to regain enough of your composure that your mind can coherently put words together again.

“Just a second!” You finally manage to call out.

You grab the robe hanging over the chair by your bed and slip into it in a rush. Astarion sits on your bed, hiding the obvious erection still prominent in trousers.

Your fingers still tremble from the adrenaline coursing through your veins, and you fumble with the lock on your door. Gale’s concerned face is awaiting you when you finally manage to open it.

“Were you still resting? I didn’t mean to wake you, but Tara-” He cuts off as his eyes fall on Astarion sitting casually on your bed, “Oh… I hope I’m not interrupting?”

Before Astarion can get a word in, you blurt out, “No, of course not. Tara woke me to say Astarion seemed unwell, so I went to check on him. Everything is fine.”

“Unwell?” Gale eyes the fresh bite mark marring the skin of your neck, “I see.”

Fuck. I forgot about that.

Feeling the need to explain yourself, and by extension Astarion, you continue with your hasty word vomit, “He was just hungry. Apparently, there aren’t a lot of animals roaming the forests around Waterdeep.”

“Hmmm, I’m sure,” Gale says skeptically, eyeing Astarion.

“Your neck is safe, wizard.”

“Yes. I see you’ve already found one to dine on.”

You don’t like the austere intonation of Gale’s voice or the weariness in shaded in his eyes.

“I offered, Gale.”

“Yes, of course you did.”

Astarion stands abruptly, “Thank you for the meal, darling. I’m feeling much less… grumpy. I best get some sleep. I am ever so tired .”

Astarion kisses your cheek and whispers in your ear, “This isn’t over.”

Gale watches Astarion with reservation as he disappears into his room.

“No animals in the forest, hm? And you believe him?”

“He can hear you, Gale.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Yes, I believe him. He has no reason to lie, and we have no reason to doubt him.”

“I would argue that your blood is a rather strong incentive to be untruthful.”

You shoot him with a warning look, irked by the judgemental undertone. It was your neck, your blood and your choice. Whether he believed Astarion or not was inconsequential.

He sighs, “It’s none of my business. You know him better than I, after all.”

Tara lopes down the hallway, rubbing herself on Gale’s legs as she weaves through them.

“Did you speak to the vampire about his conduct?”

“Yes, of course. He said he was ever so sorry, and he won’t throw anything at you ever again. He even promised he would warm your evening milk.” You raise your voice slightly even though you know you don’t have to, “Isn’t that right, Astarion?”

His voice echoes down the hall, muffled by his closed door, and you can hear the displeasure in it, “Indeed.”

Gale excuses himself, proclaiming that he has business in the city he must attend to. Closing your door, you rest your forehead against it, taking deep breaths.

That was too close, but at the same time, not nearly close enough.

Your body is still humming with anticipatory tension, yearning for his intoxicating caress. Your skin crawls with the prospect, and you shake your head, trying to dislodge your titillating thoughts. With a grumble, you ready yourself a bath in the large oval wooden tub and soak in it until the water becomes too tepid.

You spend the rest of your day doing idle chores, trying to keep your hands and mind busy enough that your thoughts stop drifting to what had occurred in your room that morning.

I will never be able to look at that wall the same.  

By late evening, you’re sitting by the fireplace in the grand hall, engrossed in your book. Tara lounges sprawled out in front of the hot flames leaping about in the fireplace.

You twitch, jolted by a light kiss placed on the top of your head.

“Sorry. Did I startle you?”

“You could make some sort of noise when you move about, you know.”

Astarion cocks his head, “I could… but where is the fun in that?”

He sits in the heavily padded chair across from you with a cunning smile on his roguishly handsome face.

Gods. He really is something else, isn’t he?  

“You delight in scaring people?”

“Darling, I’m a vampire. It’s in my nature.”

You roll your eyes at him, “Did you sleep well?”

“Like the dead.”

“Very funny.”

Astarion leans forward and eyes you raptly. The ambient light increases the cardinal lustre of his red eyes. Striking shadows cast bewitchingly over his debonair expression. A small half smile quirks up one side of his lips.

You cock your head at him, “What?”

“Come out with me tonight.”

You close the book, “Do you need help with something?”

“No, darling. I want to take you out… on a date.”

“A date?”

“Yes. Allow me to court you.”

“Court me?” You giggle, “You sound old.”

He chuckles, “Love, I AM old.”

“What would we go do?”

“Go to a tavern, go on a crime spree, rob someone. The possibilities are endless really.”

You nod, “Okay.”

“Truly?”

“You sound surprised. Did you expect me to say no?”

His finger comes to his lips, “Last I checked, friends don’t go on dates.”

I have let my misery shackle me for far too long. I’m sick of being afraid.

“They don’t,” you say bluntly, “But there’s something you must do first.”

“Anything.”

“You owe Tara warm milk.”

Astarion sags in his chair with a loud groan.

Tara’s head pops up, eyes suddenly alert, and her tail vibrates happily straight into the air, “It’s about time, vampire!”

He points at Tara, “This is your fault.”

