#beastly brute

[stvolanis]

Now i know you better

PAIRINGS: Alastor x Fem!Sinner!Reader

WARNINGS: ANGSTTTT, mean!Alastor, cheating w/ Lucifer, probably inaccurate time line idk, foul language,this is honestly kind of poorly written I’m sorry, manipulation, abuse, Alastor owns Readers soul, toxic relationship, possessive!Alastor, pet names, brief mention of suicide

NSFW WARNINGS: dubcon, slapping, hair pulling, choking, forced cream-pie, degradation, dacryphilia, p in v sex, knotting, humiliation, blood if you squint

SORRY IF I MISSED ANYTHING!!!

˚ ꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ˚

It wasn’t your fault that your grave was dug the moment you stepped foot into the fiery pits of hell.

It wasn’t your fault that it was dug by Mimzy when she introduced you to her dear friend, the Radio Demon who, oh so casually, casted peoples screams for hell to hear.

Mimzy, known to drag people into her messes when shit hits the fan, had deeply embedded you into an on-going war with one of the various overlords, simply by seeking a place to lay low for a few days. You didn’t expect Alastor to show up, that damned smile engraved onto his face.

And it most definitely wasn’t your fault that you laid in said grave.

He was charming, and charismatic. A lethal combination when a sense of confidence and dad-humor was thrown into the mix. The way you met wasn’t the most ideal, especially when he basically bombarded through you, inviting himself into your wrecked home to find Mimzy himself without a word.

His smile, then, seemed aggravated. He did little to hide the annoyance she had somehow caused him, and the way his voice grew in static when he spoke showed that. He was scary when you had watched his figure enlarge, his once normal, slim body now turning into a tall, beastly, and lanky figure with protruding antlers and dilated pupils.

Dread set into your core that day when he directed his wrath towards you. His tall frame stalking over you, a hand quickly shot to your throat. Your back hit against the wall as you were lifted from the ground, gasping for breaths of any air you could possibly get.

His breath was drug out and uneven as his chest moved up and down at a surprisingly slow pace. Even though he seemed to be filled of fury and unease—he had a sense of control over his calmness to an extent. Eerily, he had glided his mouth along your neck, inhaling your scent.

A harsh groan, almost as if he were in pain had slipped past his lips. It rumbled deep in his chest, and your eyes watered as your vision began to fade. Only then, did he release you and let your body fall to the floor. You held your throat gently as you finally got what you were begging for.

“Maybe you’ll listen, since sweet Mimzy won’t.” He began, his voice deep and contorted with static and brute. “You will fix the mess she created, and restore what was mine to begin with. Your soul will be mine until you have fulfilled your duty as said.” He finished.

Your mouth gaped. He had presented it to you like you had a choice in the devastating matter, but you knew better. You sobbed as your curled into a ball, and watched as he raised a hand towards your frame that wracked with sobs. “Hush now, girl. You will be under my care so long as I’ll have you.” He ushered with a grimace as he watched you wipe your nose with your wrist.

You longed to object. To scream and yell out that never in a million and one light years would you ever agree to such a thing. Your freedom was yours alone, and you liked to keep it that way. He’d have to drag you through hell and back for you to allow that to happen, yet as you took his sharp hand into yours, it was all said and done.

A bright light consumed you, and just for a moment, you thought maybe it was the light shower everyone talked about up in heaven. The bright beacon of a light so blinding that cleansed you of all your wrong-doings, took away all your pain and replaced the emptiness with a euphoric feeling of content.

Warmth spread throughout your body, and that moment of hope ended when you felt thick, heavy metal of chains cling around your throat and wrists. Alastors smile haunted you. It crept up on you in your dreams, and ate away at the only good things you had left to hold onto.

The life you once cherished, even in hell, soon faded away till it was nothing but a faint distant memory of someone you once knew that was yourself. It was replaced by an evil demon, in the form of a gentleman who disguised plots and alterier motives with wide smiles and laughs.

but again, you knew better.

The person you once were was stripped from you, and you were bare before him to bend and mold how he saw fit. And so, he did. You became his his underboss of sorts, a quiet and submissive being who did as told. They always said behind every powerful man, there was a woman. And it was you. Everyone got the good side of Alastor, yet it was you he took his frustrations out on when the day was said and done.

It was you who endured his aggressiveness when everyone was fast asleep in their bedrooms, dreaming of a better life you knew you’d never receive.

You were his lap dog, and his favorite toy to play with whenever and however he wanted to. It was unofficial, and confusing to others, but you somehow managed to find yourself in some sort of situationship with Alastor. You were his. body, mind, and soul.

You tried your best to please Alastor, constantly seeking his approval that he so generously bestowed upon others. You chased your tail around, and ran in laps, jumping through hoops just to earn a small nod in approval for him.

He wasn’t always bad. He cared for you, in his own fucked up way. He cared in way that he would never let something bad happen to you, and would protect you at all costs. You were his delicate little flower, how could he ever allow anyone who isn’t him to inflict any kind of harm onto you? He’s a bitch, but to an extent.

He loved you, yes, but only when he was in the mood to love you. When he loved you, he’d hold you close to him when you were perched on his lap in the hotel lounge. He’d whisper sweet nothings to you as he kissed along your neck, making giggles vibrate through your chest. He’d run his fingers through your hair till you fell asleep against him at night after a particularly hard day.

And on days when he knew he went to far, his classic water works he only had in store for you would come into play. He couldn’t bare his favorite toy hating him. He didn’t know how to deal with the colder shoulder and short-answer responses from you. It aggravated him that only you could get under his skin without doing much, so when you were heavily upset, only then would he drop down to his knees and kiss the inside of your thighs lovingly.

Tears would align his eyes, but his smile never once wavering, and beg for your forgiveness. He’d tell you how much he loved you as he rubbed your sensitive bud, and wash away your worries with so many orgasms, you forgot why you were mad at him in the first place.

Yes, he owned your soul and tended to be abusive, but he wasn’t heartless.

He’d tell you he’s sorry, and that he’d never hurt you again. It’s always a lie, and each time you allowed yourself to stupidly believe it.

But the truth was, you didn’t know what else to do. You hated to admit it, but you were nothing without him. You spent so long shaping yourself into the person he wanted and needed you to be, that you forgot how to be yourself. You forgot what your previous hobbies were, or what else made you happy besides him. Your world revolves around him, and without him, it felt like your world was coming to an exaggerated end.

So, you put up with it. Each and every time.

It wasn’t till today, the day of Charlie’s fathers arrival to the grand hotel Alastor managed to put together and run, that you’d ever seen him so genuinely with any sort of nerves.

The moment Lucifer walked in, in all his glory, Alastors personality took a flip. He went toe to toe with the ruler of Hell himself, all because he was afraid of someone who he knew had more power than him. But Alastor wasn’t a weak man, not at all, and that’s why he made it his mission to piss off Lucifer as much as he could.

You’d never seen him this way before. With you? Yes, but with other people? Never. He was cunning and every word he spat at Lucifer dripped with malice and confidence. Alastor knew he couldn’t beat him with power, so he hit him where he knew it would hurt. His family. Specifically, the only one he had left.

What Alastor didn’t expect, was for Lucifer to become completely and utterly smitten with you. From the moment he laid his eyes on you, he’s been all smiles and giggles with you.

He listened when you talked, even the little small words or sentences no one cared to listen to. His lips against the top part of your hand when you first met was the only thing that circled your mind for days. His lips were plush and warm, soft and tender. It was a contrast to the kisses Alastor left you of pity and forgiveness.

He was sweet, and undeniably handsome. He made you feel ways you’d never felt before. He made you feel like you had a choice. A voice that wouldn’t be spoken over and genuinely listened to. He was charismatic, in a way like Alastor, but it was real. His smiles were real, as were the sweet nothings he said to you.

For weeks, you snuck around with Lucifer. At night, when Alastor was fast asleep, you’d sneak out from under his watchful arm and find your way to Lucifers room. His arms were more welcoming, and warm. His kisses sweeter than honey and his love as gold and bright as they come.

His voice was soft, and vibrant as he hummed against your ear. The fingers that raked through your hair were gentle and soothing, calmed you to your slumbers that comforted you through the night. His smell was intoxicating; cider and musk, like an orchid full of ripe apples. The two rosey spots on his cheek shined in hue when you’d enter the room.

I didn’t take long for Alastor to notice. He want a dumb and oblivious man. He was a ruthless overlord who couldn’t afford to look past the little things. He noticed the stares that the two of you sent when in a room full of people. The lingering touches no one else noticed when you brushed passed each other.

And most of all, they way you’d slip from his grasp in the dark of the night like he was stupid.

He knew, of course. He knew the whole time. And he let you let yourself believe that there was any other choice besides him. He allowed you, from the goodness of his heart, to feel a speck of the freedom you longed for. He let you grasp it and cradle it with all your might, just to draw you back in by the chains that shackled you to him for eternity.

He liked knowing that he controlled you. It fueled the god complex he had, knowing that no matter what you tried to do, you’d always be his. His to love, his to fuck, his to torment.

He mocked you for it, too. Rubbing it in your face that you were chained to him for as long as you’d live in hell. Suicide crossed your mind a few times, the only way you saw yourself out of it—yet, you knew that no matter what life you had next, you’d still always belong to him in some way, shape, or form.

You should’ve known better. Should’ve known that you could never be happy. Should’ve known that Alastor knew the whole time. Yet you were naive enough to think you were smart enough to go behind his back with a person he detested the most. The one person who could easily kill him with a blink of an eye.

Alastor would never say it out loud, because he knew deep down that he would never win against Lucifer. So, he did what he does best, and he took it out on you.

Tonight wasn’t supposed to be any different from any of the other nights you left Alastors bedroom.

You lay in another man’s arms, his chest rising and falling beneath you as soft breaths slipped past his pale lips. Lucifer looked especially beautiful like this. His white skin glistening in the dull lighting of the room, and his streaky blonde hair ran through messily against the plush pillow.

You wished you could stay in this very moment forever. You’d rather spend an eternity admiring Lucifer for all his greatness, than suffering in Alastors darkness miserably.

You never told Lucifer about the way Alastor treated you behind closed doors. You knew that if you did, Alastor would be dead without a second thought. It crossed your mind a few times, obviously. How could it not? It was your only way out. The only thing that stopped you was the fact that Alastor wasn’t always like this.

He wasn’t always a bad person towards you. In the beginning, he tried to make you as comfortable as possible. He made you happy, and lively. His presence didn’t make you want to cower away in a corner, and his stare made you flush red, as bright as the color of his hair.

After all he’s put you through, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt shoot through you each time you looked back at Alastor asleep in your shared bed. He never cheated on you. The one of many things he’s never done, yet here you were, every so happily cheating on him. You felt like a two-timing snake, and you knew if he found out that he’d feel betrayed.

With that thought, you slipped from under Lucifer’s heavy arm, watching with soft eyes as he muttered under his breath at the loss of your warmth against him. You kissed his cheek and whispered a goodbye as you exited his room, softly shutting the door behind you. Your finger glided along the walls of the hallway, all the way till you found yourself outside of Alastors room.

You inhaled deeply, reaching for the doorknob, twisting it ever so slowly. Your entered the dark abyss of the room, shutting the door softly behind you with a wince as it creaked lightly. Damned this old ass building.

What you didn’t expect, was for Alastor to press against you from behind.

His breathing was uneven, and sharp as his chest still moved up and down slowly. You froze. You felt your dead heart stop as if you were alive. It seemed like oxygen didn’t exist anymore as you gaped, jaw slightly fallen slack as your eyes lined with tears. Your body shook as his hand traveled to the bed of your throat, craning your neck back to meet his eyes painfully.

“A-Alastor—” you gaped. He clicked his tongue. “Hm, silly girl. You really thought I was unaware of your whore-ish activities?” He chuckled out, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. “Wait, please—” you began, but you didn’t get a chance to think of what to say next as he slammed your back onto the bed.

You tried desperately to crawl away from him, but within a second, chains tied you down to the bed frame. You wracked with sobs and please of despair. He stood silently for a moment, watching the way you crumbled so easily without him even having to really do anything.

