#beastly brute

[pricetagged]

MEDIEVAL SCAMMER GHOAP?! Please enlighten us🙏🙏🙏

Since you both asked so nicely, have a snippet of a whisp of a concept😅

I have an idea. Not fully fleshed out. I could go in two directions, either historical Ghoap working as Pardoners and taking advantage of ignorant village reader (corruption kink, religious themes, abuse of power etc.).

OR, for my monster-lovers, has anyone seen Dragonheart? I was picturing, like, one of them is something beastly, the other plays at knight = profit? Fantasy scam and rescue? So, it would go something like this:

(Tw kidnapping and kind of mean Ghoap)

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Your situation didn't look any better flipped on its head. Flipped on your head, rather. Snatched and thrown over a bulky shoulder, high– higher than even your standing position. It was discomfiting; it was terrifying. Blood rushed to your face not only in fury but also in shame as your skirts fluttered in the breeze.

He noticed, too. His greedy fingers dug into your thighs, skimming down like he was soothing a skittish horse. But you felt the way he lingered. The way he chuffed and squeezed tighter when you kicked out with all the strength of a skittish colt.

Your fists pounded uselessly against heavy splint-mail, hands-catching on rough nodules and spikes that didn't quite register as pain. Not to your panic-stricken mind, thoughts flying off in the wind behind you as the beast carried you off.

But the smack registered.

Perhaps it was the sound, the harsh slap of flesh on flesh. Whipping crack, like the snapping of a great branch. The precursor to an eerie stillness, violence begetting obmutescence. And it worked–

–for a second. For the time it took for your stinging nerves to catch up with your racing mind. Then you howled. Kicked and clawed and hissed like a feral cat as tears welled in your lash-line.

"How dare you–"

"Quit yer fashin'. Ye'll bring the whole kingsguard down this way–"

"–good–"

"–and then I'll have tae kill them all," That had your attention, legs tense under the heavy band of his bicep. "Dinnae much feel like sharin' ye around."

"Oh, you beast! You foul, vile, disgusting–" Your voice was high, words scratching as they hitched out of your aching throat.

It hurt to speak, vocal cords already shredded from the way you'd screamed when he'd first ransacked your village. Coughing on heavy, acrid smoke and crying futile warnings about the Black Knight and his monster-in-arms ('Quiet, girl. Viper-tonged harlot, slither off and for gods' sake, quiet!') . But it hurt more to be silent. You flung insults like broken arrows, hoping that they would somehow land. That they would hit, fortuitously, and pierce the thick-hide of this brute. But hope is vain, and the fancies of men make gods laugh.

You landed hard on something soft.

Ego almost as bruised as your knees, you kept your eyes low. Sweeping. Marshy, wet silt. Topsoil sluiced off, only mud and clay and reeds to your right. A cheerfully babbling brook just beyond, water murky and discoloured with backwash from– the water flowed past the estuary of the village so it must be– no–

The realisation was caustic. Mordant. Burning at you like the scorched air in your lungs.

"You're a monster," you spat the words, mouth watering in your haste to let ichor drip forth and blacken him as much as the foul, brackish water ahead.

"Noticed that, did ye," he laughed, words glancing off like feeble blows. "Best not tae piss me off, then. Stay there and behave yersel'. Company's comin'."

Glancing up at him was like a blow to the stomach, wind punched out and body shaking. You already knew that he was big, inhuman. But now you could see every inch; monstrous, twisted mockery of natural features. Like a man formed of rock, too immense and hard and jagged to pass for anything but artificial. Counterfeit. Contranatural. Creation's bastard. All tusks and teeth and shorn hair. Hair everywhere, even down his bare, bulging forearms and thick knuckles. Coarse, dark.

His eerie, bright blue eyes blazed around black, pupils wild and blown. It could be the thrill, cruel playfulness of an apex predator. Berserker-wide, coming down from the kill–

But he'd been carrying you for a while, bloodlust long-since sated on the men and manse of your homeland.

You shivered, sweat and cold mingling in a discomfiting damp that raised the hairs on your arms. (The hairs on the back of your neck were already needle-stiff and prickling).

You pocketed a stone, a big jagged filthy shard. One you hoped could bruise and slash and poison, turn wounds weeping and sick.