You beam an angelic smile at him, “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Go get ready. I’ll warm the…,” he pauses, “Tressym, her bloody milk.”

“A man of his word.”

He lowers a haughty glower at you, his mouth twitching with the hint of a smile, “Go.”

You trot up the long staircase to your bedroom giddily. Butterflies carouse in your stomach and your heart flutters in tempo with the beating of their wings.

A date? We’ve been out countless times together, but Astarion has never asked me on an actual date.

You slip into a yellow, body-hugging sheathe dress with long sleeves. The delicate fabric is adorned by an embroidered dragon twirling from your chest, down your back and around your midsection. You pick a dress with a high neck to cover the fresh bite marks gracing your skin. Checking the mirror, you comb your hair and freshen your makeup before going downstairs.

You hear Tara scold Astarion, “It’s not warm enough, vampire.”

You have to stifle a laugh as you walk into the kitchen. Astarion is standing with the bowl of milk in 1 hand, and his other is pressed against his forehead, lamenting exasperation, as Tara stares at him scathingly through narrowed eyes.

“Having trouble?”

He hits you with an impatient look that slowly dissolves as his eyes explore you from head to toe and back again.

His mouth drops open, “You look exquisite.”

You giggle, soaking in his praise, “Let me help you with that.”

You slip the bowl of milk from his hand as he stands there in stunned rapture.

Fire springs to life in your palm, and you hover the bowl just above the licking blaze, warming the milk quickly. Placing the bowl on the ground, Tara starts to lap the warm milk with happy, resounding purrs.

“Astarion?”

“Yes?”

“You’re gawking.”

“Right. Apologies.” He bows shallowly, “Shall we go?”

“Lead on.”  

You and Astarion stroll through the dozing city. The streets are dimly lit by tall lanterns burning in precise increments on each side of the thoroughfare. You’re thankful this night feels warmer than most, or maybe it’s just your feverish excitement keeping the cold at bay.

You banter back and forth while you make your way into the center of nightlife here in Waterdeep. The walk is long, which takes longer as you and him stroll casually, enjoying each other's company.

The stars shine brightly overhead and flicker captivatingly as you stare at them. You feel Astarion’s hand bump up against you. You smile as his hand slides into yours, and your fingers interlock.

“I can’t believe you had me warm milk for that cat.”

“You threw a pillow at the TRESSYM.”

He huffs, “She was thumping about in my room!”

“I don’t see the problem. You warmed her milk the other night, did you not?”

He nods, “I did.”

“Why?”

“I needed her to deliver a message to a lovely, fiery sorceress. She needed convincing.”

“Why ask her to deliver the message at all?”

“I did not want you to think I ran off again.”

Oh…

He kisses the back of your hand, “You know this city better than I do. Where should we go get ourselves into trouble?”

You flash him a wicked smile, “I have an idea.”

“Oh, intriguing.”

“This way.”

You walk hand-in-hand, leading him through the winding avenues until you’re standing in front of the tavern called The Grinning Lion.

“This certainly looks upscale.”

“This is where the nobles come to overindulge. I want to play our game.”

His eyes widen in surprise, a devious grin stretches across his face, and he drags you, giggling, into the tavern.

The tavern is busy, as it was most nights. The walls are adorned with dark, heavily lacquered wood panelling. Opulent scones decorate them, casting their softly rocking illumination. Cabinets of obviously fraudulent battle trophies line the walls. Finely dressed nobles, patriars, and other well-off citizens pack the crowded room. They hoot and holler, calling out lascivious jeers.

Astarion smiles fiendishly, “Oh yes, this will do nicely.”

Astarion’s hand comes to the small of your back, and he leans close, “What would you like to drink?”

“Something hard.”

“Someone is feeling adventurous tonight. Find us a table. I’ll get the drinks.”

You nod to him and start to meander your way through the befuddled crowd. You turn your head slightly, but not enough to look at him.

Under your breath, you whisper, “And Astarion… Red jacket, blue piping, unsightly hat, greying beard.”

You weave your way through the throng, getting bumped into from time to time by some roaring drunk noble stumbling about. Finding a small table in a dim corner, you sit in the overtly pretentious chair and scan the rambunctious room.

It isn’t long before Astarion walks up and slides your drink over to you. You pick it up and take a small sip. Elquesstria, imported from Evereska - your favourite. He hits you with a striking, playful smile.

You lean back in your chair, “Did you manage?”

“What do you think?”

You hear the recognizable jingle of coin, and he smirks at you with a guileful expression, “We should endeavour to thank him before we retire.”

You giggle, taking another long sip of the succulent liquor. This was a game you and he had invented purely for amusement. You’d pick a mark for him, and he would relieve them of their coin or whatever else was in their pockets.

You point him towards progressively more difficult marks, trying to give him a challenge. If he successfully picks the pocket of every target, he wins; if you point him at someone and he either declines or gets caught, you win. The prize was whatever you two decided on after.

You have never won.

He was too good, an expert Rouge through and through, with centuries of practice and mastery of his skills behind him. His stealth and dexterity are unmatched.

