#loki beauty and the beast

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Beauty And The Beast - Chapter 6 - Loki Odinson X Female Reader

Title: The West Wing

Loki Odinson X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Natasha, Clint, Mrs. Potts, and Alpine (Mentioned)

Beauty And The Beast Retelling Fanfic

Chap 1 | Chap 2 | Chap 3 | Chap 4 | Chap 5 | You Are Here | Chap 7 | Chap 8 | Chap 9 | Chap 10 | Chap 11 | Chap 12 | Chap 13 | Chap 14 | Chap 15 | Chap 16 END |

WC: 1,280

Warnings: Imprisonment, rude Loki, italics, banter, nicknames, yelling, wolves, fighting, mentions of injuries, slight angst, and fluff?

Natasha raised an eyebrow, her expression clearly displaying worry as she crossed her arms. “If his Highness finds out you violated his orders and fed her, he will blame me!” Her voice was sharp, exasperation dripping from every word.

Clint, leaning against the doorway, gave her a playful smirk. “Yes, I will make sure of it,” He responded cockily, almost as if daring her to fight back.

“Oh, I’m planning my sweet, sweet revenge,” Natasha muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips before she focused back on the conversation. “But did you see her stand up to him?” Natasha added, her voice dropping to a whisper, and ensuring you were far enough behind to not overhear.

Clint rose a candle into the air, “I am telling you, this woman is the one.”

You, however, were too distracted to even hear their little whispers, your eyes wandering around the halls as you trailed further behind, admiring the strange, yet elegant decor. Rather lost in thought.

“They must fall in love if we are to be human again,” Mrs. Potts whispered with urgency, glancing at Clint and Natasha. “And how can they fall in love if she stays locked away in her room?”

Confused by their kindness, you quickened your steps to catch up, furrowing your brow. “I don't understand why you're all being so kind to me,” You said, your voice soft but filled with curiosity. “Surely, you're as trapped here as I am. Don’t you ever want to escape?”

Mrs. Potts’ face softened with a mixture of warmth and sadness. She glanced at you, then ahead, her voice gentle but firm. “His Highness is not as terrible as he appears. Somewhere deep in his soul, there's a fellow who’s just waiting to be set free of his burdens and just wants to be happy. To be understood.”

As they led you to the kitchen, the smell of rich, savory food filled the air. Before you knew it, you were seated in front of a meal fit for royalty: turkey smothered in thick gravy, a mountain of mashed potatoes, and a sparkling goblet of ginger beer. You dug into the feast, overwhelmed but grateful, savoring each bite, though the weight of your situation still lingered.

Soon after, Clint and Natasha excused themselves, leaving you with Mrs. Potts, who kindly offered to walk you back to your room. As you strolled through the winding halls, you hesitated, your curiosity bubbling to the surface. “Clint mentioned something about the west wing…” You asked, clasping your hands nervously, hoping to learn more.

Mrs. Potts paused briefly, then waved her spout dismissively. “Never mind about that. Off to bed with you, my girl,” She instructed with a firm yet gentle tone, ushering you toward the door to your new room.

“Good night,” You said, though your mind was far from resting.

“Nighty-night. Straight to bed,” Mrs. Potts echoed softly, giving you a nod before disappearing around the corner with a gentle hop.

The moment she was gone, you felt your pulse quicken with a surge of rebellious energy. This was your chance. Heart pounding, you quietly crept down the staircase, turning toward the west wing. Each step seemed to echo in the eerie silence, but your curiosity propelled you forward.

Entering the forbidden wing, the darkness seemed to swallow you whole, the air thick with mystery. Your eyes adjusted, and you gasped at the sight of the broken furniture, torn tapestries, and shattered chandeliers scattered across the room. It was a place of forgotten beauty, left to decay in its loneliness.

Your fingers grazed one of the broken portraits on the wall, curiosity overwhelming you as you lifted the torn canvas flap. A royal family was revealed beneath the damage - two regal parents with their two sons. The father, dressed in golden robes with an eyepatch, had a commanding presence, while the mother, with her gentle smile, stood tall and serene. But it was the sons who captured your attention. The blonde one, with his bright blue eyes, seemed to emanate strength, while the dark-haired son, with his mischievous green eyes, drew you in. Those eyes held something deeper - something alluring, maybe even dangerous.

A flicker of red caught your eye, pulling your focus from the painting. You turned slowly, eyes widening at the sight of the beautiful red rose floating delicately inside its glass case. Its soft glow lit up the dark room, enchanting you with its impossible beauty.