“How dare you.” He hissed out after a moment. Climbing on top of your tense frame, he pinched your cheeks together and watched as tears ran down your cheeks pathetically. “I give you everything you could possibly need. I make sure you’re alive with a roof over your head and out of the clutches of hells streets, and this is how you repay me? By sleeping around with men?” He growled through his sharp teeth.

His smile was formed still, but more into a scowl of displeasure. His antlers were grown and prominent as he began to shift to his demon form that you hadn’t seen since the first time youd met him that fateful day. He was like a rabid animal, drool slipping through the cracks of his jagged teeth as his body became large and monstrous.

This was it. This how your soul would finally be put to rest. By the claws and bared teeth of a monster with the facade of a charming, hotel manager. Not the way you’d want to go out, but hey, at least your were gonna get out of it, right?

Or so you thought.

His claws, sharp as knives tore through your shirt, ripping it off of your figure and discarded onto the floor. Your white lace bra on display in front of him. Your pajama pants adorned with cheesy pandas torn to shreds alongside your favorite sleeping shirt. But all you could think about was the abnormally large bulge hard and prominent against your inner thigh.

God, you hated yourself. You danced along the line of lust, fear, and hatred. Hatred for him, mostly. You hated that you loved Lucifer—yet your body yearned to be used and played with at the hands of Alastor.

The sweet sex, praises and butterfly kisses Lucifer showered you was amazing, but this—this was different. The way Alastor fucked you was different. Yes, he was rough and fucked hard—but this was his way of showing you that he loved you. It was peculiar, to say the least. A man so easily able to use his words to fluster anyone couldn’t look you in the eye to tell you that he loved you.

So he fucked you like he hated you. But you knew what he meant.

His finger hooked under the middle of your bra, effectively slicing upwards to cut it in half. Your breasts sprang free, and your nipples hardened under the tense, cold air. You squirmed as his breath fanned against them, his long tongue shooting out to lick against them tenderly.

He played tricks on you. It was his favorite game. Giving you false hope. Dangling things he knew you longed for in front of you, only to yank it right back. Killing every last good thing you had left till you had absolutely nothing but him.

So you should’ve known better than to trust his soft tongue kitten licking your nipple. His sharp teeth bit down—hard enough to draw specks of blood around it. You yelped out in pain as your eyes lined with fresh tears waiting to be spilled over. The pain was dreadful, but god, did it feel good.

Alastors thumb trailed to lower, tracing down to your stomach till he reached your cotton panties, dampened with your arousal. “What a slut. Getting off on this. You should be ashamed of yourself, darling.” He mocked out with a cunning smile. He didn’t think twice before ripping your panties off.

He fumbled for second with his pants, unzipping them before letting them reach low enough just to pull his cock out. “Now, I’m gonna fuck this cunt till I’ve had enough, and after that, you’re going to go into the small-dicked-duck fanatics room with my cum dripping down your thighs and tell him just how good I fucked you.” He growled out, his hand finding it’s way back to your throat, squeezing tightly as he lined himself to your entrance.

“Alastor, please just listen—i” his cock bullied is way into you. Long, and thick. 9 inches of pure, heavy meat sat snugly inside of you, playing with your insides. He was perfectly trimmed, and his balls heavy balls slapped against the underside of your pussy with each agonizingly perfect thrust he delivered into you.

“Oh, oh fuck!” You moaned out, head thrown back as your hand clenched onto the chains that bound you to your bed post. “Tight little pussy. Tell me, does he fuck you like this, baby?” He panted out as he watched the way your eyes rolled to the back of your head.

He always thought you were the prettiest like this. Underneath him, writhing in pleasure, cock drunk and hungry for him. The only time you didn’t resent him. The only time you wanted him. He cherished this, not that he would ever say it out loud.

“I asked you a fucking question.” He said, slapping the side of your face harshly, leaving a painful sting behind. You whimpered at the familiar impact. “No, Alastor!” You all but screamed out as his cock kissed your cervix.

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed loudly, and the smell of hot sex was in the air. A distinctive, vile smell. Your body was lined with sweat, as was his, and your breasts bounced each time his hips met flush against your ass. All you could think about was him.

He consumed your thoughts, plaguing your mind. You couldn’t escape him. And as of right now, you weren’t sure you even really wanted to all along.

Some sick part of you enjoyed this relationship you were in. The part that liked to be put in your place, and told what to do in return for praises of affirmations. A relationship that never got boring, and always kept you on your toes no matter what. Traumatic? Definitely. Toxic? 100%. But, this is what you had to endure. The least you could to was learn to like and deal with it.

You clenched down tightly onto him as his hips slammed into yours repeatedly, his dick hitting every right spot, including the little nerve of your g-spot inside of you. The angle he had your hips positioned in hit it better, and he could tell you were close when your cunt began to pulse around him.

“Please, please, I’m gonna cum!” You babbled on and on, drunk on the feeling of him inside of you. He chuckled as he pulled your head up by the root of your hair, just enough to have your lips crashing down onto his. “Fucked you stupid, honey, i know.” He cooed out against your lips.

He tasted bitter. Like whiskey and old cigars, mixed with a strange tea refreshment. It was an odd combination, but one that suited him indefinitely. His tongue swirled and glided against yours as they fought for dominance in a sloppy, and surprisingly passionate kiss. One that said what he didn’t have to out loud. ‘You’re mine’. He won the fight for dominance, and he sloppily suckled your tongue into his mouth.

The kiss was nasty, sloppy with saliva dripping down your chin and a few cuts on your lip from his sharp teeth clashing against them, but it was the least of your concerns as he rested his forehead against yours, nearing his end.

“I’m gonna fill this pussy up. Nice and full so everyone will know in dues time just who the fuck you belong to.” He growled out through clenched teeth. You shook your head back and forth, your eyes widening with fear. “No, don’t! Please don’t!” You begged, on and on, but to no avail.

His thrusts became harsher, and more demanding. Chasing his high aimlessly as you begged and moaned out his name underneath him. It was then that you felt it. His cock balls deep when you felt it began to swell up inside of you.

You gasped in shock as you were stretched painfully to your limit, the bulge in your lower stomach large and prominent as he pressed against it, triggering your orgasm. Your juices flushed out of you and all over his lower abdomen, and he groaned at the sight. You clenched down onto him impossibly tighter and he felt like he was gonna lose his mind.

“Pull out. Please pull out.” You desperately tried to reason with him, but he didn’t care as he sat snug inside of you, his knot finally emptying inside of you. It was warm, and you could feel it drip down your ass when his cock finally fell flaccid and limp, slowly pulling out of you.

“Maybe now, you’ll learn your lesson. You must be a fool to think that anyone could ever love you like i do.” He said, shaking his head. He bit his lip with a satisfied smile as he watched his mounds of cum pour out of you. “Milked my cock so well.” Was the only praise that slipped past his lips the rest of the night.

He didn’t allow you to clean yourself, only letting you thrown on a pair of panties from the drawer in his bedroom. Your inner thighs were slick and sticky with his warm, salty cum. “Run along now, dear. Come back when you’re finished.” He said in a singing tone, knowingly.

A flame rose in your core of embarrassment as you waddled out of the room, the uncomfortable feeling between your thighs growing by the second. It was humiliating, doing the walk of shame down the hallway, all the way to your now past lovers room.

A soft knock was laid on his door, and after a silent, dreaded minute of standing there, his door fell open. There you stood, in nothing but panties. Bite marks around your nipples and your neck prominent with a lingering bruise from the grip he held on your neck. His eyes trailed down to the cum slick between your plush thighs.

His eyes widened.

“The fuck happened to you?”

˚ ꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ˚

don’t be shy, ask to be a part of the tag list and request things!!

TAG LIST: @elvisalltheway101 @epthedream69 @claire-elvisgirl @elvisrealgf @littlehoneyposts @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo @luxuriouslokistan-3 @foxevxid @sapriao @parkbabyj @xiyingly @jazminsjaz @likeits2002 @www-interludeshadow-com

[chimeride]

A colossal brute with beastly talons and eyes of flame.

[saintgoths]

☾༺♰༻☽ʜᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴍᴇɴ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ ʏᴏᴜ☾༺♰༻☽

mdni very 18+ - just nasty sex.

includes simon 'ghost' riley, joel miller, levi ackerman, carlos oliveira and will herondale.

feedback/comments would be appreciated :)

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY

Like the man he is, he would fuck you in a position that asserts his dominance, a possessive grip that puts you in a firm stance telling you that you’re his and no one can fuck you the way he does, with his hand gripped tightly around your hair while he plows into you, forcing you to roll your eyes towards the back of your skull. “Take it,” he grunts and loud you shamefully moaned, “you pretty girl, all ruined and tight for me,” he moaned.

Proud he feels the way your body trembles under his touch, the width of his cock opening your pretty little cunt while the increased wetness inflates around his shaft. “Atta girl,” he groans as the tip of his cock licks against the skin of your cervix, pushing you into an intense high while your knees steeply dig into the sheets of the bed.

Your moans pathetic as you could feel your body weaken as another strong wave of orgasm pushes through you, your nectar spilling all over his bed and cock as you release a loud cry of pleasure as the thick and hot spews of his lewd semen coat your walls, your sensations ecstatic as he finally lets go of your figure and watches it shamelessly pummel against the bed.

“Y’did so well babydoll,” he muttered ere he dragged himself off the bed.

POSITION REFERENCE

JOEL MILLER

He’s so possessive with the way he fucks his girthy cock into you, beastly you feel the arch of his shaft pull forward inside your tight cunt, his loud, prideful of the erotic noises that purrs out of his mouth, while the tightness of your pussy clenches around him swallowing his large size as he loses himself inside of you.

His arms possessive around your body while the balls of his cock wetly slaps against your ass. “You’re such a good girl,” he drooled and in response you release a shameful whimper answering with degrading and shameful words declaring how you’re all his.

“Daddy, daddy!” You wept, over-stimulated by the brute forces of his large shaft beating and possessively marking the balmy and tepid of your cunt.

“There, there,” he whispered, “so good, such a good girl,” he moaned and the second he felt the thermal wetness of his load fill the tight size of your cunt the softness of his lips pressed against your neck leaving a sweet mark of his love.

POSITION REFERENCE

LEVI ACKERMAN

He loves the way his hand perfectly wraps around your breast as you hungrily bounce on his cock, your back pressed against his chest while the juices of your pussy squelches around his shaft, your cunt compact while the veins of his long manhood stroked the walls of your heat.

You bite your lip while the pad of his fingers twirl around your nipples, your breast plump and delicate, fondled by the adept hands of Levi Ackerman, who had been drunk with eroticism, his eyes dark with stimulation with the face of his cock that pummelled against the soft knob of your cunt, you throw your head back, your mouth drooling with piquancy as you had now been capable to speak.

“C-captain!” You moaned, your cries shameless while the arc of his cock hungrily blow and stroke the soft areas of your pussy, he had been focused, with his member that had softly shook in your tight space, one hand above your pearl that had gently whirled, possessive and hoggish with the way your body rolled against his.

“Just like that,” he whispered, “keep going!” He moaned and in obedience you continued to bounce up and down his length, your eyes wet with desirous tears as your body heaved forwards, numb and intoxicated by the member that had filled your heat paired with the sticky cum that had greedily clung onto your walls, feeling the depth of loneliness the second he pulled his cock out, but now his lip had been pressed against your jaw, tender and supple.

POSITION REFERENCE

CARLOS OLIVERIA

With his big and strong arms, he holds you up while fucking his wide cock up your cunt, his shaft easily slipping and sliding and the tip of his member greedily licking the soft lumps of your pussy while you tightly wrap your arms around his shoulders, securing yourself against him while his fingers grip into your skin, “That’s it princess,” he murmurs into your ear while frantically bucking his hips forward searching and sailing for his climax while your sweet cries fill the room.

Your lips tight and eyes white while the head of his shaft lick the coat of your cervix, eager to spill and fill its juices and give into the animalistic nature to breed. “So good for daddy,” he moaned and desperately you nodded your head, and in bold need for his authoritative approval you obeyed every demand that left his tongue, “Say it, say your my princess,” he commanded and frantic you felt your tongue slip out of your mouth as you hopelessly tried to gather the words he imposed from you.