You finish your glass in long gulps when you see the waitress heading for your table. Her eyes graze over Astarion, and her hips start to sway lewdly back and forth. She straightens herself elegantly and tugs on her shirt, revealing more of her ample cleavage. You stop yourself from groaning.

And it starts already.

The waitress puts her hand on the table, leaning close to him, closer than she needs to, “Can I get you something, Saer?”

He glances at your empty drink and orders you another. She nods curtly at him, “And for yourself?”

“Nothing for me.”

He stares straight past her, watching the crowd, and she huffs in frustration and stomps away. You can feel the alcohol going to your head already, and you giggle at her vexation with his complete dismissal of her transparent flirtation.

He cocks a brow at you and leans in, “What?”

Surely, he noticed that, right?

“Nothing.”

“Alright, love. Who is next on your hit list?”

Your finger idly taps the table, and you keep your eyes focused on him, “Light blue shirt, short blonde hair, ugly shoes.”

He nods, “You remember how to play well.”

It was something he had taught you so that you didn’t rouse suspicion. Scan the crowd, but don’t stare at any one person for too long. Pick a mark and watch from your peripheral vision to pick out the details if more are needed.

“I had a good teacher.”

Astarion sips his drink, “The best,” he winks, “I’ll be right back.”

He gets up from his chair and scans his surroundings, no doubt planning his route.

You keep your voice quiet. His sharp ears will hear you even in this raucous commotion, “Astarion.”

He hesitates but doesn’t look at you. He lowers his head and straightens his jacket - a signal to you that he’s listening.

“And the waitress.”

Astarion strides away into the crowd, and you keep your eyes cast down at the table. You want to watch him, but you know that would make it far too obvious. If someone were to notice your intense gaze following him, it would hamper his ability to slink through the rabble.

The waitress reappears and sets your drink down with a loud thud. She looks around, obviously looking for your earth-shatteringly handsome company, and then slaps you with a catty half-smile.

You look at her with the sweetest smile you can muster, “Thank you.”

She takes off with a huff and vanishes. You shake your head, laughing to yourself.

My jealous streak is alive and well, it seems.

Taking another long draw of your drink, you savour the slight burn as it slides down your throat. Your limbs start to tingle, and your inhibitions dwindle. You settle into this moment comfortably without fear and insecurity gnawing at you.

Astarion dodges around a particularly inebriated man awkwardly lumbering and takes his seat gracefully beside you. He grabs his drink and takes another small sip.

“The waitress hardly seemed a worthy target.”

You rest your head on your hand, “Is this your way of telling me you lost?”

He scoffs, “Hardly. A mere observation. I’m curious, why her?”

“She was stripping you with her eyes. I thought it only fair you strip her of her coin.”

His eyes meet yours, and he smirks, “You’re a merciless, jealous thing, aren’t you?”

Taking another gulp of your drink, you smile and shrug at him innocently.

“If you keep drinking like that, the night will be over far too quickly, darling.”

You bring your hand to your chest dramatically, “Are you insinuating I can’t hold my liquor, Astarion?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to carry you home.”

“Unlikely to be the last too.”

He chuckles, “Promises. Promises.”

You glance around the room, “Enlighten me, Astarion. Who would be the hardest mark here?”

His eyebrow cocks, “Asking me to give away trade secrets now? How very bold.” He smirks, sipping his drink, “I’m not sure I should. I do want to win, after all. I have my prize all picked out and everything.”

You drain your glass. You know that look and the suggestion intonation along with it.

The waitress appears at Astarion’s side with a bright grin and a tempestuous, sultry gaze, “Can I refresh that for you, Saer?”

She doesn’t even look your way, let alone meet your eyes, and you feel your palm warm with the unmistakable heat of your envy physically manifesting. You can’t help yourself, and you scoff out loud at her.

Astarion keeps a keen eye on you, ignoring her proximity to him, “Another drink for my wife.”

He takes your hand, placing an affectionate kiss across your knuckles. You sputter, nearly choking on the air, and the heat emanating from your palm retreats with the rush of astonishment.

His wife... Gods, why does that sound so good?

The waitress shoots herself upright, her face flushes, and she backs away from him swiftly, “Right away, Saer.”

She scurries off in an uncoordinated hurry. You would laugh had you not been staring at him in bewilderment.

“Your wife?”

“Don’t worry, friend, you’re all but green with envy, not to mention that twitchy palm of yours. I thought you might enjoy seeing her flounder.”

You stare at him, mystified. The spirits make your head feel fuzzy, and your heart feels like it’s shot up and lodged in your throat. Your thoughts revolve dizzyingly.

The waitress returns and plunks your glass in front of you with a fake smile. He nods to her curtly, and she hurries back off.

You grab your glass and swallow several big sips, draining half of it, before returning it to the table.

Astarion looks around, anxiously glancing away from you and back, “Did I overstep?”

Your voice comes out in a breathy sigh, “No.”

He smiles, “I do not often see you lost for words. What’s going on in your head?”