Now that you were silent, he seemed especially strident, swaggering around the barebones of what you supposed must be a dwelling. You felt the slight whistling of air from the cave behind, cavernous and black. If you had to run, to hide, you'd take your chances with the forest and river ahead. To be lost in the appetites of the mountain abyss would spell death as surely as at the hands of this creature.

You watched him, cocksure and comfortable as he shucked off his warhammer and began unbuckling his braces. If you could read the snarl of his crooked teeth, you'd perhaps say he was in high spirits. He sent you a wink as he shrugged off his splint-mail, gravelly laugh echoing in the cavern behind.

It disguised the approach of your visitor.

"Grabbed the wrong one, Johnny," you shrieked as something grabbed your forearm, hauling you up. Looking down you saw the muted sheen of a spiked gauntlet. Black patina, flaked in iron rust. You swallowed hard, lump in your throat so big that it caught any words that might try to escape. Him. The Black Knight. The Liar. 

"Ye said to grab the pretty one by the fancy house."

"She's not the magistrate's daughter. No ransom for her." He spun you around, metal biting hard into your chin as he arched your face towards his.

Cloaked in ink-black helm and visor, you could just about peer in to meet his gaze. He looked back with cold, assessing eyes. The voice that rumbled forth was as harsh and breccial as you remembered, words rending you apart with serrated precision: "Not worth a rescue mission."

He released your chin with a final shake of your head, huffing amusement as you rubbed at the thin scratches he left behind.

It was hard to breathe now, stomach swirling and head-light. Even if you could will yourself, it wouldn’t help. There was already a faint coppery smell leeching from the Knight; your heart recognised it even if you would not give name to it. It sped up, fast enough to rush past your ears with discordant force. 

You didn’t feel the other one step up behind you, not until it was too late. There, trapped between man and monster (man the monster), tight enough that you couldn't even shiver. You felt the power of the creature even more now without the armour, all muscle and fat, sheer power close enough to sink your fingers into. But you couldn't move, your shallow breaths already catching in your throat into soft, hitching whines. 

"Shh, it's alright, bonnie," Rough, clumsy fingers swiped under your eyes. You felt him crouch lower, stubbly hair and tusks digging into your powder-soft cheek. "Looks like we're gonnae have tae keep you, then."

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[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꒱ ˚

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[eskumii]

" MY FAIR CONSORT, ETERNAL " — soft yandere!knight x immortal!princess!reader

SYNOPSIS: your dark knight, who grew up hearing stories of your tragic fate as the immortal princess destined to be killed by a great warrior, has now arrived to claim your father's throne... and you. (1.9k) — navi.

CONTENT: yandere behaviors, age gap (knight is like 27 and reader is 19), fake religious mentions ("the gods"), hot knight is literally ur superfan 4 life and just wants better for u... manipulation, slight infantilization

NOTES: i injected elden ring into my veins to write this. i thought of the knight from the perspective of the player's character, who defeats all the bosses in the game and meeting you is like the ending lol. u don't need to know anything abt elden ring btw, i was just inspired by the lore (and ranni's ending ofc muehehe) c:

the dark knight who ascended from ashes, borne from shadows and bones and the blood of the world, is now kneeling at your precious feet.

and you, the princess destined to he who restores order in this level of the stratosphere by cutting down the souls of opposition, must take the triumphant warrior into your arms as he takes your life, and your father's throne—just as the prophecy foretold.

but, to do this, you hesitate.

even in the blackness of his rugged armor, you see your reflection in the twinkling of the blood there, freshly drawn from the still-warm bodies of the gatekeepers, who lie uselessly past the threshold of your chambers. you are alone now, at the mercy of a mortal who clawed his way through death to usher in a new era of reigning peace.

this is the man by whose hand you are to be killed. you see his face not, but his beastly stature hunched before you and his ghastly sword, long and wide, is sheathed against the vastness of his strong back; it is enough for you that a great knight has emerged from among the lowly to slaughter you, and that you do not even have a chance to fight for your life. how cruel that you are fated to die this way.

despite your personal reservations, you must accommodate this warrior, as you have been trained to do since you were a mere girl. 