You stepped toward it, your hands trembling slightly as you reached for the glass cover. The air around you felt charged, like you were touching something sacred, something forbidden. The moment your fingers brushed the glass, a voice boomed from behind, freezing you in place.

“What are you doing here!?” The Beast’s thunderous roar echoed through the room, and you spun around to see him storming toward you, his eyes wide with panic and fury. You stumbled back, heart racing, as he rushed to the rose, his massive frame blocking your view. “What did you do to it?” He demanded, his voice a dangerous growl. His claws gripped the glass case, covering the rose protectively, as if he feared it might vanish.

“N- Nothing!” You stammered, taking a shaky step back, your voice barely steady as you tried to explain. “I didn’t touch it.”

His breath came heavy, his anger barely contained. “Do you realize what you could have done?” He snapped, his gaze piercing through you. “You could have doomed us all! Get out of here! Go!” His voice reached a fever pitch, sending you stumbling toward the door in a panic.

Without another word, you fled, your footsteps echoing in the empty corridors as you burst through the main double doors and into the icy, unforgiving night.

Outside, the snowfall came down hard, biting into your skin. Desperation took hold as you raced toward Alpine, who was waiting nervously by the barn. With a quick, frantic movement, you mounted the horse, urging her forward into the thick forest. Snow whipped across your face, obscuring your vision as you rode, the trees blurring together in the storm.

A low, menacing howl cut through the night air, sending chills down your spine. For a moment, you thought it was the Beast, but no… It sounded like a wolf. Alpine reared back, spooked, and in one swift motion, you were thrown from the saddle. You hit the ground hard, gasping as the breath was knocked from your lungs. You scrambled to your feet, looking around frantically. Shadows shifted in the darkness - the wolves were closing in.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you searched for something, anything, to defend yourself with, but the wolves were too close. Their black forms stalked forward, their eyes glowing in the dim light. One of them pounced, and just as you braced yourself, the Beast lunged from out of the shadows, tackling the wolf to the ground.

The fight was brutal; savage. The Beast tore through the pack with raw strength, tossing wolves aside as they lunged at him. Finally, the last of the wolves retreated, their howls fading into the distance as they disappeared into the woods.

The Beast collapsed into the snow, his breath ragged, his body trembling from the effort. You hesitated for a moment, then cautiously approached him, kneeling beside his hulking form. His fur was matted with blood and snow. He was hurt…