“Nothing, just…” you shake your head, trying to get a hold of yourself, “Nothing. You were about to enlighten me before we were rudely interrupted.”

“Was I?”

You find your confidence, “Yes, I believe you mentioned something about trade secrets.”

“Oh no, darling,” he tuts, “I mean to win tonight.”

“Consider the game won.”

“I win?”

You nod, “If you teach me what a Rogue looks for.”

“And my prize?”

“We can discuss that on the way back.”

“Deal.”

Astarion reaches over, grabs the spindly leg of your chair, and drags it across the floor until you’re right beside him. He leans in close, and you inhale his intoxicating scent.

“Do you see the man sitting at the large round table in the middle of the room? Tan shirt, sweat stains, grotesquely stiff moustache?”

You quickly scan the room, not allowing your eyes to linger too long on any particular area, “The large man?”

He nods, “The very one.”

You look at him quizzically and tilt your head just enough to see the man in your peripherals, searching for reasons he would be the toughest mark here. All you can make out is that he is stationary, and due to his location in the room, a number of people are huddled around him.

“Care to elaborate?”

Astarion’s eyes are full of beaming delight. He always did love teaching you his craft, even if you were terrible at it. It makes your heart leap.

“Tell me what you see.”

“He’s in the middle of the room, naturally where most of the people congregate, and he doesn’t move from his chair often, if at all.”

“Very good, darling,” he purrs, “he’s in the pathway for the waiters and waitresses, meaning they check in with him most often. The counter is in front of him, so there’s always someone observing. There’s also an oil lamp on the beam to the left that brightens the area, which, naturally, people will gravitate to.”

You nod your understanding and wait for him to continue.

“As you so astutely observed, he doesn’t move often - in the dark, that would be an advantage, but not in well-lit areas. Also, his coat and pants are rather… tight,” his face twists in disgust, “and wet. I don’t have to explain that one to you, surely.”

You giggle at the revulsion twisting his face, levelling a challenging glare at him, “Are you saying you couldn’t do it?”

He snickers, “With time and patience, anything can be done, but I would not touch that man if he had all the coin in Faerûn. He’s positively sodden. I can smell him from here.”

“Even if it meant you would lose?”

“For you, my dear, I would do anything, but surely you don’t mean to go back on our deal?”

You polish off your drink, “No. I am a woman of my word. You win… for tonight.”

“Good. Shall we go? I fear the walk back will take us until sunrise as you stumble about.”

“You have no faith in me, Astarion. I would always cast Fly.”

He snickers at you, “You would likely Fly straight into a building.”

You can’t help but laugh.

He’s probably right.

“I’ll go settle up.”

You nod, “I’ll wait for you outside. I’m not sure how much more obnoxious yelling I can handle.”

“Don’t stray too far, love.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He grins and departs, once again lost to the crowd. You twist your way through the unruly horde and let yourself out. The crisp night air feels refreshing in your lungs, and you drink in it. The tavern air felt unnaturally warm, carrying the sour fragrance of stale spirits and body odour.

Chilled by the breeze, you cross your arms over yourself and wander a little way towards the street.

“My wife.”

You hear Astarion’s voice in your head and smile to yourself giddily. Perhaps it’s the liquor influencing you, but you finally feel like you’re ready to stop running from him, from yourself, and your feelings. You hope you wake up in the morning with the same unwavering resolve.

The unsteady slapping of hard-soled boots on the pavement wrests you out of your hazy thoughts.

“Saer, I thought that was you.”

With a cringe, you turn and see a heavily wavering man. He looks almost like a sapling tree caught in a high wind as he sways from one side to the other on his feet, stumbling to keep his balance.

“Aldous.”

AO3: [Cross-Posted]

Chapter Master List - Shadows of the Past

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. It gives me the confidence to keep posting, and I am grateful for the support!

I am SO tempted to write more date nights for Tav because this was incredibly fun!

[echostalker]

Sacred 28 or The Sacred 28

Draco: *Talking shit like always, loudly in the halls of Hogwarts*

Everyone: *stops to judge him and mocking him quietly*

Draco: And you see, Granger, this is why the sacred twenty-eighth will never lower themselves to marry the likes of you. Only someone boorish and idiotic would, isn’t that right Weasley?

Harry: *gearing up to hex the blond* Malfoy-

Ron: *bored and completely done with conversation* The sacred twenty-eight? Or The Sacred Twenty-eight?

Hermione: Why can I hear the bold, italic, and underline on the second one?

Ron: Well one is the inbred pure-blooded stupidity and the other is the actual True Pillars Of Magic; Sacred Twenty-eight.

Draco: *red with embarrassment* How dare-

Ron: Shut up 18th House, the 10th House is talking. *walking away with his friends to give them an in-depth explanation*

The Slytherin House: *facepalms*

[yuurei20]

I was wondering if it's ever mentioned about Rook disliking anyone, because I don't remember ever getting that impression. I can pretty easily think of someone anyone else dislikes so it felt odd lol

Hello hello!! I think you may be right!