“honored knight,” you speak. “you have arrived, at last. i awaited this day a thousand years.”

he seems to be looking at you but you cannot tell from within the deep shadows of his helmet, where a small slit has been carved for sight. he is strange and quiet and stoic; you do not know where he comes from or the kind of person he is. 

you clear your throat in the silence. “to whom have i the honor of relinquishing my power?” 

ignoring your question, he instead delicately takes your hand in his, and he holds it to the metal of his faceplate where his lips are hidden beneath.

"my lady," his voice is darkness and tender. "the honor is mine. you are altogether lovely, even moreso than i imagined."

you flinch and hasten to pull your hand away. a sudden terror sweeps through the throne room but it is only apparent to you, the sole recipient of a certain impending doom. he is nothing like the brute you envisioned he would be… no, this is much worse.  

”...in my youth, i read of you and heard many a story—a princess whose beauty is marred with tragedy, as the fated warrior whom she knows not is to be her end.” 

you swallow thickly but you hold your tongue. you were not aware that your own tale had been passed down to the common peoples for so long, or that they cared much for you at all. you are both warmed and sodden with grief at the thought that so many generations of children have grown, tried, and failed to reach your castle and free themselves from the curse of being lost in this frozen pocket of time. 

he continues. “of all the myths (or so i thought they were) of princesses and their lovers, yours always won my favor and affection. i thought often that, during my training, i might one day come and gaze upon you myself.”

you stare at him, utterly disturbed. you do not know where he is going with this and wish he would spare you the preamble. is he going to kill you or not? 

“i see… well,” you start after a long pause. “you have seen me, and are seeing me. i am no figment of imagination.” 

“indeed, i have fulfilled my childish longings.” he hums lowly in agreement.

perhaps this strange man aims to kill you slowly with his fake words, so that you are none the wiser to the moment when he sinks his sword in your abdomen. there is no time for these foolish pleasantries. the gods are growing impatient; the skies have darkened, and you hear what sounds like thunder roaring in the near distance. 

you no longer stop yourself from blurting out how you really feel. "...o, please, great knight. do not torment me. i know well what you must do, so do not delay. you, a mere man, have felled every king and prince, who themselves are something like gods. i have no means of resistance towards you.” 

he is silent and unmoving for a moment. then, he bows his head to you, hand lain over his heart, still kneeling all the while. 

"my darling princess, it is true that i have conquered the world with my hands. if I may ask, for what reason do you think i have come to you?" he questions you with a smooth lilt in his tone, like he is humored by your urgency to die. 

but it is then your turn to be moved to silence. what is he talking about? you lean forward, confusion and desperation coming undone on your face.

"why, mustn't you end my life in order to fulfill the prophecy? of a lowly warrior who rises to take my father's throne, which i alone stand in your way?"

he bursts out into laughter, booming and terrifying. "what meaningless prophecies!”

your heart drops into your bowels at his words.  

the dark knight shifts to rest his weary, armored head in your lap. it is heavy and cold against your thighs, which are veiled poorly from such biting contact by your thin underskirts. the claws of his iron gloves dig into your yielding skin, pulling you closer to him despite your rigidness. he is breathing deeply, trembling against your warmth and softness like a man who's been starved of anything good and kind.

"what is a ruler without his fair consort?” he mutters quietly. “i have slain your father already, silly girl. i may descend upon this throne as i wish. but i have come so that we might be companions, not enemies.”

your breath is taken from you. this lowly knight wishes to rewrite the prophecies of old? it is impossible—more than that, absurd and deluded. even you, granted immortality by the gods, have no say in what you have been called to do.  

“no…” you blanch, feeling sickly as your resolve crumbles. “we cannot… i must fulfill my duty. you have restored order unto this world, now i shall do my part.”

slowly, he begins to stand. you fear you have angered him but you have only told the truth, and it is all you can do. 

“your ‘duty’?” he spits, his tall form reaching mountain peaks as he straightens up to a towering height. “are you so eager to die when i have toiled eagerly to share a moment with you?” he reaches out a hand to cup your chin, turning your face this way and that as if to examine the integrity of your words based on the fear in your eyes. 

he rambles on, scoffing. “and then you speak of kings as gods yet i have defeated them all. what am i to you, then?” 

“you.. you’re the greatest warrior to ever live, of course. you have proved yourself tenfold, to me and to the gods. now you must do what has been demanded of you, fool.” you spit back harshly, disregarding any of your niceties from before.

it is true that you do not want to die… but this is a kinder fate than being punished by the gods for disobedience, who by now must be descending atop the clouds in their anger, or something of the sort. 