“I’m—” you cried out and before you could finish your sentence a strong shriek was pulled out from your mouth as you could feel his shaft move deeper inside of you, sending you into a bold crying hysteria, how shameless you looked, disoriented and a mess due to his touch. “I’m your princess!” You chanted while you could feel your orgasm explode and spill against the cold floors of your room; and sapped you had fully leaned against Carlos, your arms still hung around him, wasted.

“You feel that?” Carlos hummed as he slowly pulsed in you and weakly you nodded as you had recognised the soft sensation of his fluid filling your wet cunt. “Good girl,” he then kissed your cheek before he rested you against the bed.

POSITION REFERENCE

WILL HERONDALE

He holds onto you so fucking tight, craving and selfish with the way his fingers dig into your skin, so snug, he thought, so supple your cunt had felt around him, how well you had taken his size and how you were just for him, only his, restricted to be shared, he had hated the idea of you being somebody else’s, glad, that the pliable and wetness of your vagina was his to claim and he swore that nothing would take you away from him.

“My love,” he moaned, his hand cupped beneath your knees as your body had bounced against his, your walls had clenched around him, taut and firm and so soothing and narcotic like he was some ill-man, and the feeling of your opiate cunt being the only thing that could cure him, he loved it, and could care less that he moved like a starved man.

Beastly while the nectar from the previous orgasms had melted and thawed with each other and the cloying cries of your over-stimulated moans had been a glacé music to him, he could feel another round of his orgasm build up and with the way you had whimpered to his touch, and with the way your body had twitched under his grope, another ecstatic rush wanted to overcome your petite figure.

“Fuck!” You loudly cried out feeling the face of his cock slickly brush and speck against your spot and once more, your eyes rolled backwards uncaring if anyone in the institute could hear your lewd cries, prideful that you had been ravished by Will Herondale, having his shaft stroke and tinge every good nerve in your pussy while he whispered sweet and amorous words in your ears, talking you into another amative and carnal climax.

POSITION REFERENCE

♆

[fastbrother]

Desperate (M, 1.3k words)

For forty-one-year-old Draco Malfoy starting his twenty-fourth year of unemployment, the only interesting question is who is he going to sleep with next.

Tags: From Sex to Love, Grumpy Harry, Reclusive Harry, Slutty Draco (non-derogatory), unhealthy coping mechanisms, middle-aged Drarry

Author's note: Wrote this for @kamaela's birthday. Thank you for always being so kind and encouraging! 💕

* * *

For eleven-year-old Draco Malfoy starting Hogwarts, the only interesting question about school was who was going to come in second in his year. Imagine his surprise.

For forty-one-year-old Draco Malfoy starting his twenty-fourth year of unemployment, the only interesting question is who is he going to sleep with next.

Some days, it feels like he’s slept with everybody worth sleeping with. Other days—well.

* * *

When he was young, Draco Malfoy thought he liked women. He slept with a handful of girls, all very proper and sweet.

Then the war came, and he was in it, and he was tortured by the Dark Lord himself, which rewired his brain somehow, because after the war Draco Malfoy did not like women anymore. Nor anything proper. Or sweet.

Draco Malfoy liked to be fucked like he’d be murdered next.

* * *

Harry Potter is a big old grump. He lives in what should have been Draco’s house by birthright, nurses a terrifying beard currently in the process of turning grey, and only ever goes out in Muggle London, like the uncivilised brute Draco knows he really is. Draco dreams of being fucked by Harry Potter, the saviour of the wizarding world, the slayer of Dark Lords. And whatever rude people say, Draco’s a man who works for his dreams.

* * *

“Harry Potter. Out and about. What a surprise.”

Potter barely spares a glance for poor Draco. His eyes are glued to the Muggle TV above the bar, in the process of broadcasting some beastly excuse for movement that the Muggles call sports. There are five empty glasses in front of him, and a cigarette dangling out of his mouth.

“Fuck right off, Malfoy.”

“Ah, I’m afraid not,” Draco says, and sits on the barstool next to Harry. “You go, if my presence bothers you so.”

“I don’t give a shit about your presence.”

“Beautiful. Have you taken to writing poetry, by any chance?”

“Tell me, Malfoy,” Potter says, slowly turning those grotesquely green eyes towards him. “You look like someone who makes enemies in every room he walks into. How come you’re still alive?”

“I have my ways.”

“Aha,” Potter says, emptying his sixth glass of whiskey, eyes back on the TV. “I’ve heard about your ways.”

“Would you like some first-hand experience with them?”

Potter lets out a chuckle, a loud and brutish sound.

“Have you been following me?”

“Hardly. I’ve been coming here every night for six months. Ask Robert.”

“Who’s Robert?”

“I’m Robert,” the barman says, pouring Potter’s seventh drink.

“Ah. Nice to meet you, Robert,” Potter says, and raises his drink. “So. Has he?”

“Yes.”

Potter turns to Draco. Offers a vicious smile that makes Draco’s body tingle in all the right places.

“I used to come here all the time. Before the Prophet published a photo of me. Six months ago.”

Draco shrugs. “Can’t a boy try his luck?”

Potter leans forward and pulls Draco’s stool closer to him.

“You’re no boy. You’re a slut.”

“Oh, yes,” Draco moans, biting his lip. “I am. I’m a bad, bad slut.”

* * *

Harry Potter fucks like he goes to war. There’s no fear there, no second guessing. Draco could die now, bent over a dirty sink in a dingy Muggle bar, and he’d be happy. He should die, actually, because what else is there to experience? He has peaked, and life can only be a disappointment from this point on.

“Please,” he begs when all is done. “Again.”

“You make a compelling argument,” Potter says, pulling up his pants. “But there are people queuing outside.”

“I’ll get rid of them. I’ll kill them. Nobody will miss them too much, I’m sure.”

“How about this,” Potter says, fixing his hair back in a ponytail. “You keep coming here every night for another six months, and maybe I’ll drop by again.”

“Don’t play with me, Potter. You know I will.”

“Oh, I know.”

* * *

Draco expects Potter to torture him for at least a couple of weeks, but he strolls into that cursed Muggle pub the next day. He’s wearing jeans and a ripped t-shirt. Truly living up to his reputation of decorated ex-Auror and beloved hero, this one.

“My, my,” he says, sitting next to Draco and gesturing to Robert for a drink. “What a good pet.”

“Aha,” Draco says, draping himself all over Potter’s offensively attractive attire.

“Let me get a drink in me first,” Potter says, struggling to keep Draco at arm’s length.

“If you wanted a drink, you could have gone to another pub.”

* * *

Robert bans them eventually. Draco’s about to Obliviate him but Potter solves the issue by inviting him to his house.

“You mean, my house,” Draco corrects him.

Potter doesn’t seem impressed. “How about we call it a night, then.”

“Fine. I relinquish all rights to that home. You can have it forever. You can have the Manor, too, if you want.”

Potter laughs, and grabs Draco’s arm. “I love how desperate you are.”

“Oh, I’m desperate, alright.”

Five minutes later, Draco’s thirst is finally quenched when Potter bends him over a Black encrusted dining room table. Draco discovers he has quite the taste for family intrusions.

“In front of my great-grandmother’s portrait next, please,” he begs. Potter, the charitable soul he is, complies. Predictably, his great-grandmother calls Potter Muggle-loving filth.

“He is, granny,” Draco moans, face squished against some dusty yet tasteful wallpaper. “He’s the filthiest person that’s ever lived.”

* * *

“Are you some form of house pest? A Black family curse? Why can’t I get rid of you?” Potter says when Draco shows up on his doorstep, carrying a bottle of wine and appetisers as any man of the world would.

“Get rid of me, then,” Draco says, and walks in.

* * *

Potter is on an agenda to steal Draco’s elves and have them clean his shithole of a house. It’s the only reasonable explanation for why he’s taken to drinking with them.

“Stop entertaining the staff. You should be entertaining the Master. And there’s no smoking in the sunroom.”

“There is, now,” Potter says, lighting up a second cigarette with his wand. “There’s a new Master around here.”

“Master Potter,” the elves say in unison, drunk on the Butterbeer Draco keeps for his nephew.

* * *

It’s all fun and games until Draco catches feelings.

“I’m sick,” he tells anybody who cares to listen, and also those who don’t. “Je suis gravement malade.”

“Pull down the shades,” he tells the house elves from under the heavy duvet. “Owl the Healer.”

“Maybe Master Malfoy should tell Master Potter how he feels.”

“Clothes! Somebody bring clothes!”

* * *

“I heard through the grapevine that you’ve fallen ill.”

Draco peeks at Potter from under his duvet.

“It’s true. I’m dying.”

The bed jounces when Potter sits down next to him. He puts a hand on Draco’s un-feverish forehead.

“It sure looks like it.”

“I just want you to know, I lied about the Manor. I’m leaving everything to my elves.”

Potter’s hand moves down Draco’s face.

“Where have you been? I’ve missed you.”

“You have?” Draco says, his illness intensifying.

“Yes.”

“I thought I was a curse you couldn’t get rid of.”

“You are. You’ve been slacking on the job lately.

Something sharp rattles in Draco’s chest. He moves away from Potter’s touch, and hides under the duvet.

“Hey,” Potter says, leaning until his hand finds Draco’s waist through the thick material. “What happened?”

Silence.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Slowly, Draco shakes his head under the duvet.

“Do you want me to stay?”

Draco nods.

Draco hears ruffling and squeaking, and then Potter gets under the duvet. He’s hot, like a cat.

“Where did all your eloquence go?” Potter says, gathering him in his arms. “What happened to all your fancy words?”

Draco buries his head in Potter’s chest. Takes a deep breath.

“I turn stupid when I’m in love. It’s a debilitating illness.”

“You’re a debilitating illness,” Potter says, and kisses his forehead. “And I’m chronically ill.”

[jayaury]

Beastly

The beast curse?

What a silly thing for a smart, educated man to believe in.

Of course kissing the faun won't make you some sort of dumb beast-man.

Of course staring into her eyes as she kisses you deeper won't corrupt you.

Of course she wouldn't turn you into her dumb pet brute.

Of course she's not drawing you further from civilization and humanity.

She's not changing you.

Making you dumber and bigger and stronger for her.

Drawing you deeper into the moonlit woods.

So don't think about your growing fur.

Don't think about your sprouting horns.

Only think about how good it feels to obey.

About how much you love mistress.

Beloved mistress.

Good beast-men love their mistress...

[astralnymphh]

before the flora.

knight!ellie x princess!reader teaser. beginning is essentially just lore. bonus excerpt with ellie and princess interaction below the sketch. wrote the intro in january. no warnings tbh. illustration by @trackinglessons :P READ THIS . PALESTINE MASTERPOST

When the universe was born, there was only fire; a slowly waning blaze. And so hence when death begins to unfurl its low, groaning bloom— there will only be ice.

Yet the heavens and earth are nay alike, as death— and life, are interwoven by the timeless nuptial that is humans, and Mother Nature. Cordial and tepid heartbeats meet with her frigid and frightening marrow this season. Flakes are falling, a howl swells in the wind, and hearths stay an undying tongue of flame in the province of Istenad. Isle of riches and hedonism gone rampant amongst those who proved meritful of a conversation spat over gilded chalices. Or those who wiped a famished tongue stroke over the sole of His Majesty— The King's tan leather boots in entreat, declaring the hide a tenfold more gullet–watering than their stale, daily spare of bread. Where high life reins, low life is there to scrub their steeds.

The wintry pearlescent tundra fringing around uncharted woodlands hums your name— it carries by gale, an airy reed of vowels pulled through your ears. 

Tut, tut, tut, the pecking of bark.

Everything seems to resound much heavier over the windows thick limestone sill. Woodwinds, the sough of pine boughs— a chorus wafted. Woodpeckers, they beat rigid timber with their sonnets of calling. The echoed tut starts to sound awfully kindred to a beckoning call of your name. And at daybreak, when the tangerine sun dips its head under the coast, you feel a magnetic lull to traverse your truest passions and slip away into the night, arctic chilled steel in hand. The quantity of hay sticking beneath your shoes collected by skittering across the night–doused thoroughfare was well enough to concern your maids on duty to dress you, brows fuddled at the streaming of straw near your door come morning.