Rook himself might be one of the more disliked characters, with Floyd calling him annoying, Leona calling him a pest and a weirdo and Malleus saying he seems like a boorish fool.

Trey says, “Rook tends to blurt out everything that crosses his mind, positive OR negative,” but I have not been able to find him speaking disparagingly of any other person.

Trey gives the example of Rook saying that an assignment from their Science Club advisor was boring and, while happening off-screen, that might be one of the most negative things that Rook has ever said. When commenting on his most disliked food (garlic) he says it is “not so much a distaste as it is a…professional aversion.”

Even when discussing Idia (possibly the character who earns more in-game vitriol than any other) he is gentle with his wording, saying, “We all sparkle in different ways. The Roi de sa Chambre shines when conversing with his own heart. He is not one for forming friendships with scads of people.” (Riddle clarifies that, “In other words, he’s a shut-in.”)

And even during the first Halloween event when Magicam monsters harass Vil with constant, unwanted photography, he never speaks poorly of them.

Trey says that he has never seen Rook in a bad mood. Vil says Rook is “affable and honest. Honest to a fault sometimes, and utterly devoid of tact,” insinuating that if Rook had a problem with someone, Vil believes that he would let it be known.

As we learned in Book 5, however, Rook is wholly capable of keeping his opinions secret for years even from Vil, so I’m not sure there is any way we can really know for sure.

What might be the harshest thing Rook has ever said was a line invented for the EN server: he calls Leona an “idiote” (the feminine form of the word) in a vignette, but he has not actually ever name-called anyone (and he is very much a fan of Leona).

There might be another question here of, "Do any of the three light-magic users (Rook, Kalim, Silver) dislike anyone?," and the answer might be no!

Much like Rook, Kalim is also infamously positive ("When everybody else is happy, I'm happy, too!") and the closest we see Silver come to having an issue with someone is during Spectral Soiree, when he tells Jamil, "It's wrong to take other people's things."

But he soon decides that Jamil is trying to teach him a life lesson about making hard decisions for the greater good and spends the rest of the event complimenting Jamil on his foresight, even presenting him to Lilia as the reason he was able to reach their goal.

Silver does not seem to have a problem with Leona either, and when Rollo's plot is revealed during Glorious Masquerade his first reaction is wondering what must have happened to him to result in Rollo making such choices.

So this may not be a quirk that is unique to Rook, but possibly something shared by all three light-magic users! :>