“very well, then. if duty is what you desire, i give unto you a new one that is most befitting: embrace thine new king, and be mine.”

his hand moves to your cheek and how gentle is his touch. but you wretch yourself away because you are no betrayer of your destiny. a thousand years ago, you took your place as throne keeper while your father awaited this so-called “fated lowly knight” who would fell him with ease. for a thousand years, he prowled amongst the shadows of the castle, regarding every wandering soul within the kingdom with hostile suspicion, and never was he a father to you again, but a stranger.

none of this changes the fact that your father was weak, as well as every other kingdom that operated beneath you. now, that very knight is standing before you with one unrelenting desire—not to kill you, but… to love you? all of your faithfulness in sacrificing yourself for the sake of the world has been reduced to nothing right before your eyes. 

you sink to the floor, lacy underskirts pooling helplessly around your legs, and clasp your hands around his steeled greaves. it is the first time you have left the seat of the throne in many, many years. but you do so to lay your case before this knight, this new king, on behalf of the common peoples who are stuck in this timeless crack of history, where dying means to never have existed.

“please,” you beg. “put this evil far from you! you know not what you are doing.” 

“my girl, is it an evil thing that i have chosen to love you and spare you? rather, have you not been burdened by such an evil thing the "gods" are setting against you?” he leans down to pet your head. “your isolation has maddened you, poor thing. come, i shall comfort you.” 

you shake your head furiously but you can do nothing as he drags you with little effort by your underarms to what is now his place on the throne. his clanking armor rests in the seat which you have sat, and you feel a sort of power come out from you. you come to the realization that the exchange of rule and royal hands has finally occurred, but all for the wrong reasons.

the dark knight sits you on his lap. sharp edges dig into the back of your legs. you turn to shove and push and punch but a strange weakness has taken you, and you hardly cause the man to budge in his upright position. after a few minutes of your senseless onslaught, the knight wrestles your arms down with just one hand.

“enough of your whining, [name],” he growls. “we must tend to our kingdom now. how ever are you to help the peoples when you act so childishly?” 

you spit in his face. a bastard ascending from squalor dares to speak to you so familiarly? to touch you so intimately? this is no king worthy of your respect and submission and service. but of course, though, your act of rebellion does nothing and the dark knight laughs cruelly at your feeble attempts to disrespect and defy him. the deep sound rumbles from beneath his breastplate and he only seems to tighten his grip on you further. 

“no matter. i'll see to it that my darling is trained to be on her best behavior from now on. your father never did such a thing, did he?” he taunts you, but it is nothing but fondness. 

you slump down in his iron-clad grip, defeated. conquered. 

“on this day forth,” the knight raises his voice as if talking to a crowd, but there is no one to hear but you. “i have taken my rightful place as king, and will rule over these cursed lands for the rest of my days. as for the princess…” he seems to move his head to look down at you huddled in his arms.

“she, too, has taken her rightful place… as my fair consort, eternal.” 

[chimeride]

A colossal brute with beastly talons and eyes of flame.

[ruins-of-tragedy]

RWBY didn't just build upon Beauty and the Beast. They made it better by retelling it with sapphics. Ladies who fall in love while still maintaining their own integral identities, and that of the story theirs is inspired from.

Blake's 'beastly' persona is an important part of her. Faunus rights are a recurring theme and she has given much of her life to it. Being a bibliophile is a core facet of who she is. And fairness and justice are pillars she holds dear to her heart.

Yang is beauty not only because she looks amazing, but also since she keeps channeling her strength to soldier on. Give back as good as she can get. There's grace in her brute tenacity. And she uses it all to protect the people who need it.

Notice how both of them represent mixed aspects of two distinct characters serving as their backdrops. An intellectual beast and a powerful beauty.

Blake and Yang are not limited by the archetypes their predecessors used to be. Instead, the very features of such absolute ideals are weaved into them both. To build up their whole.

Separately, they are their own parts who can stand alone well enough. Together though, they make each other better. Complete one another and the story which would have forever haunted them, if it hadn't been executed so well.

RWBY achieved all of that without the beast having to appeal to the beauty with books she loves to read. Or by exploiting any family members in the process. And I for one really appreciate it!