Loop of your knuckles, bend of your wrist, a hand flexed on the hilt of a meticulously poached sword. A swing 'round your waist, a cold hale grip the air could taste, fighting off many mythic brutes of moonlight, however only conceived where dreams are airtight. The mind, it plays. The play it perceives, a viewing spread like tawny butter. Ghouls and ghastlies encircle a quaint pond, chanting away in cryptic grumbles and beastly bumbles, enraged with their slobber frothing at the fangs you tore from their sockets— deeper than artless, juxtaposed to the blinding ruby reds and dyed paper sunflowers of the theater. Your mind’s play felt real.

Unfortunate to your heart, dreams will stay dreams.

Nary a princess was meant to tune into melee, especially at your courting age. Nevertheless, your psyche has spurned from what a maiden is expected of and is completely in a haven of your own structure, your signature sanctuary. 

In the farmsteads, a forthcoming soldier harvests not just crop— but dexterity. Derived and nurtured in the faraway prairie village of Dunwich, where the fertile seasons prove flaxen of corn and the trickling sweat of every farmhand turns to gold. Any newborn granted to this quaint village is fated to form calloused hands with labor written in their palm lines as time unfolds. In their— well, her— adolescent years, the yearning for practices of gallantry in knighthood swiveled her sights to the colossal stone castle way.. way far away. Sprouting beyond the earth line, far as the eye can see.

So, she learned, she trained, she slept, partaking in a ranged cycle taught by her ruthlessly departed father: Sir Joel. Reprisal became her nemesis; never able to rend the barrier of hesitation and cleanse her shut eyes of revolting imagery. The horseman of death was not omitting the trauma of this hazel-haired soldier. A weight so burdensome, her speckled skin remembers the tales of every scar clawed into it. Like how the lips of a bard cling to an everlasting ballad.

Every knight knew well to exile any lingering ties to the past. It's been years since he passed, she understands that. Though, the heart never lies, and certainly never covets forgetting.

Ambitions stemming from legions of knights in waiting have fallen short, submerging within the moat of the castle and sinking deep into the catacombs with no elegy sung. An allegory for dreams long since vanished. A domain so valued longs for those biding life with rigid bones, such as she. Tempered by the hardships, endured like metal meeting the blacksmith's chisel. 

A vividness to her movements, flowing like a river. For it is water that soothes the most cosmic fires, carves veins into the earth's soil, descends from the heavens above and proves iron soluble. A knight so pinpoint and poised like a painter, yet so daring and baneful like a warrior of evenfall. An artisan of her craft, this knight-to-be is. Born to thrive in matters regarding protection of their kingdom and its nobility. By the sheer tenacity of her skill, she will excel. From the self–instructed lessons in a verdant pasture, basked by undying light in her hometown— to the ordained priming within the royal court. 

They were forged to be dutiful. 

You are a daughter of the illustrious King, Sagard, and swan–grace queen, Sagard— maiden name Adela, and sister of your highly revered and cherished kin, Prudence. Subsequent to her fabled rise, was your fall. A pratfall you plainly turned a serene ear from, for you foresaw its coming. Clandestine adventures and lollygagging in the marketplace earned you right in the clasp of consequences. You knew that, knowing it kept you on the balls of your toes before you'd be caught suiting into an act more repugnant— be it, no.. befogging yourself in a peasant boys' dire–in–muck rags, merely to play "boy" games as a young one? 

Sacrilege! 

Prudence was there, at every occasion, scolding with her youthful finger at the palace fore, sucking her fingertip wet of spit and dragging a stroke over your soot–strewn cheek, just before scuttling the halls in search of father, cawing, “Father, Father! My sisters become a boy again!” until it rang his fucking ears to a pulse. Hmph, father even countered his own remark of squawk, pouring through the walls, “Hah! The second son I wish I reared! Tell me, what peasants skin does she clad: butcher's boy, or of the farmer?”

Rebuking the role of royalty isn't your entire bastion of vengeance. You purely long for a world of your own color. Your self-brewn arcadia of art. In a concise phrase, desire for sovereignty. And your family chastised you curtly for every scant display of free will, short of the Queen, she is fair.

Daughter of the King, Princess of the thicket. You retain your fortunes. Modestly.

“Why don't you resemble your sister more?”

A ruby crested box designed by the best of goldsmiths is lodged at the margin of your beds footboard, safekeeping of your esteemed regalia. You possess a bedazzled amassing of circlets, veils, brocade and velvet tunics of long lengths within this box. But do any of them revel in the blessing of being worn on regal skin? Never. You opted for garbs of less gilding and jewels, so that you might taint it with whatever adventures mold under the ribbing of your foot. That shit offended your skin with its indelicacy of forgetting a human will don its fabric golds and woven jewels.

Even— court gatherings. You don the likeness of simplicity and temperate elegance. This morning's virginal aurora, a broach of light swoll from the windows arch, to the footing of your bed, made the wake of your eyes begin upon a lighting behind sheer skin. Your box of regalia shone in that incandescence momentarily. It danced, fleeter than you, irkingly so. You had to squint whilst flipping the clasps and hauling the heavy lid slanted against your bed, or else you may be heaven–blinded. “Every inch of Princess,” you intoned in quietude at the sight of glamored fabrics, “—whom I shant mirror.” and reached for the homelier fabrics, scratch of cobalt-blue linen delight brushing under your prints, you grasped your reserve tight.

“I was not made aware that there is a village wedding to be, dear sister— from what river does this dress of rags hail from?”

“It is not a brides dress, nor rags, leave me Prud—”

Prudence had blocked the shut of your chamber door with her hand flattened, pursuing, “You glum your gems. Rotting in that chest, tasting no light, no glory.”

You kept your lips thickly sown shut, casting dimly eyes to the ground.

“Shall I send for the steward so he may sell—”

“No need.”

“Hmm, most stubborn, are we? Then I—”

“I am least stubborn,” you wedged your fingers beneath her palm, prying the door loose, “—it is you, who strays your own counsel, unmoving as a mountain.” ending with the trudging shut of your door, ceasing in silence.

[++ bonus excerpt from act 2, scene 1]

“Uh–huh..” she draws out. Legato; a sarcastic reply, and wipes her tongue through the press of her lips together, “This far out? You must rebel quite often to have made a friend, I bet?” she tilts her head, a bit playful.

“You bet well— a lot, I assume?” 

Cannily, she winks, “Indeed I do.” and aligns her face onward. Gesturing to her horse's rump a second— third? Eh, whatever time— she jerks her brow with a head cock back, “Hop on, I'll take you there.”

Both brows fall, and you flinch bemused, “Wh– uh,” as you hem and haw for words, grating a stutter, “But not a moment ago you spoke of the roads recent perils—”

“Surely it's not far?” she spoke presumptuously, “I mean, you've come this far, My Lady. Nobody would travel the woods past sunset, besides you it seems.” now a matter–of–fact vocal barricade that shoves itself into your ears and winds the cogs to think cleverly.

You shan't know my transgressions, sweet Knight. You may talk.

Trust is sparse as a puddle marched in.

“‘Tis but a mile out. Bravo on your convincing, Williams.” you wry and scoff. 

“Can't fumble that name, huh?”

“I would not want to dishonor your knighthood.” 

“You honor me with your coincidental presence, Princess.”

“Honor in your mind.”

"Hmph," her breathy chuckle, a sweetness you luckily caught with ears even numbed by the snowsquall. Do not blush. Do not smile. Fuck. Guess you'll be visiting Malina after all, the gale of a displeased sigh icing your lips over as you approach that dangling stirrup.

[ozzgin]

My eyes are bleeding from the sailor moon yakuza drawing! 😭

It reminded me of this clip from, My Bride is a Mermaid, where some of the yakuza men try to be “moe” 😂

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=LfLlm63pqEM&pp=ygUmbXkgYnJpZGUgaXMgYSBtZXJtYWlkIHBhcmVudHMgZHJlc3MgdXA%3D

-👘

Back when I was actively watching seasonal anime and hounding the AniCharts, there was this series I had my eyes on which I never got around to actually check out: Mahou Shoujo Ore, aka magical girls who transform into buff guys in dresses to be able to properly fight. Their mascot is a yakuza guy. This gave me a big, fat idea, so I'll be back later today with it. 👀

Though I think the opposite trope is my favorite: unsuspecting feminine-looking characters acting like manly brutes. Which takes me back to Gokudolls; this one I actually watched. Yakuza guys forced by their boss to pull a gender change and start an idol group. So it's a bunch of girls (ex-men) talking like street thugs and playing mahjong after concerts.

This also gets me thinking of a big, frightening monster who is actually really soft-hearted and shy, followed by a small, angry, loud human who takes care of business.

"You got a problem, punk?", Reader barks, pushing aside some reptilian creature who happened to bump into their monstrous partner.

One glance at the beastly boyfriend, and they scurry away in terror.

"Heh, I thought so", Reader declares with a smug grin. They must've intimidated the rascal.

Monster partner just blushes and stutters.

"D-don't get into fights, (Y/N). It's scary."

[honey-minded-hivemind]

Glad you liked the art!

Honestly for me, the biggest appeal of Creed Reader (Cave Bear or otherwise) is the connection they have with the other characters. Because it's fun to speculate where things went wrong.

I can totally see Victor's resentment starting early. He's gonna be the first person people compare Creed Reader to and it rubs him the wrong way. He had no control of Creed Reader's creation...and instead of getting a worthwhile asset out of his struggles, he gets them.

Victor sees Creed Reader as a defect. They lack all the things that make him such a killer (heh) in the field. They waste their strengths and talents to play with soft things or read or some other nonsense. (They were just a kid...but that doesn't matter.) He sees every difference between him and Reader. Sees their roundness and softness as weakness. Attributes their kindness to fear. Assumes their ignorance is malicious or petty. And he can't stand to see "a part of himself" be so pathetic.

On the other hand, Logan sees all the similarities Creed Reader shares with Victor. The rougher bits, all claws and brute strength, make him wary of his nibling. Any accident with another kid or slight misjudgement on their part is taken as a slight because "it's something Victor would do to mess with him." He looks at Creed Reader and sees a mini Victor, bloodthirsty and uncontrolled.

I think it's another cause of tension between the brothers. Logan thinks that Victor is making Creed Reader act too beastly and thoughtlessly. While Victor thinks that Logan is encouraging weakness in his "ward". The tension between the two leads to more and more resentment toward Creed Reader from both sides, ultimately culminating in the incident that left them scarred and ready to run.

Now that they've had some time away from Creed Reader I think they've both managed to see the good parts of Creed Reader they missed initially. And they want to make that known...but they once again mess it up by treating Reader like they would the other brother. Once again they put force above thought and try to drag reader back...which is way harder when they're as big and strong as Cave Bear Reader. They uh...they might need a few more tranqs and some extra sets of hands to get Cave Bear back home. (i'm in an essay mood ig <3)

Those are all good points!

The two have a problem trying to see Reader as their own person, not just an extension of Victor, or their worst parts. While they do get better, they're still going about getting Cave Bear Creed Reader the wrong way. They're trying to force it, trying to ask for too much too early, and would rather have Reader with them NOW than actually waiting for them to wander in (which wouod possibly never happen).

They miss Reader, and want to make up for everything, but they're a bit too intense and a bit too manic about, well, everything.

Cave Bear Reader wants space and would preferably want to see them never. Victor wants his child back amd wants to prove that he's changed and that he loves them. Logan wants to earn their forgiveness and try to see them beyond being related to his brother.

Logan and Victor and the X-Men and Brotherhood are going to need several tranquilizers, some safety gloves/armor, and a lot of sedatives and a whole team picked by hand to actually have a chance of getting Reader.

Not to mention a way to contain them or sedate them once they're back with everyone (if they manage to catch them initially)...

But that's what any family does for their own, right? Apologize when they're wrong, make it up to them, then bring them home amd be family... Isn't that what Reader always wanted?

So why are they fighting them now? Why not give in? Let them love on them? Just give them a chance, is all they're asking...