[aristenfromwarsaw]

~~~ Aristen and Astarion's daughter ~~~

🗡️~~~Aurora also known as Dancer of Death~~~🗡️

Name: Aurora Rosegrove-Ancunín

Origin: Bhaalspawn.

Race: High Elf ~ Dhampir.

Family: mother ~ Aristen Rosegrove-Ancunín ~ father ~ Astarion Ancunín - more about them - here.

Class: Rouge ~ Arcade Trickster.

Gender: Female.

Pronouns: She/Her.

Sexsuality: Heterosexsual.

Height: 165 cm.

Favorite color: purple.

Favorite flower: bleeding hearts.

Favorite season: autumn, she loves colors of this season.

Favorite animal: cat.

🗡️The story of her birth:

One day, Astarion drank a lot of blood (too much blood🙈) and spent a passionate night with Aristen. Then Aristen became unplanned pregnant and so Aurora was born. Astarion was devastated because he didn't see himself as a father and Aristen was afraid that her daughter would inherit her murderous tendencies. So the mother did everything to make the child normal. Unfortunately, it didn't quite work out. Aurora often feels the urge to murder, but thanks to the help of her family, she is able to control it. Also she is often haunted by dark and bloody images during her sleep or trance.

🗡️About Aurora:

Aurora has a lot of distance towards herself and her origins. She is even proud that she comes from the vampire spawn and the demigod of Bhaal, because it makes her a very unique individual. She is very confident and says what she thinks, if she doesn't like someone, she doesn't hide it. Aurora loves sarcasm (yes, a large part of her character comes from Astarion 😆 ). She has a good heart, but she can be malicious and boorish. That's why at the beginning Aurora may seem like a person who put on airs and graces. But on the contrary Aurora does not like self-aggrandizement and injustice. She is very loyal to people important to her. Aurora is easily angered and gets upset if something doesn't go her way. She is crazy (in positive way), loves having fun and likes to laugh a lot. You can't get bored with her !

From childhood, she was taught by her father how to use daggers and a bow, and her mother taught her the ways of magic. Since Aurora is a perfectionist, she has practiced a lot and is therefore very good at fighting, using agility and magic. Aurora loves acrobatics, dancing and music. In battle, she dances with her daggers, and her movements are beautiful and sensual. That's why she is called the "Dancer of Death" by many. She can drink blood, but it's not a priority for her. Aurora doesn't feel hungry for blood, so she only uses her teeth in battle. Aurora also doesn't have to be afraid of the sun, the rays don't harm her. Unlike her parents, she is mortal, but thanks to Aristen being the demigod of Bhaal, Aurora does not age after reaching maturity and is able to live for over 2,000 years.

🗡️

[scotianostra]

On 27th March 1625, King James VI died.

James Charles Stuart has many facts, myths and urban legends surrounding him, this is just one of them.

Rumours have abounded for centuries that James was a homosexual, I'm not saying he wasn't but at very least you might call him bisexual, he did after all father seven children to his wife, only three of whom survived. Known for writing poetry, there is little doubt he loved his wife, Anne, and wrote many poems and love letters to her throughout their marriage. Most of the rumours of James’ sexual orientation came from Sir Anthony Weldon, who was a bitter enemy of the king, whose writings were published long after James was dead.

One of the most amusing quotes from King James regarding marriage and women was when, at the Hampton Court Conference, the Puritan leaders complained of a line in English wedding vows where the groom says to bride “with my body, I thee worship.” James’ response was “If you had a good wife yourself, you would think all worship and honour you could do her, were well bestowed upon her.”

James supposed lover was George Villiers was a courtier who became a favourite of King James I. The King became infatuated with him and made him Viscount in 1616, Earl in 1617, Marquis in 1618 and Duke of Buckingham in 1623. Outmanoeuvring his rivals the Howards, Villiers was appointed Lord High Admiral in 1619. He manipulated the lovestruck King James to gain unprecedented control over royal patronage, rewarding himself and his family generously. He married his relations into the most important families in England. His own marriage was to Lady Catherine Manners, only daughter of the wealthy Earl of Rutland. Was their friendship more than platonic? To coin a Scottish phrase,

"Mibbes aye mibbes naw."

James had a deep and terrible fear of witchcraft and personally oversaw many witch trials while ruling in Scotland. He saw witchcraft as a branch of theology and even wrote a famous treatise titled Daemonologie, in which he dealt with sorcery, magic, and even vampires and werewolves!

James had a relatively peaceful reign, except for the infamous Gunpowder Plot, and kept taxes low. He was known as both the British Solomon and was called “the wisest fool in Christendom” by the King of France. James was both a brute and a gentleman, a sloth and a scholar, a boor and a poet, paranoid and cunning.

It's always best to get first hand knowledge about history, in this case his mother, Mary Queen of Scots, French Emissary Monsieur de Fontenay who had the following to say regarding the young James’ character and traits:

“I have been well received by the king, who has treated me better in reality than in appearance. He give me much credit, but does not show me much kindness. Since the day of my arrival he has ordered me to live in his house along with the earls and lords, and that I shall have access to him in his cabinet just as the others have… .

To tell you truly what I think of him – I consider him the first prince in the world for his age. … . He apprehends and conceives quickly, he judges ripely and with reason, and he retains much and for a long time. In questioning he is quick and piercing, and solid in his answers. … He is learned in many languages, sciences, and affairs of state. more so than probably anyone in his realm. In a word he has a miraculous wit, and moreover is full of noble glory and a good opinion of himself.

Having been brought up in the midst of constant fears, he is timid and will not venture to contradict the great lords; yet he wishes to be thought brave.

He hates dancing and music in general and especially all the mincing affectations of the court … .

From want of proper instruction his manners are boorish and very rough, as well in his way of speaking, eating. dress, amusements and conversation, even in the company of women.