Gently, you helped him onto Alpine, his weight nearly overwhelming, but were able to guide the horse back to the castle; the cold biting at your skin with every step.

~~~

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Enneagram 4 Subtypes Explained

Social 4 "Shame"

The social 4 looks to create connection with others through the exploration melancholy and brokenness. Unlike the other 4s this subtype looks to share their depth with others. Imo they subvert allot of the traditional notions of the E4. They aren't as withdrawn as the SX and Sp subtypes. And whole they do maintain a level of difference within they still look to fulfill that need for emotional depth with others. A tendency that pops with the So4 is the need to create that social circle while struggling to remain their own self. This subtype tend to express their difference through being an outsider or extremely sophisticated with unique tastes. Usually among to attract others while maintaining their boundary of eccentricity. They are hard to mistake as any other type in my opinion however they can look like the stereotype of a 3w4 (due to being pretentiousness) or a 9.

Characters: Anna Karenina, Mark Jefferson, Blue Diamond, Diane Nyguen, Lisa, Anne of Green Gables, Jin Kazaa and Catherine Meyer.

The Self Preservation 4 "Tenacity"

The Sp4 finds it self trying to mitigate their envy due to being a counter type. Usually this 4 is not looking to be different but rather to have a different type of life. As the counter type of 4 they dont overexposes their melancholy and rage but rather they tend to keep it to themselves. This 4 tries to find a different path in the world without following tradition or social expectations. They are a bit more idealistic with their pursuits choosing lifestyles, style or professional life. This subtype can look like a 6 (due to their calm and environment oriented thinking).

Characters: Elio Perlman, Rose DeWitt Bukater, Eleven, Belle, Sebastian, Wicked Witch, Violet Harmon and Susana Kaysen.

The Sexual 4 "Hate"

Probably the most well known 4. This subtype is the most expressive and "aggressive" about their sense of uniqueness. They are highly interested in creating a relationship with another that fulfills that bond of difference and uniqueness. They tend to be the most expressive of their envy. To the sexual 4 the most important thing is not to be mediocre. By this I mean that the 4s see everything that doesn't have emotional and personal depth is beneath them. While many texts describe them as aggressive id say they are closer to passionate. The SX4 interest and frustration find depth within interpersonal relationships leads them to look like enneagram 8s.

Characters: Kylo Ren, the phantom, Maleficent, Loki, Jason Todd, Helen Sharp, Lucille Sharpe and Zuko

[tangledmelody]

The Beast of Asgard - Loki Laufeyson x Female Original Character

A canon non-compliant fic heavily inspired by Disney's beauty and the Beast. Featuring gothic vibes, sexual tension, and my personal favorite character from the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Read onward if you're looking for something with a slow burn, mutual pining, and eventual explicit themes. (Yes, this is shameless self promotion. I like seeing the little numbers on ao3 go up- sue me.)

Written in first person POV with a named female OC intended to be interpreted as a reader insert. There are references to her backstory and thoughts, so I wouldn't consider this a true reader insert.

This fic eventually delves into darker themes, including but not limited to: vivid depictions of mental anguish and anxiety, implied and referenced mental illness/anxiety, panic attacks, sexual harassment, general misogynistic themes, and eventually explicit and detailed sexual content. Said sexual themes will include dream sex (including scenes where one party is unaware that said dream has actual, real world consequences), dubious consent potentially interpreted as non-consent, and general debauchery.

Sorry for the clunky formatting. I haven't used Tumblr in many years.

Chapter One

Find me on AO3

CHAPTER ONE - Winter's Call (Alina)

Word Count: 2,582

I once asked my father to define the difference between a house and a home. 

“A home,” he had said, voice deep in that reverent tone he sometimes used when he was lost in thought, “is full of love.” 

He had sighed then, gazing longingly at the portrait hanging above the fireplace. My mother was always the first to greet visitors and that hadn't changed after death. Her eyes had been painted as stoic pools of blue and her mouth was rendered as a thin straight line. It was a near perfect likeness of her, but it missed all the things that had made her so beautiful in life. There are so many details of a person's life that a portrait cannot capture, and so many stories that a eulogy cannot sum up. 

My mother was a force of nature. She was stubborn and proud and most of all she was kind. She was kind when it mattered and she was kind when it didn't. She had told me once that kindness counted the most when it didn't matter. That when you choose to be kind, even when there are no consequences for choosing not to be, that those are the moments that define a person. 

My mother was the glue that held our family together. Now that she is gone the pieces of our family portrait have started to fall out of the frame. My father is starting to fray at the edges. His corners have started to curl inwards- away from mine. We are two moons without a planet, and we have lost the one thing keeping us within the same orbit.

If mama was here… she would know what to say. She would have greeted me when I tumbled through the doorway. Her arms would have been open and warm and inviting. But most importantly, her eyebrows would have crinkled together in that peculiar way that they always had when she was concerned. She would have held me for as long as I needed her to, and somehow she would know, just as she always did, when I was ready to pull away. And then, just like she always did when I was upset, she would pour me a cup of steaming hot tea and we would sit in silence until I was ready to form words again. 