[princesssarisa]

One of the most fascinating pieces of movie analysis I've ever read is J.B. Kaufman's thesis of the "two different Snow Whites" in Disney's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

He writes about this in both of his two books on the making of the movie, The Fairest One of All and its companion piece Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs: The Art and Creation. His argument is that Snow White's two leading animators, Hamilton Luske and Grim Natwick, each gave Snow White a slightly different personality when they drew her. A close look at the movie, and knowledge of who animated which moments, reveals subtle differences in Snow White's expressions and body language. Luske, her head animator who handled the majority of her scenes, portrayed her as a more purely innocent, childlike character, while Natwick, the creator of Betty Boop, gave her a little more maturity, sophistication, and sauciness.

You can see the difference, for example, when comparing her girlish interactions with the animals in "With a Smile and a Song" and "Whistle While You Work" (animated by Luske) to her flirtatious smiling at the Prince from the balcony, or her "mothering" of the dwarfs as she examines their dirty hands (animated by Natwick). Or her responses to Grumpy in the scene before the Washing Song: as she asks "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" she looks at him with a devilish grin (Natwick), but then when he sticks out his tongue at her, she reacts with the most wide-eyed, girlish shock (Luske).

Now, I don't know if these two men really held different views of Snow White's character, or if it just worked out that Luske drew Snow White's more innocent scenes while Natwick was assigned her more grown-up moments. But either way, Kaufman argues that this "tension," the movie's constant push-and-pull between "Snow White as a wide-eyed innocent girl" and "Snow White as a self-assured young woman," makes her an especially interesting Disney Princess. I tend to agree, especially because, miraculously, there's no sense of inconsistency in her character. She comes across as a young girl on the verge of womanhood, who naturally can still be naïve and childlike in some ways, but more grown-up and clever in others.

This thesis makes me wonder if certain "tensions" in other movies are the result of different viewpoints within the creative team.

For example, in Beauty and the Beast.

Linda Woolverton has often talked about her feminist goals in writing Belle's character, which sometimes clashed with her collaborators' visions of Belle as a more traditional fairy tale heroine. It just might have been those clashing viewpoints that created the dichotomy in Belle that I personally think makes her interesting. On the one hand, she's a strong-willed misfit rebel, partly inspired by Jo March in Little Women and by Katharine Hepburn's screwball comedy heroines, who longs for adventure, isn't looking for romance until she unexpectedly finds it, stands up to men (and beasts) who abuse their power, and refuses to let anyone dominate her. On the other hand, she's a sensitive dreamer with delicate beauty and balletic grace, who wears pretty, ladylike dresses, adores fairy tales and love stories, and is sweet, nurturing, and almost motherly to her friends and loved ones. Yet somehow these two sides of her character co-exist with no sense of inconsistency between them.

There's also the dichotomy between the two different views of the Beast that the movie seems to present at once. On the one hand, there's the Beast as an unseemly brute, who's beastly form is both a just punishment for his flawed character and an outward symbol of it, and who needs to be "tamed" into proper "human" behavior, culminating in his physically turning human again. On the other hand, there's the Beast as a suffering, self-loathing outcast, unfairly hated, feared, and dehumanized, whose plight under the spell can easily be read as an AIDS allegory, and who needs to be accepted and loved as he is. I suspect that this also stems from different goals and viewpoints in the creative team. (For example, Howard Ashman's clash with the directors over whether the Prince should be a child or a man in the prologue – the former would have made him more "tragic" but the latter makes his punishment more "fair.")

I'd like to read an analysis of these "tensions" similar to Kaufman's analysis of the "two different Snow Whites."

[air-mechanical]

Who will advise me when Lord Cromwell is put down? Will these rebels do it? Colin Clump and Peter Pisspiddle and old Grandpa Gaphead and his goat?!

Henry VIII describing the folk of Lincolnshire, one of the most brute and beastly shires in all the realm.

[kestgrey]

Just officially started on and released new series. Chapter 2 ,"Brute Force", is available NOW! It's for the lovers of gay m/m works that blend fantasy!

The "Veil of Carnality" - Kindle series link:

Synopsis: Jex sets off his first mission, where he is tasked to trek through the first faction, in hopes of capturing the sexual essence of the first leader, Macconai. He's a feral man; strong, hard, and vicious. With determination, Jex has to duck and dodge through the dirt shrouded realm to get to him. Will this initial mission be successful? Kemu is at his side and likes to think it will be. Jex will need to do all he can to conquer the beast, figuratively and literally. Sounds like fun.

Snippet Below

The words seemed to agitate Macconai even more, with him trying to inch forward. The chains clung together, holding him in place. Jex only slightly stepped back, almost forgetting he couldn’t get to him. The beastly man was incredibly aggressive, however, Jex couldn’t let this derail him. Despite the dangerous circumstance, he still had to get closer in order to accomplish what he needed to.

“Whoa Whoa, listen to me please uh… Macconai right?” Jex continued. “I am not here as a threat; I know this is your home. I am not an invader.” He was doing his best to assure him.

Something seemed to click it seemed. Macconai lifted his thick brows and then lowered them. He closed his mouth and fully sat down on the ground. There was a pause in the air, with Jex nervous about what could come next. Much to his surprise, he saw the other’s lips separate as if he was going to speak.

“I…. help you. But you…help…out? Macconai’s broken words were suddenly vocalized.

Jex had assumed he’d be able to communicate somewhat better considering he was the leader; however, it didn’t seem to be the case. What he didn’t know was that the others actually learned speech from him. His eyes perked at what he said. Jex nodded to him.

“Help you from these chains? Okay but…don’t attack. Get it?” he slowly responded.

Macconai simply nodded and lowered his arms on the floor at his sides. Jex still knew to act with caution. His heels slowly glided against the dirt while he came back further to the center of the pit. Now he had gotten closer, standing directly in front of the faction leader. Surprisingly he didn’t lift his chained arms and go to attack Jex. Kemu’s follower definitely had a thought that he may have tried to switch up. It seemed that he had certainly wanted to get out of these restraints.

“This first?” Jex pointed at the chains attached to his left arm, indicating he was going to attempt to free him of those first.

Macconai grunted and shook his head. Jex slithered more so behind the other, to get a better vantage point. He casually took one blade from his heel and held it in his grasp. He eyed the chain for a moment but then a sly smile manifested atop his countenance. Jex decided to be quite advantageous in this moment, being that the beast had still been restrained. Instead of using his weapon on the chain, he was steadfast with raising it and firmly letting it crash down on Macconai’s left shoulder, stabbing him. This caused the beastly warrior to audibly shout and revert immediately back to fight mode. Jex was preparing to raise his left leg in order to wrap it around the other’s neck, aiming to put him in a triangle hold, despite his monumental size.

However, this failed as Macconai was able to lift himself up, quickly grabbing Jex’s legs and taking a bite from it. He then slammed him to the ground. Jex shouted once he bit him as he hit the dirt floor. Now the tables had turned. The beast leader was directly looming over Jex, pinning him to the ground. Jex did his best to try and wiggle away, but to no avail. He suddenly felt a pulsating feeling from the bite he received. He began to feel himself getting dizzy. Macconai’s vicious glare remained locked on him. He had his fangs exposed, breathing heavily.  The hot breath rushed towards Jex’s face, but he was so delirious that he couldn’t even react.

[somethingclevermahogony]

Dialogue Tag

Thanks for the tag @illarian-rambling!

“Now, you. You very nearly ruined my hunt,” Hutbari said, his words short and curt as he tilted his head up to look at the face of his slave. “You were not told to interfere. You were meant to sit and wait. That was my beast to slay, those hairy goatherders came to me, not you.” “My king I…” Hutbari began to shout, practically roaring, his fists clenched. “ Do not interrupt me! Instead, you charged in like a beast, and nearly killed it yourself. Not only did you humiliate me, my sage, and the memory of my men,” The king’s nostrils flared, and he took a step forward. Narul jumped, there had been no escalation nor build, from cold and quiet, to fiery and booming. “ You endangered us all with your savagery. Have I taught you nothing?” Narul turned away. His stomach twisted. Part of him wished to speak, to defend himself. I was only saving you! He wanted to roar down at the pompous little man. But the wrenching in his midriff trapped the words before they could escape. He lowered his gaze to the dusty earth. “Do you even understand what you are, Narul? Have I not educated you? Are you truly that idiotic?” Hutbari continued, the roar now little more than a hiss. “ Do you not understand the danger you hold? Have I not managed to break through that thick beastly skull of yours? Do you think this is some joke? Does this make you want to laugh?” “No…my king I just…” “Will you be laughing when you give into your real nature? Hmm? Is that what you want? To be just like those wandering beasts and brutes? How did it feel Narul, killing? I bet that some part of you liked it, eh? That ugly barbarous part of you, the part I’ve spent all these years holding back. Do you think you’ll feel the same when its that scrawny brother of yours that you’ve broken, eh? How about your mother? What about me? Do you want to be an animal, Narul? A beast?” Narul shook his head silently, he felt sick, bile rising in his throat. “Speak! Or am I too late? Are you already turning, forgetting your words? “No, my king.” Narul muttered, fighting every urge to wipe away the tear that had formed at the corner of his eye. “I thought I was helping you…you’re right I’m sorry.” “We’ll bleed you tomorrow, I know you just had one but I believe its necessary,” Hutbari said, his tone lightening as though he had transitioned seamlessly into discussing routine business. “That should be enough to account for your recklessness.”

Tagging @mk-writes-stuff, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @pluttskutt, @paeliae-occasionally

[terrietont]

Monty was done dirty in Security Breach and SB: Ruin

They did Monty dirty in both Security Breach and Ruin

He was so antagonized by both the game and the fandom even in the beginning, just for not being Bonnie.

What was the point of monty if they were just going to make him as a catalyst for the random absence of Bonnie? I genuinely don’t understand the story direction of what they were even going for with him if they were just gonna utilize him as a “evil replacement” beastly thug.

Monty’s design and mannersisms could be utilized for so much more than just “We wanted to make a new guy instead of Bonnie” and then make the entire fandom shit on this new guy for being the alleged evil killer of Bonnie (which I honestly don’t even think Monty is responsible, at least not with his control)

Unless they’re just going in a really lukewarm direction and just like “yep Monty bad cause Bonnie is gone” with no nuance or reason, just that “he’s selfish” and not that it was mimic, Monty possessed by afton etc etc. and all the other more interesting ways you could develop the “murder” case of Bonnie. I really hope they weren’t just gonna be like “Yeah Monty bad, the end” Because that would be such a let down. Giving Monty no misunderstood complexity but just a ruthless brute is just kind of disappointing… why even make Monty a thing if they were just gonna create an irredeemable brute?

It seriously just seems like Monty was intended as a fandom punching bag rather than an actual character because “Bonnie better” even Steel Wool doesn’t want to keep him in the band or have him even be coherent at all.

They quite literally wrote him in to not be loved by anyone in the story. Freddy never says anything remorseful about Monty’s claws (maybe that’s because Gregory didn’t directly say it was Monty, but still it still feels like he didn’t give af). Cassie doesn’t acknowledge him as anything more than “that weird Monty thing” when she was like “Poor Chica what happened to you?” When Chica is also partially animalistic at that point

Monty gets no remorse or development in universe, apart from a niche group of fans outside the game story that wish we had more of him and something added to him like Roxy, and even Chica. Roxy was misunderstood, tragic and turned out to be a lovable fierce protector and friend much like Freddy but with a bit more edge and tragedy combined. Chica although she is too far gone in Ruin, she still had some sense of being partially friendly if even for a second, but Monty? Nah he’s always been bad even before the virus… lame.

They just gave Monty the middle finger for simply existing in the first place even before all the Bonnie stuff came out and honestly as a fan of crocodilians it’s disappointing. And then he was completely tossed aside as Bonnie’s murderer with no added explanation or mystery. What?

Can we not have a single fictional crocodilian/reptillian that ISN’T “evil villain” coded?

Monty made me realize how dirty Reptiles are done in fiction.

[bigsoftmarshmallow]

How would the Ganondorfs (Wind Waker, Ocarina of Time, Twilight Princess, Hyrule Warriors, and Tears of the Kingdom) & Demise react to their SO giving them a hand carved wooden boar?