He is never at rest in one place but takes a singular pleasure in walking; but his gait is very ungainly and his step is wandering and unsteady, even in a room. His voice is thick and very deep as he speaks. … He is weak of body … But to sum up, he is an old young man. …

He misunderstands the real extent of his poverty and weakness; he boasts too much of himself and he despises other princes. In the second place, he disregards the wishes of his subjects; and lastly, he is too idle and careless in business and too much addicted to his own pleasures, chiefly hunting. … He told me that he really gave greater attention to business than he seemed to do for he could get through more work in one hour than others could in a day. …"

James ruled Scotland as James VI from 24th July 1567; James ruled in England and Ireland as James I from 24th March, 1603. He died 27th March 1625 at the age of 58 after suffering a stroke and a case of dysentery following a malarial fever. Although the aforementioned George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham, was widely accused of poisoning the King in the days prior to his death, no clear evidence was ever found. James is buried at Westminster Abbey and was succeeded by his son, Charles I.

The third pic is James I body (largest) with Henry VII and his queen in vault in Westminster Abbey.

[evilwriter37]

snotlout gets cursed by a witch to "be completely unloved by man and woman" (probably for like. boorish attempts to flirt with her or smth similar), but snotlout assumes the curse was just bunk mumbo jumbo bc there's no way magic is real.

well, he thinks that right up until he gets back to the edge and finds out he has been completely removed from the riders' polycule, and they don't want him in it anymore at all whatsoever.

(thankfully, hookfang was not affected by the curse, and neither were the other dragons. but snotlout's devastated (and beelining for that fuckass witch) regardless)

Oh no!!! You made it angsty! (Fine by me, lol.) I just feel bad for Snotlout and hope he can find a way to fix this!!

[hogwash-deli]

Pig Man

Source of text and Image: Tropedia

A Pig Man is a combination of a man and a pig. He doesn't have to be a genetic hybrid, sometimes he's just an anthropomorphic pig or a pig-like humanoid alien.

In fantasy settings they may be a rare kind of were-animal, or just a pig-faced monster. Sometimes the work will call the Pig Man an "orc" — this probably stems from the fact that a few popular works have depicted their orcs as pug-nosed, tusked creatures.[1] In more futuristic settings, they'll be the product of genetic manipulation; these are usually human with "pig" added to them, but it could be the other way around. Either way, they're used as grunts, they have little intelligence, and they can be slaughtered by the hundreds with no moral implications.

In science-fiction settings, it makes a certain amount of sense that the pig is the preferred species for this type of gene splicing: pigs and humans are anatomically similar enough on the inside that pigs may soon be grown as human organ donors. The similarities even extend to behavior, pigs being omnivores with furless skin and similar behavior in the wild, enjoying beer as much as the next guy.

Tragic is the story of the Pig Man who escapes his evil masters and tries to live a human life; they'll usually be outcasts who will never know what it's like to be loved.

As the trope name implies, a character of this type will almost always be a Pig Man, similar to how cats are usually female. There are a number of reasons for this, the most prominent being that both pigs and men are stereotypically boorish and disgusting, and of course pigs are not considered the most attractive animal; Beauty Is Never Tarnished after all! If there is a whole race of Pig People you might see some Pig Women in the background but don't expect them to play an especially big role.

In yet another (almost entirely gay) sense, anthropomorphic pigs and boars can be very potent Fetish Fuel in furry Bara. This is somewhat rare in the Western Furry Fandom (and any cultural context where pigs are culturally considered unappealing to look at), but is more abundant in the Japanese Kemono community, where it peaked during the Year of the Pig in 2007. Much of the appeal is in the highly masculine Unkempt Beauty of Pig Men portrayals (sometimes overlapping with Ugly Cute), having much in common with the aesthetic ideals of the The Bear community. Really, a lot of gay furries would find the top picture hot.

Compare Half-Human Hybrid, Petting Zoo People, Full Boar Action, Government Conspiracy and Corrupt Corporate Executive. Oh, also Beauty Equals Goodness, Mooks and Hollywood Evolution. See Full Boar Action for swine that aren't part human and are crazy anyway. See also Messy Pig.

Some of the Pigmen of our time:

Advertising

Those "Feed The Pig" PSAs that run on Nightmare Fuel.

The Burger King advertisement for their limited time offer Ribs features a winged pigman as a spoof of the expression "when pigs fly". Of note is that he was actually driving a pickup truck, not flying; he explains that he's moving out of his mom's basement and needs the truck to carry his stuff.

Anime and Manga

The Swine Apostle from Berserk.

Porco Rosso. He used to be human, but he became half-pig through some unexplained event. He essentially wants to quit humanity.

In Spirited Away Chihiro's parents were turned into pigs because they ate food left out for the spirits. Apparently Miyazaki likes pigs.

Ai to Yuuki no Pig Girl Tonde Buurin. A Magical Girl who transforms into a pig. Yup.

And let's not forget Tesla from Bleach (his release that is).

Ranma ½ had Ryouga, who turns into a pig at comically appropriate times.

Kaoru from Freak Island wears a pig mask and a female version is Ami Murata who also wears a pig mask.

Words Worth. Pig-men rapists.

The Orcs in Slayers are pig-men with red skin. In one episode of NEXT, they were even cooked and served in a restaurant! Not that they taste good, mind you...

In Eyeshield 21, part of the Shinryuuji Naga's line consists of four look-alikes for the main characters of Journey to the West. Naturally, Hakkai resembles a giant pig.

Oolong from the Dragon Ball series.

He comes from a village populated solely by pig people... and they're all just as perverted as he is.

Pig-men are part of the Black King's troops in Drifters, among other non-humans.

Zampano the chimera from Fullmetal Alchemist, who looks human most of the time but can transform into a Pig Man at will.