Except she isn't here. And my father isn't here. And I am alone. 

It's a rather unfortunate thing to be alone with one's thoughts in the dead of night. Particularly when one's thoughts are full of fear and anger and *panic*. 

I rip my gaze away from my mother's portrait, still covered in the bolt of gauze-like, black fabric that I had draped atop it so many years ago. She cannot help me now. I have to get through this on my own.

. . . . . . . .

My thoughts are still too loud. 

I stand - too suddenly, haphazardly and jerky. My feet have grown numb and I stumble forward on my leaden legs. My limbs carry me to the door, movements stilted, as if I am a marionette. I am a doll on strings, not fully aware of my movements, not really questioning them at all. Something inside me tells me to leave, and I listen- foolishly and recklessly. But I do listen.

My thoughts are full of everything and nothing. I am a rabbit, a deer, a prey animal- stumbling across the threshold, eyes wide, head swiftly turning left to right. My coat, brown and soft and downy, hides my body from the harsh winter. It is a camouflage I don't remember donning. Had I ever taken it off?

The wind whistles through the empty streets as I slip out of the dimly lit cottage I call home. It grazes against my cheeks- a bitter reminder of the sudden drop in temperature. I step onto the snow covered streets, grateful that the moon illuminates them from above. My footsteps form a staccato rhythm, boots crunching noisily over the freshly lain blanket of snow. 

I watch my breath form icy clouds as I venture farther from home. My footsteps disappear quickly as I walk. The biting cold seeps through my coat and I pull it tighter against myself. I am a smudge of brown against a stark white canvas. I stick out against the landscape. I am as obvious against the snow as the colorful buildings of the village that surround me.

I walk past my home, past the little garden that had died out a month ago. I pass the stained white fence- paint chipped from all its years of use. My feet take me toward the library. It was my sanctuary once, not so long ago. But now- now I cannot stand to look at the pale blue building.

. . . . . . . .

My breath quickens to form short panicked gasps. My fingers, frozen and unyielding, clamber at my face. I touch my cheeks, my nose, my chin- looking for any and all evidence that proves that I am *here*. That I am *safe*. That I am *alive*. 

My head turns back toward the village houses, unbidden. They have transformed into barely visible specks scattered across the winter horizon. 

I am the only one brave enough to face the storm- or the only one stupid enough. 

I turn away from the village, and in doing so I turn away from the memories. I have to shut them out- have to keep walking- to keep moving. I can no longer afford to stand still. Not when my thoughts are rattling against my skull, crashing violently from one moment to the next. 

I can barely recognize the way the landscape shifts and changes as I continue blindly forward. I can focus only on putting one foot in front of the other. My thoughts are too loud to focus on anything else. I am pushed forward by instinct alone.

I keep walking.

When I’m far enough from the village that I lose sight of the lights shining through the windows of my neighbor’s houses I break off into a run. 

My heart pounds in sync with the sound of my boots crunching over the field of twinkling snow. The wind throws fat white flakes of snow into my eyes. The world around me blurs. I am half blind in the dark.

I keep running.

. . . . . . .

Moonlight flickers through the branches above me as I run deeper into the unknown. Branches snap underneath me as I go- harsh and loud against the silent night. I lurch forward, unsteady and unsure on this new terrain. I run with my arms held up over my head; branches slide and snap over my coat, some of them carving light scratches into my skin. 

I don't even know what I'm running from, but everything in me screams to move, to run as fast as I can. So I do. I keep running. 

I am exhausted. I keep running. 

. . . . . . . .

I am brought back into myself with the harsh sting of a branch hitting tender flesh. I reach up with one hand, cupping my frozen cheek with numb fingers. The sticky sweet scent of blood wafts through the air as I bring my hand away. 

My legs stutter, as I clumsily slow to a stop. The trees are so close together that I have lost sight of the moon. The forest here is dense- a tangled tapestry of trees and bushes and scattered foliage. Everything is messy and wild and so *unfamiliar*. It aches. 

My muffled heartbeats roar in my ears as I struggle to catch my breath. I fold myself in half as I desperately try to force my lungs to work. 

My mind returns to me slowly; my thoughts return to me all at once.

It occurs to me now, that I am standing in the middle of the woods, half frozen and utterly lost, that this was a bad idea. A terrible idea in fact. The realization that I have absolutely no idea where I am makes the air around me feel colder, or maybe I am only now realizing just *how* cold it is now that I have finally stopped moving.

But he is not here. He is not with me. 

*I am safe*.

. . . . . . . .

I twist desperately trying to find a landmark, anything that I can follow to take me home,  and am terrified to see that my footsteps have already disappeared underneath the falling snow. There is a field of nearly identical trees in every direction. I am cold and I am exhausted. I have nowhere to go. I don’t even know where I am. 

I think of my father and how he is doing on his journey- wonder if he is on his way home yet. Will he make it back early only to find that I am not there? Will he even realize that something is wrong- or will he even care? I think about my neighbors and how most of them probably won't realize that I've gone missing. I think about the library with its cozy alcoves and the occasional potted plant peeking through the shelves- a place of refuge turned into a grim reminder. 