A hand-carved wooden boar would be a deeply personal and symbolic gift, particularly to these mighty Demon Kings, each of whom has a strong connection to power, dominance, and in some cases, boars themselves (as seen in Ganondorf’s iconic transformation). Here’s how each of them might react to receiving such a gift from their SO, infused with thoughts and feelings of appreciation:

Wind Waker Ganondorf: The Tragic King

Reaction: Wind Waker Ganondorf is a man who is driven by both nostalgia and ambition. He would appreciate the symbolic nature of the boar and the fact that his SO took the time to craft it by hand. The gift would stir something within him—a sense of bittersweet sentimentality. He wouldn’t be one to openly gush over the present, but his deep appreciation would be clear in the way he handles it.

Scene: Ganondorf holds the hand-carved boar in his large hands, examining the craftsmanship. His expression is contemplative, and for a moment, the ever-present sadness in his eyes softens.

“This is... thoughtful,” he says, his voice quieter than usual. He traces the details of the carving, his thumb running over the wood grain. “The boar has long been a symbol of my power... and yet, this feels like more than just a token of strength.”

He sets the boar on a nearby table with surprising gentleness. “You’ve done well, crafting something with such care. I shall keep it close as a reminder of your dedication.”

His SO might notice that Ganondorf keeps the wooden boar near him always, especially during moments of planning or reflection, a quiet acknowledgment of their bond.

Ocarina of Time Ganondorf: The Ruthless Conqueror

Reaction: Ocarina of Time Ganondorf is not one for sentimentality, but he is a man who respects strength, skill, and effort. Receiving a hand-carved wooden boar, especially given his beastly transformations in the past, would strike a chord with him. He would see the gift as a mark of respect and craftsmanship, and it might even evoke a rare moment of introspection.

Scene: Ganondorf takes the small wooden boar from his SO, turning it over in his hand. His eyes narrow as he studies it, and for a moment, it’s unclear what he’s thinking. Then, with a slow nod, he speaks.

“You’ve chosen well,” he says, his voice as commanding as ever. “The boar is a symbol of brute strength and resilience. It is fitting... for me.”

He places the carving down with a firmness that suggests both approval and pride. His SO may not get many words of thanks from him, but the way he treats the gift—with a mixture of respect and possessiveness—shows his appreciation. It becomes a small totem on his desk, a sign of his SO’s unique connection to him.

Twilight Princess Ganondorf: The Calculating Tyrant

Reaction: Twilight Princess Ganondorf is a more composed and calculating version of his counterparts. He would view the hand-carved boar as a gesture not only of affection but also of understanding, as the boar represents his primal power. He would be intrigued by the fact that his SO knows him well enough to choose such a significant symbol, and he would likely be impressed by the effort that went into crafting it.

Scene: Ganondorf holds the carved boar in his hand, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he is silent, his eyes studying every detail of the craftsmanship. Then, he glances up at his SO.

“You understand the significance of this,” he says, his voice measured, almost as if testing their knowledge. “The boar has been the emblem of my strength, my conquest... but in this form, it is a symbol of something deeper.”

He places the carving beside him, his fingers still brushing against it as if testing its weight. “You’ve given me more than a gift. This is a mark of your insight, and I do not take that lightly.”

Though his words may seem formal, the fact that he keeps the boar close, often running his fingers over it in private moments, shows that he cherishes the gift.

Hyrule Warriors Ganondorf: The Warlord

Reaction: Hyrule Warriors Ganondorf is a battle-hardened warlord, and he would likely react with a mixture of curiosity and pride. The boar, being a symbol of his primal power, would resonate with him deeply. He might not be one for openly sentimental gestures, but he would recognize the effort behind the carving and appreciate that his SO thought of him in such a personal way.

Scene: Ganondorf examines the wooden boar, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He holds it up, turning it over in his massive hands, admiring the detail. “A boar,” he muses, his voice deep and thoughtful. “A fitting symbol of my power. You’ve captured its strength well.”

He sets the carving on a nearby table, his eyes lingering on it for a moment longer. “You have chosen wisely,” he says, his tone lighter than usual, almost teasing. “I shall keep this. It is... worthy of me.”

Though he may not offer much in the way of overt gratitude, his SO would notice that the carving takes a prominent place among his possessions. It is a rare token that he allows to sit near him in his moments of strategy and planning.

Tears of the Kingdom Ganondorf: The Corrupted Demon King

Reaction: Tears of the Kingdom Ganondorf, with his dark and corrupted form, might at first seem uninterested in such a simple gift. However, the meaning behind the boar—both its connection to his beastly form and the care that went into crafting it—would not be lost on him. He would see it as a sign of his SO’s unwavering loyalty and affection, and despite his corrupted nature, he would be touched by the gesture.

Scene: Ganondorf’s corrupted form looms over his SO as they present him with the hand-carved boar. His red eyes glow with an eerie light as he takes the small figure into his hands, and for a moment, he is silent, simply staring at it.

“This... boar,” he says slowly, his voice deep and rumbling. “You have carved this yourself?”

He runs his fingers over the wood, feeling the care and effort that went into each detail. “Even now, you see me as something more than just a monster,” he mutters, almost to himself.

He places the boar carefully beside him, its small size almost laughable in comparison to his towering form. “You continue to surprise me. Perhaps... this world holds more for me than destruction.”

It’s a rare moment of vulnerability for him, and his SO can tell that the gift has touched him more deeply than he would ever admit.

Demise: The God of Destruction

Reaction: Demise, as a god of destruction, is not one for sentimental gifts. However, the idea of a hand-carved boar, representing strength and primal power, would resonate with him. He would likely see the gesture as a mark of respect and devotion from his SO, though he might view the gift through a lens of power rather than affection.

Scene: Demise takes the wooden boar from his SO, his fiery gaze inspecting the craftsmanship. His massive hand dwarfs the small carving, and for a moment, it seems as though he might dismiss it entirely. But then, his lips curl into a dangerous smile.

“A boar,” he rumbles, his voice like distant thunder. “A creature of strength, of power. You understand what I am.”

He holds the carving up, his eyes gleaming with approval. “You have chosen well. This is a token worthy of a god.”

Demise places the carving in a place of honor, a rare acknowledgment of the gift. While he may not express gratitude in words, his actions speak volumes. The fact that he keeps the carving close, among his few treasured possessions, shows that he values the thought behind it.

[sleeplesssmoll]

Reverse 1999: Brutes Wilds

Resources and Descriptions

Page of Beastly Thirst: A tattered page. Used for the ritual of Beast Insight I. They wept and they cried. They lived and they died.

Scroll of Beastly Thirst: Incomplete scrolls. Used for the ritual of Beast Insight II. They walked in the barrens, resting in the day and rising in the night.

Tome of Beastly Thirst: A heavy tome. Used for the ritual of Beast Insight III. Their every breath feels like that of their mother's mother and their father's father. They see what the mortals see.

Themes (speculation based on stage context): Found family, survival, liberation, adaptation, outcasts, abandonment

Stage Descriptions

BW 1

The feral child raised by the pack does not know how to stand or the meaning of poetry, songs, or basic manners.

BW 2

The humans abandoned him. And they took him in again. The beast mother watched in silence as the car drove away.

BW 3

Their lantern-like eyes remain forever lit in moonless midnights.

BW 4

"Don't show compassion to the wail in the wilderness, children." said the people who built the iron cages.

BW 5

Claw marks cover the performance troupe posters. Beast fur is scattered throughout the audience seating. The wolf child's legend has ended. He no longer had to fear those flashing boxes.

BW 6

No book could describe the language of the feral pack. They lived in the corridors where vipers and rabbits lived with each other, where lions and lambs slept in peace. The she-wolf finally regained her lost cub.

Enemies

[sapphicslaylist]

[STP] On Borrowed Paths Chapter 3: An Awkward Meat-Cute

Prev Next

An arrival at the cabin reveals a cryptic sight which chills more than just the spirit - and what lies in the kitchen is enough to ruin an appetite.

(Spectre chapter woo woooo)

Mentioned past character death because of Spectre

There was an uneasy tension which spread by the front door as the silence filled the cabin steps. The homeowner’s talons extended nervously, feathers prickling upward with anxiety. He watched the pair of Borrowers with a sense of unease and forced grace; clearly, the word “chivalry” was not something he was accustomed to if this was an indicative example.

“Well, yes,” Hunted replied, lowering his ears. “But right now, the more important part was getting away from the Raven. Then we could discuss the details once we were here.”

Both sisters watched the homeowner in a mix of distrust and spellbound horror. Witch grasped for a blade by the belt strapped across her waist, never breaking eye contact; a single hand cautioned her against it, withdrawing with only a twitch of reluctance. Beast’s own gaze narrowed, but knew better than to act now while the threat was passive. Especially not while Hunted kept his watch behind her, passively watching with an aura of ease. He knew better than to send them anywhere unsafe.

“The details?” Witch scoffed. “That is three ravens stacked on top of each other. The beak matches. The talons match. I’m not going in there. Forget it.”

There was a huff as she straightened her back, crossing her arms against her chest. Thorn still hadn’t moved an inch from where she stood, watching him with a timid sort of curiosity. The gesture seemed genuine, but Witch was right; being stared at by yet another beastly visage was not exactly appealing.

He seemed lost, as though trying to speak and his voice was missing. The other hand brushed against the back of his neck almost bashfully, closing his eyes. The gesture was in earnest. Was he mute, or too stunned to speak?

Thorn didn’t have much more time to question it. Another creature made his approach, as often happened in the forest’s haunt - a blur of black, white, and red who merely scampered in the front door from the bushes, not waiting for an invite. Beast situated herself to pounce, although relaxed as it seemed to approach this new fellow instead.

“Mmh. Apologies for my late entrance; I had to make sure I picked the proper- oh, no no no! Quiet, good fellow, we talked about this.” This new soul - a well-groomed badger - immediately went for the cryptid’s hand, nipping it into place. “Talons down. Down. You want to be a proper ladykiller, not a brute. Suave, and earnest.” From there, the badger thrust a rose into his hand, giving an irritated huff. 

“Present your beloved with a gift.”

Well, that was certainly an entrance. 

“Um…”

There was an awkward silence which spread over the room. This awkward gentleman - Quiet - looked over the badger with a shake of his head.

“Smitten, this is really not the time-“

“Nonsense! A lovely maiden shows up on your doorstep and you don’t have the grace to greet her?”

“They’re here for shelter, not… Courtship.” Quiet gave an apologetic look down, indicating this had not been part of his plan. Thorn nodded, confirming there was no offense taken. The wildlife on their side tended to be rather, well, intense. Matchmakers in particular were known for taking every opportunity that was presented, appropriate timing or not.

But the badger was hardly listening. His eyes redirected to Thorn’s side, noticing the younger borrower snickering at the strange creature and his antics. Parental delight in his eyes sparked this time, tenfold.

“Oh, heavens! No one told me there would be this darling little angel here as well-“

Witch pointed the blade in his direction, giving a growl.

“Watch it.”

Smitten scooted back, although the eager grin on his face never left. His demeanor shifted to something much more chivalrous.

“In due time, of course. Your age certainly hasn’t impacted your abilities. I presume the lot of you are tired from that egregious hike -“

The badger dipped his head in respect to the others, noticing Beast.

“Been a while since we’ve seen another chimera. I presume you’ll be in for a nice surprise.”

Quiet softly brushed the badger aside.

“I’m presuming they’ll want in, before the owls start arriving.”

“Says the raven,” Witch scowled.

Thorn took her hand, feeling the rapid pulse against bristling hairs. No words were needed, although the flattening of her ears indicated it wasn’t what Witch wanted to hear.

Didn’t matter. Staying alive was more important than whatever innate grudges Witch had at the moment. And while the unease was mutual, there wasn’t the same immediate desire to throw him off as a threat which permeated every aspect of Witch’s temperament.

That didn’t mean that Thorn intended to be getting anywhere close enough to confirm or deny those suspicions, of course. Watching from a distance would be good enough.

At least, whatever distance they could logistically make for the time being.

Quiet;s hand shifted towards the handle. The lock clicked slowly. “Well, um, welcome in. I hope that things are at the very least up to code for the pair of you here.”