Comic Books

Pig is an Italian comic series about a man who has undergone some genetic experiment and as a consequence, turns into a pig-man with Super Strength whenever he is sexually excited. The only way for him to turn back into a human is to have sex with a different woman every time.

Spider-Ham. He's a spider who was bitten by a radioactive pig.

A borderline case at best, since the entire Spider-Ham universe is populated by Funny Animals — there aren't any "humans" to speak of.

Pig-Iron, of Captain Carrot and his Amazing Zoo Crew, used to be just a cute little anthromorphic pig until a magic meteorite knocked him into a vat of molten iron — now he's the hulking Pig of Steel.

Jim Woodring's often-unsettling comic Frank has Manhog (described by his creator as a "lamentable father figure").

Gilbert Shelton's Underground Comics included the satirical superhero Wonder Warthog.

Sir Porga, an uplifted pig, is a member of the Knights of Wundagore in the Marvel Universe.

Green Lantern has a heroic and villainous example in Kilowog and Larfleeze, respectively. Although neither of them explicitly look like a pig, the porcine appearance is there; Kilowog looking more like a domestic pig and Larfleeze looking more like a warthog. Though some artists make Larfleeze look more like a horse or a rat.

Duckburg has quite a few pigmen, which seem to fall into two stereotypes: the sneaky villain and the gentle Big Eater. Both are usually rich. Carl Barks revealed that, for the most part, pigmen were used when he wanted a generic villain. That didn't stop him from making them memorable...Porkman De Lardo, anyone? Interestingly enough, if the Mayor of Duckburg makes an appearance, he'd usually be a pig.

While not an actual pigman, Grant Morrison introduced Professor Pyg to Batman's Rogues Gallery, who wears an incredibly disturbing pig mask. Of course, given his creator, the mask is the least disturbing aspect of the character...

Pigs occasionally turn up as characters in Usagi Yojimbo. Gunichi, the mentor who originally sponsored Usagi to Lord Mifume, who deserted them at the Battle of Aichi Plain and whom Usagi later tracked down and killed, was a Pig Man. There's also Zato-Ino, the Blind Swordspig.

Film

While not an actual Pig Man, Jigsaw from the Saw films does have a rather disturbing pig's head mask that he is sometimes shown wearing along with his sinister longcoat.

Time Bandits: Evil turns Og into a half-pig half-man. Later he turns him entirely into a pig.

The movie Penelope is about a girl who is cursed with a pig's nose until she can find one who will love her as she is.

Gammorreans in Star Wars are green-skinned pigmen who serve as Mooks for Jabba the Hutt. In the Star Wars Expanded Universe, they're a violent, primitive people that gravitates towards being Mooks or guards (in other terms, Orcs in SPAAAACE!). The X Wing Series introduces the pilot Voort "Piggy" saBinring, whose brain chemistry was tampered with, making him a calm Genius Bruiser.

In Legend, Pox was a (humanoid) goblin with a pig's head.

Literature

The Island of Doctor Moreau had some pigmen.

In a way, Animal Farm — but those were more like Manpigs (pigs who slowly became similar to men, walking on two paws, and wearing clothes).

The hyperpigs in Alastair Reynolds' Revelation Space universe (including Sparver in The Prefect, who's a cop).

In Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, a baby is so ugly he turns into a piglet. For such an ugly baby, he did make a rather handsome pig.

The French scifi novel Le Père de nos Pères by Bernard Werber (who also wrote the novel that "inspired" the movie Antz) postulates a human-pig (or rather some sort of simian-boar) hybrid as the origin of humanity, Also, genetically modified pigs used for human organ transplant.

Journey to the West features Zhu Bajie/Cho Hakkai/Pigsy, who is notably the least virtuous of the heroes.

The novel 'Pig Tales' by French author Marie Darrieussecq features a woman who turns into a pig-woman over the course of the book.

Note that the title character of Paul Zindel's novel The Pigman is not an example, just an old man who collects porcelain pigs.

Similarly, The Pig-Man in a short story This Troper studied at school defied the juvenile narrator's horrified expectations by turning out to be a man who raised pigs.

William Hope Hodgson's novel The House on the Borderland features an underground-dwelling tribe of monstrous pigmen as one of the sources of horror.

For those who haven't read the novel: we don't actually know that they're a tribe, and it's hinted (for that horror-filled touch) that they're the lesser/younger versions of an evil Pig Man god who turns up later in the novel, possibly as the primary antagonist. (It's a long story.)

Harry Potter had a greedy, chubby cousin whom Hagrid attempted to curse into one of these. However, Hagrid was too incompetent for that and only managed a tail.

The Hogfather, Discworld's Santa-figure, is mostly a jolly toymaker, but because he's mythologically descended from traditions of killing a wild boar to bring the summer back, there's still "a hint of hair and tusk".

And, in Paul Kidby's illustrations, a ring through his nose.

Quite literary in Oryx and Crake, where pigs are spliced with human DNA in order to create ultra-large pigs who grow multiple human organs that are used for transplants. Some of them even have some human brain tissue, which makes them viciously intelligent. Of course, It Seemed Like a Good Idea At the Time.

A pig-man adventurer converses with Pookie and Spider in one of the short stories from Myth-Told Tales. Presumably he's from a dimension where everyone is a pig-person, although his species and origin are never specified.

In Paths Not Taken, one member of Herne the Hunter's bestial entourage is a boar-headed ogre called Hob In Chains. Not only is Hob an example of this trope, but he's attended by a mob of dimwitted lesser pig-men, who are implied to have once been human.

--> Part 2

[xfulmen]

Friendly reminder that Laxus' strength is considered to be on the same level as a Wizard Saint yet the reason he isn't one is because of his boorish behaviour. ( despite the fact that currently this title doesn't have as much significance as it used to, unfortunately ) And when he was heavily poisoned to the point of being on the brink of death he was still able to summon nuclear explosions causing catastrophies with a snap of fingers. And that's not because of the lacrima that was implanted on him, that's his own raw strength. His lacrima served as the key to unlock the massive amount of magic he possesses.