[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.”

[msfantasy]

The Goblin Knight and his Cry-Baby-Wife

Knight!Goblin x Reader

Summary: A head cannon on the Goblin Knights squires debating

When the Goblin Knight was requested by the Duke of Rox to oversee the intensive camp training of the newest squires for 3 weeks. Rein was all but obliged by his duty to ensure those men had the greatest training regiment.

The Squires currently experiencing hellish training at camp cannot deny that Sir Rein wasn’t taking his duty seriously.

But there is just something incredibly odd in their sour instructors’ demeanour.

During the day, he was nothing but an evil brute, running drill after drill after drill. Only to force the boys into combat for hours on end until he was sufficiently satisfied with their progress.

By night, Sir Rein was a sorrowful looking sap, looking longingly onto the hidden photo pressed into a locket fastened around his neck.

As the nights continued, the squires grew more curious as to what has their cruel instructor looking so pathetic?

A debate sparked pertaining to the contents of the locket when Rein left to bathe in the nearby river.

William: “I suppose the locket could contain a photo of some lass?”

Henry: “I heard rumours that he was allowed to wed a lady of his choosing, perhaps it a photo of her.”

John: “To think some poor gentlewoman was subjected to marry such a heinous looking creature. Rather cruel and unfortunate.”

Richard: “I heard she’s rather happy in their marriage. She must be rather unfortunate looking her self.”

The four squires debate for the next few nights on how ugly Reins wife must be when he parts for the evening to bathe in the river.

John: “If she’s a hunchback- that would certainly squander your marriage prospects. It would explain why she’s happy to be married even if it’s to him.”

William: “She must be blind. Even a hunchback wouldn’t wish to wed someone that looks like him.”

Henry: “He’s left the locket behind this time. Think we should just open it up and look?”

The four squires scramble over each other, to glimpse the woman that has their cold and cruel instructor in such a wayward state.

But with Sir Rein’s return, their opportunity to view the beastly woman who married an ugly harsh monster was squandered.

By the end of training camp, Rein was antsy to leave.

Sir Rein was in a particularly foul mood since the 4 squires were so sore and tired, they moved slower than expected, causing half a days delay.

Rein: “You lot better start moving faster. My wife will be upset if I come back late.”

Richard: “or upset you came back at all.”

The boys snicker but Sir Rein pays no mind to the silly taunts of some young boys. He’s more concerned at being reunited with his pretty little wife.

It wasn’t until they re-enter the grand hall of Duke Rox estate do they hear the sniffling cries of a young woman.

Y/n: “B-b-but he was meant to arrive 7 hours ago!”

The Duke massaged the corners of his temple- quickly growing exhausted from the crying woman.

Duke: “Calm yourself, tardiness is not a reason to deploy a force.”

The 4 squires linger in the background, not quite sure what to do with this most unusual display of drama.

Rein: “My lady.”

Sir Rein greets warmly.

The sniffling woman spins around quickly, her glassy wet eyes are puffy from crying.

Her cheeks and nose blushed with excessive rubbing.

She made quick strides towards Sir Rein who only opens his arms at the crying woman throws herself into his arms.

It’s an odd display.

A pretty, weepy noble woman crying in the arms of a goblin who only came up to her shoulder.

Non-then-less, Rein strokes her head with a slight quirk to his lips.

Duke: “Remind me to never send you on a long quest again. Your wife was being particularly unbearable.”

The four squires are gobsmacked.

To think such a pretty noble woman married such a beastly looking creature and even weeped in his absence.

To miss him so dearly she acted unbearable to the Duke.

They all look at the Goblin Knight.

But the Goblin Knight paid no mind. Only leaving his eyes down casted, fondly watching his cry-baby-wife weep in relief at his return.

[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...

[edenspoem]

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."

[technomancer-01]

"Our prey might differ, but we are hunters, the both of us. Why not co-operate, and discuss the things we've learned?"

— Alfred, Hunter of Vilebloods

Oh dear, sometimes the most “civilized” and proper seeming gentlemen can be the most beastly underneath. Have no illusions about this brute, he is but a mere fist of the Healing Church"

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Etsy

[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.

[lemurlord]

If I were a beastly Brute clad in metal armor from head to toe, I'd respect women☝️