The door creaked open, revealing what to the small borrowers was a much larger establishment than the outside let on. It seemed that once the cabin opened fully, it was homey; a sparse amount of furniture laid in the corners of the front room, draped in regal red cloth. The front door held a wooden table, where perched on its edge was a polished hunting knife not unlike Thorn’s own. Whether the blacksmith was the same, however, was unlikely; after all, it would be peculiar if the one made for the black market arenas wasn’t someone more familiar with borrowers. And this fellow - Quiet - seemed a little less than familiar by the way he shuffled awkwardly, several pairs of wings tucked behind his back.

There were an assortment of different climbing spaces that would come in handy, as they walked in behind him; the badger seemed to have courteously closed the door behind them, but brushed enough debris aside in case they decided that leaving unannounced was the better option. So this suave fellow was more used to their kind than the hulking corvid - whether that was assuring or not, Thorn wasn’t entirely certain as the plucky mustelid took his place beside her, giving a soft chuckle.

“Forgive the old fellow,” he purred, giving a twitch of his ears. “He’s hardly got a soul to talk to of your kind in some time. But, of course, we’ve made sure that he knows the rules. Hiding spots, plenty of climbing room, the tunnels all intact from the last resident -“

Thorn bristled.

“- The last resident?”

There was a flicker of electricity as a chandelier buzzed from above. Just how fancy was this cabin? It almost felt more like a haunted mansion from within. And then -

Witch gave a shudder, pulling her tail around her like a scarf. The goosebumps spread to Thorn’s skin as well, feeling the prick of a chill.

“Um… Why is is so cold?”

“Oh. That would be her. Spectre! We have company.”

“Oh, I know.” The voice that followed was chilling and ethereal, echoes overlapping upon each other throughout the house.

Smitten flattened his ears, gesturing to the pair of Borrowers next to him.

“…. Live company.”

There wasn’t a response. The chill began to grow in a singular spot, followed by a ghostly echo. Both Borrower’s ears pricked.

“This place is haunted?”

There was a sense of curiosity in Witch’s voice, tilting her head. The spectral trail was surprisingly easy to follow, hinting at a scent of rot and…. Produce. Hmm. That wasn’t a reassuring combination.

“It’s a long story,” Quiet muttered, notably stiffening with unease. The slight twinge of fear seemed to radiate off of him - something which Thorn seemed to catch onto immediately. However, her attention was diverted by the back and forth twitch of a tail in front of her, setting up its next move.

Okay, maybe Witch had a point. With the way things were going, it was probably easier to wind up explaining things a little more… Subtly. The fear was suspicious.

A small tap to the back of her little sister’s back got her attention immediately.

“Hey! What?”

Thorn stiffened. A simple tilt of the head indicated towards the bird leading forward, then a subtle sniff in the air. The subtle bend of her tail flicked inquisitively.

You smell it too?

Witch nodded, giving a roll of her eyes over to the bird and badger.

“To be clear for later,” Quiet sighed,  “you do not have to woo every creature that shows up on our doorstep. Just let me explain everything; it’ll be much easier if I do. Spectre’s… Fickle.”

“Oh, I know that. But you may want company when you do. Or need I remind you how many other damsels have gotten quite a chill upon the sight of her?” Smitten huffed, giving a shake of his head. “Besides, I’m sure a good discussion with her would’ve more than welcomed that handsome devil Mothman into your abode -“

The sisters exchanged apprehensive looks.

Something’s off, Thorn indicated with a twitch of an eye, looking over from Quiet to her sister. Seemed that Witch had likewise picked up on it, spinning one finger by her forehead in a circle. Another sniff at the air.

Yeah, I know they’re avoiding explanation. What do you want to do about it?

A small head tilt; the place it was coming from was clear. And the uneasiness which followed upon recognizing that distinctive place was, in fact, the kitchen wasn’t necessarily a settling sign, especially when it seemed that Witch was already getting ready to pounce.

But of course, going towards that direction wasn’t the best idea before determining the figure’s intentions. Were they a vengeful spirit, based on the way that their host spoke of her? Or merely just, well, challenging to deal with?

“You should bring them here,” echoed the phantom, giving another flicker of the lights. The darkness shrouded the environment for a brief moment, followed by a shake of Quiet’s head. “That way I can get a better introduction.”

“It would be easier with the lights.”

“Would it? They seem to be navigating just fine without. Your guests seem… Wild; curious. I’d like to meet them.”

A genuine, soft chuckle emanated around the space as Witch had already begun her path towards the kitchen. Seems that some things never changed, and even despite the circumstances, it was nice seeing that childhood wonder return to Witch’s eyes opposed to bloodlust. If things worked out, perhaps this could be a friend opposed to the usual foe…

That was, of course, presuming this was a mischievous ghost with good intentions. Thorn knew better than to let her sister wind up taking too much of the lead, scampering forward.

“I told you this would happen,” Smitten huffed, giving a tilt of his head. “Well, you know what they say. Ladies first, after all - and I think they have the right idea. Perhaps it would be a good idea to get the new residents something to eat after being on their way so long? You would scarcely want to be a bad host.”

The pointed way the badger stared up at the avian indicated that he was in on this charade, too. Whether it was for the purpose of lessening some kind of impending blow or else to cover up for him was unsure, but judging by the uneasy reluctance in which he followed, it seemed that the badger was decidedly on their side opposed to his. But either way, it was better to get things over with; a hostile phantom wouldn’t let them leave unscathed, and a playful one was, honestly, more welcome company than not.

The issue would be keeping up with Witch as she managed to get the leading ground. While Thorn was definitely not the slowest of her kind, very few rivaled the exact precision that the smaller Borrower had when it came to decisive maneuvers. Just as skilled on two feet as four, it gave the wilder of the siblings the upper hand to gain more ground as she wove and darted across the tile flooring towards the familiar kitchen scene - or at least, familiar if you were a common house borrower. The “domestic” front was frankly pretty strange to the majority of them, with its heightened countertops and sparse climbing room except for tall steel handles on rugged drawers. Judging by how clean they were, the only thing that had pierced them was the occasional fish hook or barbed implement; this seemed like it had indeed been a domestic resident’s old haunt.

But that didn't discourage Witch. Her claws were hardy and angled deep into the unpolished wood, tearing at splinters in the drawers as she scampered up in alignment with the scent. It seemed that for a moment, Thorn mostly held back; her whirlwind of a sister was on the trail, to the ghostly reek of a prior death long gone. “Phantom Trail,” so they called it; it took a Fae familiar with death’s grasp to discriminate the scent from a fresher kill. But judging by every little twitch of Witch’s nose, she was even more determined to find it first.

“Awfully scrappy, that little darling.”

The chuckle behind Thorn made her jump, before realizing it was just the badger watching with a familiar eye of parental admiration. “Daresay, it’s a good thing that someone’s watching out for her. Would you like a lift? I know the whole ‘household madness’ can be a rather unbecoming sight.”

This creature was surprisingly gentlemanly now, with the twinkle in his eye as he lifted a paw, claws turned away. At least someone in this house knew how to treat Borrowers.

“I think I’ll take you up on that, actually,” Thorn responded, giving a thankful nod as she stepped on. “Appreciated.”

The badger had already stepped forward and deposited his guest onto the countertop with a wistful sigh by the time the less-than-adept host finally made it into the room (at least someone had manners, and it wasn’t him). By this time, Witch had tracked the trail over to the fridge, nose twitching with confusion and uncertainty.

“It ends… Here? That’s… Huh.” However, the look of mild concern indicated that she did, and didn’t want to consider it an option.

Turning back to Thorn, Witch gave a tilt of her head, shaking it sadly. Something luminous seemed to rise out from within the shadows.

“That’s where the trail stops - I can always check agai -!!!”

Leaping back on all fours, Witch’s back arched like a cat, feeling her tail puff up from base to tip. Gradually, it seemed the figure rose bit by bit; pale, ghastly, with hollowed sockets and a skeletal grin of amusement. Stumbling back to to her feet, however, the desire to reach for her own dagger faded as Witch processed the exact size of this ghost before them - and, rather, the way in which she hovered before her, watching with an air of curiosity and nothing more.

“… Oh. I guess we found the ‘last borrower.’”

The tail twitch grew softer. The gentle, softened curiosity began to stir as Witch approached; it seemed it took a ghost to rouse that old childlike wonder, one Thorn sometimes questioned still existing. But as the soft approach on careful steps continued, sauntering forward with that same awe and delight as Witch carefully picked up the tails of her dress to step forward, it was undeniable.

Okay. Maybe arriving at this corvid’s house wasn’t a complete mistake.

“It’s been ages since we’ve seen anyone free-roaming,” Witch managed, giving a twitch of her nose in greeting. A careful hand reached out, expecting to grasp more than air. For a moment, Thorn suppressed a chuckle; that was the first rule of phantasmic beings, and it was humorous to watch how foolish fascination had broken it. “Domestic, too…”

It startled Thorn slightly as the figure reached out and extended her own hand to Witch’s, managing to actually grasp it. A shiver ran along Witch’s spine as the gesture was returned, giving a sniff along her neck as the spirit giggled. Clearly, neither of these two was used to any company - let alone ones from such opposing roots.

“You’re different from the others,” the phantom commented, brushing her thumb over the top of Witch’s hand. “Hardly even surprised.”

“Oh, I knew about all of this ghost business,” Witch huffed, offended at the mere suggestion of disbelief. “Just never been close enough in the aftermath to see any.” Or perhaps never close enough to death herself beforehand, if the legends were true. The blinding grasp of fear usually struck too deep for others to get a proper reading.

From the looks of it, Quiet knew better than to interrupt this sacred little greeting. Thorn watched him cautiously out of the corner of her eye, but relaxed as he said and did nothing, merely standing back with the curious badger as they exchanged glances.

“She just wanted company,” Smitten reminded, raising a brow. “Your Beloved tends to want the first say about her roommates - and from the look of it, she rather approves.” Looking back over, the badger gave a look of surprise as the child stepped forward. 

“Well, I’ll be. This may actually be good for both of them.”

There was a shift of Witch’s eyes, scrunching up her eyes as she looked over at the bird in the corner distrustingly. The teen leaned in closer, giving a more pointed sniff along the phantom’s neck. Same scent, same exact untimely end.

The distrusting perplexion grew. No; that couldn’t be right.

Thankfully, even without the company of many Fae, it was clear enough to the spectral figure what Witch was doing. Following scents was a wild borrower’s way of picking up on common threads in life and death, so this would take a more direct approach. 

“I’m sure it’s much harder to decipher from here. May I show you instead?”

There was a tentative look in Witch’s eye, momentarily shrinking back. Her gaze flitted from her sister’s nervous gaze, then to Quiet’s with an ounce of spite. Seeing that there was no attempt to advance without permission, however, she stepped forward again with a nod. Only then did it seem the haunting figure approached, hovering at eye level.

Hopefully this wouldn’t be taken in spite.

Carefully, the phantom placed a fingertip against the messy, almost nonexistent part of the wild borrower’s hair. Inquisitively, Witch raised a brow, but didn’t protest. It seemed that the lean of trust was strangely natural between the pair of them; her scent was one of one of a kinder soul, and not a plotting opponent out for revenge. Acquiescence in her presence made sense, giving a dip of her head. The chill lingered as it circled her, digging carefully against the nerves of her scalp. This spirit was searching for something, no doubt - a connection point, a trail of thought. Most likely, a way into her head if Witch could guess. And while she could feel the concern of Thorn looking on, the same nerves for once did not concern this bloodthirsty little pipsqueak.

There was some sort of signal that kept coming and going in waves, but it wasn’t strong enough except for a weak static that made everything feel a little dizzying. So that was correct, then; it was a check up on which neural receptors would “take” in order to send the visual. One by one they seemed to fire up and shut off, getting closer the more were tested.

This amount of vulnerability was, admittedly, strange for the teen; especially when the end result required a bit of telepathy at its source. Usually, no one except for Thorn even got to lay a hand on her, so permitting a complete stranger to scratch along the mess of twigs in her locks and weave a hand through her hair was pretty alien. But something about her liked it, giving a soft purr as the ghost searched for… Something a little more grounded than stray synapses. Could this ghost just reach in if she wanted to?

Could, probably. Would, it was a clear no. Borrowers were used to helping each other out, and that included those who had passed on. The inclusion of “Hi, ghost!” and “why ghost?” usually went together pretty solidly -

So this is what it’s like in your head. I suppose that’s one way of putting it, besides simply “warning the living.”

It took all of Witch’s energy not to jolt back as the comment echoed back straight at her. Okay, that answered the question.

Oh, sorry. Too direct?

No, perfectly acceptable. Regardless -

The hand remained where it was, although the sting of coldness had numbed its way through by now. Let’s see if I can still do this from mostly out here; I just need one more thing to get that signal sent. Bear with me.

Something new seemed to have taken hold as the other hand grasped Witch’s, tracing along the scars from the gladiatorial victory. Near-death wounds, or places of revival; Death’s Echoes, as ghosts called them. Witch squinted her eyes shut, twitching along with every touch. The vision was becoming clearer. As the chilled finger traced the talon marks from Witch’s arm down to the hand that had touched dying blood -

“Witch? What is she -?!”

The sentence never finished as the images came through in a swift, steady blur. Bright lights swallowed up into nothing, the frigid cold, the infinitesimal dagger -

“NO!”

Eyes snapped open. She didn’t even need to think as blade found its place all too easily in a maddened teen’s claws, giving a thick slice against the chilled air before her. The spirit leapt back, becoming incorporeal once more a few paces back. All tactile connections abated, looking over Witch apologetically.

Oh. That was right. Bristling, growling fury returned to an apologetic look back, realizing her mistake as Witch slowly lowered her own weapon. A hand tentatively reached out to offer her own apology - but it seemed another one behind her was faster, offering a much bolder hiss from behind.

“Get back.”

The hand settled upon Witch’s own was familiar, feeling the bristling fur against those palms as they pulled her closer.

“It’s not her fault, it’s -“

“I don’t know what that was, but it’s not happening again. Get behind me.”

Witch shook her head. A harmless weave of vines snuck their way around Thorn’s wrists, wriggling out of her grasp. 

“Um, what’s going on over there?”

The nervous question echoed from over in the corner of the room, where Quiet stood to watch the chaos between the borrowers unfold. Smitten merely shook his head, placing a paw to his forehead.

“I think you and I both know what’s happening, good fellow. Brush up on that little speech of yours; here we go again.”

As Witch stepped out to face her incredulous sister, she gave her a twitch of her tail; raised up, all of the tuft bristling into a single blade. Her hand turned it towards the counter’s edge, glaring.

Thorn lowered hers into the same motion, shaking her head vigorously.

No, you are not going to stab him! What are you thinking?

“It’s not her who’s the issue here. Did you really think he would just take us in without another intention in mind? Fool, fool, fool! He’s been plotting something since the very beginning.” A wicked smile spread danced across Witch’s lips, much as the dagger of Beast’s fang did across her fingers. “And we are no strangers to dealing with filth like him.”

Quiet looked over at the shifting phantom, who looked over at him curiously.

“Spectre? What exactly did you tell her?”

“She asked how I got like this, so I showed her,” the ghost responded, placing a finger to her temple innocently. “If I remember correctly, this all is your fault in technicality, Killer.”

Thorn took a brisk step back. The brambles from Witch’s hex snapped off.

“I’m sorry… Go back just a minute -“

“No, you heard me right.”

Smitten sighed. “Quiet, at least this time explain yourself for once-“

“This isn’t the first time you’ve lured Borrowers here, is it?” The truth began to dawn on Thorn as well, reaching for her own blade. “Okay, change of plan. Witch, get back. You’re not doing any stabbing.”

The growl of disappointment was immeasurable.

“ I am.”

A chirp of approval in its place.

There was a swish of metal as the eldest drew her own blade, still coated in the adder’s sheen. Witch was right. There was an upper edge in adding a bit of a biohazard to otherwise minuscule weapons.

The pathetic bird’s feathers drooped in defeat, lifting his hands up almost in surrender. Was he actually giving in to their display?

“Spectre, can you at least elaborate further? This is a lot more complicated than all of that.”

“Hmm… I might. Depends on how badly you land this. And how much they actually want to stab you. I suspect they’ll calm down once you elaborate.”

There was a fixated gaze on him as this ghost, Spectre - did she really just go by ‘Spectre?’ - looked on Almost tauntingly at her murderer. For what Thorn could tell, he deserved it. Her nerves were steeled alongside her sister.

“Okay, I’ll try.” Quiet shrank back, clearing his throat. “Let’s just say this whole thing was a bit of an accident. Not that it makes it any better, but-“

“Faster, Wretch.” Witch flicked the blade, deepening the snarl in her throat. Even for a young, tiny thing, she was intimidating; hardy as a trained soldier. “Why don’t you just spit it out?”

“Well, um, okay. To begin with, this was before I knew much about the existence of your kind. Let alone that I actually had anyone in the house-“

“Just say it. Or better yet, open the fridge.”

“The… Fridge?”

The realization of Witch’s statement seemed to fall twice as hard on the eldest. For while the youngest remained steeled and prepared to cut a decisive blow, Thorn frankly seemed ready to vomit on the spot.

There was a sigh from Spectre.

“And yet you always worry that I’ll frighten off the newcomers, Killer.” 

A disapproving shake of Spectre’s head indicated, well… Disappointment over anger as she turned to circle Quiet instead, hovering just a few inches above his face. And the look given back was almost familiar as he grimaced, averting his gaze as though being scolded.

“It doesn’t help when you just throw the whole ‘left to die in the fridge’ thing like it was deliberate,” he muttered, feathers bristling. “You really amp it up a lot more than it needs to be.”

The exchange was uncomfortably familiarized, almost as if these two were allies opposed to enemies. While Witch’s gaze still filled with venom and vitriol, Thorn was distanced enough to notice the familiarized banter for what it was, lowering her own blade.

“… Okay. A lot of questions -“

Both Quiet and Spectre turned towards the pair of Borrowers, tilting their heads.

“Yeah, okay,” Quiet managed, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s not as adversarial as it looks.”

“Explain it to them, not to me,” Spectre reminded, hovering over his head with a coy smirk. “We really need to work on your introductions.”

“Okay, yes. There’s a Borrower in the fridge.”

Placing a palm to his forehead, Quiet opened the door. The frosty embrace illuminated with the same sickening static as the hovering figure, and the sparse array of vegetables and butchered meat gave way to something more horrendous.

From the looks of it, that body had been there a long time with how completely frozen stiff and near-cryogenic the layers of ice had wrapped around it. But it didn’t make it any easier to process as the startled gasp came out of one borrower; a bitter chuckle from the other.

“You really thought you could fool us, didn’t you?” The fear was still trailing from Witch even as she spoke, hiding it behind her bold words. “You have another thing coming if you expect us to wind up as your leftovers.”

“That’s… Not what happened. I didn’t see her.”

“I went in to grab something, and never had the chance to come out,” Spectre added in almost complete nonchalance. “After a few minutes of trying to find a way out, it wasn’t worth waiting out the inevitable. So I took matters into my own hands.”

As Spectre spoke, the deep slash marks across her chest became more apparent. Thorn recoiled slightly, placing a hand where she felt her own stirring deep within.

Maybe they did have some things in common. It seemed that Spectre had noticed the very moment they stepped into the cabin, as if reading it off from aura alone.

“So then, the body-“

“I asked him to leave it in case someone else tried to get in. A warning, you might say. An omen if you prefer.”

“In case that wasn’t obvious by everything said, the fridge is off limits,” Quiet managed, grimacing. “Ask me if you need anything out of there.”

“Noted. Witch?”

Witch proceeded to stare daggers at Quiet the entire time, although even she had begun to soften her gaze as the conversation progressed. Her grip loosened, begrudgingly sheathing the weapon back into her belt with a tilt of her head.

“Then there’d better be food left out throughout this kitchen. We can provide for ourselves, and prefer to do so. We will not be left to demand it every time like pets or livestock.”

“I’d recommend leaving the pantry accessible; desperate beings will resort to desperate measures. We’d rather not have a repeat, right?”

The almost teasing way in which Spectre hovered and flirted around her inadvertent killer was, well, intriguing to watch. Even despite the nerves which still stirred innately deep within, it wasn’t hard for Thorn to see who, precisely, held the cards in their relationship as she placed a finger along the bird’s beak.

Fascinating. So this was a place in which the Borrower was in control? Even Witch seemed to have noticed, despite the aura of hate.

“Why don’t you set things out and I’ll get them settled? You’re not supposed to know about the passages, and I imagine they’d like to move in undisturbed.”

“If you think that’s best.”

Without a note of hesitation, Quiet acquiescenced, giving a shuffle of his wings as he stepped out of the room. The badger followed, giving them a curt nod as he stepped out.

“Your companion should be in shortly with your belongings. She’s been checking the parameters to confirm no sign of that pesky scavenger in the vicinity, and I’ll be sure to let her in once she’s satisfied. In the meantime, do let me know if there’s anything I can get you all. I live to entertain the ladies of the house, after all.”

“Appreciated. Thank you.”

Giving a soft trill, the badger followed the warmer body in the house, leaving the borrowers to talk amidst themselves. The darkness and cooling chill in the house had been a fairly immediate adjustment to the pair of sisters, finally dropping their guard once sight and scent of Quiet left their senses.

“Apologies for the scare,” Spectre finally hummed, shifting somewhere between the pair of them. “I have been over this with him, but it doesn’t stick.”

“That’s not your fault,” Thorn shrugged, giving a flick of her tail. “It sounds like he’s quite a hassle to deal with. But not dangerous?”

“Not deliberately,” Spectre replied. “He means no harm. But for those who do not live in our shadows, it can be hard to understand that every movement holds an entirely different velocity.” There was an air of intrigue as Spectre trailed over the inquisitive newcomer, her gaze tilting downward as she approached. “Although I’m rather surprised it’s him who bothers you the most.”

“Why wouldn’t it? You’re passively existing while he-“

“Knows his place.”

There was an alarming enthusiasm as Witch tilted her head, but the spark in her eyes was that of mischief over bloodlust. That was not a good sign.

“… Okay, no. We are not doing this again.”

“He understands how this works,” Witch insisted. “The wretch is clumsy and uncoordinated, but he knows better than to mess with something that can come back and haunt him. He’s scared of us.”

“I really don’t think that’s-“

“If it isn’t, then I’ll make it. There has to be some way. He wouldn’t just bow down like that if there wasn’t a reason.”

Thorn and Spectre exchanged glances; that “reason” likely wasn’t fear, and had a pretty obvious inclination by the way they interacted. There wasn’t any expectation to see any sort of ring at this stage of life, but the playful lift of one finger confirmed otherwise. Wrapped in a tangle of dead vines and wilted petals, it seemed that an organic signifier had been exchanged for the usual metal vows.

Okay. That was cute. The strange bird-man got some points for that, especially since it wouldn’t have been easy to craft from his size and stature.

“There’s always room for others if we take a liking to them,” Spectre purred, noticing the deep-set eyes on the ring. “But of course, that comes with time.”

What that was implying, Thorn wasn’t entirely sure, but she felt Spectre take her hand in hers as Witch continued ranting in the foreground.

“But I think I already like you. So we’ll see.”

Talk about getting a foot in the door. She’d scarcely even met this phantom, and the sly little lady was already coming onto her. There was a soft, nervous gulp as Thorn’s ears lowered, not fully reciprocating or pulling away.

“Understood. So… You said there were rooms, right?”

“-All I’m saying is just - oh, neither of you are even listening, are you?! What gives? Seriousl- oh.”

Anger switched to curiosity as Witch turned back around, giving a purr of amusement.

“Nevermind, by all means continue.” There was a knowing smirk as Witch crossed paths with her sister, tail flicking deviously. “But I think I’ll go ahead and find my way towards Beast. I think she may need some help with getting all the teeth unpacked - and I think it’d be a good idea to have my own side of the tunnels this time. Something tells me you’ll need it.”

Even if the first cue had been missed, Witch was not slow to the second as she gave her sister a teasing look. The swish of her tail was all that was left as the devious little Borrower absconded, the soft clink of her hands and feet finding purchase on the metal of the drawer handles all the way down.

So that left Thorn with the ghost. There was a softer look as she turned her head over towards the kitchen’s corners, releasing her grasp on Thorn’s hand with a small grin.

“I have a feeling the two of you will get along just fine.”