My hands ball into fists as the memory twists. He has made so many things unbearable- turned so many cherished memories into something bitter and unpleasant. 

I barely register the way my palms ache as I dig my nails into the tender flesh- can barely feel the icy cold as it rises up to greet me. 

The icy shock of snow hitting my knees jolts me out of my thoughts, the bitter cold seeping through my skirts. I adjust myself, so that I can pull my knees to my chest. 

It's quite possibly the stupidest thing I could be doing right now, but I don't care. I'm cold. I'm angry. And I'm frightened. I have nowhere to go, no refuge from the weather. I'm lost and hopeless and quite possibly going to freeze to death- 

And I don’t care. 

I cry until my lungs collapse underneath the weight of the sound. I don’t know how long I sit like that for- knees clenched tightly to my chest, curled up onto the frozen earth. My neck aches when I move to look at the night sky above me.

I flinch as the cold air hits my face. Twin trails of tears under my eyes carve icy rivers into my cheeks and they fall, one by one, onto the snow-capped forest below. 

I watch as birds carve a frantic path through the air. I feel a surge of jealousy go through me when I realize that I’ll never be able to find my way through the forest as quickly as they have. I wonder if they can even see me from their vantage point in the trees or if the forest has swallowed me whole.

. . . . . . . .

Time has been moving in strange ways today. I can’t decide whether I’ve lost minutes or hours in the forest. 

My chest aches. My lungs feel like they are coated in ash. 

I can no longer feel my face. I’ve long since lost the feeling in my fingers and toes. 

I am pulled out of my thoughts by a flash of green light. The vibrant light stands out against the muted, ink-stained landscape around it. I have to force myself to look away from the shining light. It shimmers before fading out- shifting hues too quickly for me to name any particular one. 

It leaves a raven behind. 

The bird tilts its head left and right. It gazes at me slowly, like it’s assessing me. Two beady eyes focus on me- an eerily human gaze staring at me in the dark. It evaluates me for a tense moment before it throws its head back and screams. The sound pierces through the still quiet of the snowy evening and I can’t shake the thought that it sounds almost human. Perhaps I am closer to death than I thought.

The raven focuses one beady eye on me and launches itself in my direction. My eyes widen instinctively and I feel my muscles clench as I throw my arms in front of my head to protect myself. The raven screams again, puncturing the air a second time. The sound is too close. It rattles me to my core. 

The air is a cacophony of noise as the raven closes the distance between us. Its wings beat furiously against the air, and it pushes cool gusts of air towards me. Finally, it lands on the ground a few feet in front of me. Its head is tilted to one side and it’s watching me again.

I find myself leaning forward. I’m surprised to realize that its eyes are a deep, shadowy green. I push myself up onto my feet to look closer at the dark bird. Its feathers reflect the colors of the forest around it in the Moonlight. Green, and black, and brown colors shift on the surface of its feathery body. 

I do my best to stand up slowly. This bird is the closest thing I have to company and I don’t want to risk scaring it away. To my surprise, the raven doesn’t fly away. 

“You’re lucky.” I sigh and stretch the tension out of my arms and legs. I flex my fingers experimentally. I wish I had thought to grab gloves when I left the house earlier. 

“You get to fly wherever you want. Just like your friends did.” I look at the raven again, and even though I feel a bit silly for complaining to a bird I keep talking. 

I shift my weight into a crouch, being careful to keep my knees off the ground this time. The consequences of the cold feel more dangerous to me now that I realize just how vulnerable I am. I rest my elbows on my knees and lift my head to rest my chin in my hands. “I guess it doesn’t matter anyways.”

I am not a bird, and I cannot fly, and maybe I’m just a little bit delirious right now. What does it matter if a bird finds me a fool? A bird will not judge me by human standards, and even if it did- I will probably be dead soon anyway. 

And if this isn’t a bird? If it’s some figment of my imagination- what then? That would explain its odd coloring, and its strange demeanor. 

The bird flies at a slow enough pace that I can follow, even with my half frozen limbs. Its wings blend into the night air almost perfectly, and I have to squint to differentiate the raven from the trees around it. The muffled crunch of the snow underneath me is the only sound as we move onward. 

Perhaps I’m the one that’s truly strange- applying human emotions to a bird, but I swear it looks curious.

The bird tilts its head in the other direction and I swear that it is about to speak before it launches itself into the air. Perhaps the cold is affecting me more than I thought because I push myself off the ground in a flurry of flying limbs and tangled fabric in order to follow behind the raven. 

The trees gradually thin until they disappear altogether. In their place, a castle looms. 

The raven disappears into the night sky. The only hint that it was ever there in the first place is a muted flash of green light.

. . . . . . . .

Interested to read more? I recently posted the second chapter over on AO3.

The Beast of Asgard - Loki Laufeyson x original female character

[alias-b]

Loki and my OC "The Lady" by @zodrawsthings

[corawithfanfiction]

La Belle Et Le Belle I Prince!Tom Hliddleston

Poker Face (episode 1)

Prologue - Toxic (episode 2)

MY MASTERLIST! - EVENTS! - HOME!

This is an original story and may not be copied or translated into another language without permission!

warning: domestic manipulation, discrimination, deal, moving into the unknown, sister rivalry, monster.

summary: Lia volunteers to go to the Beast's castle to save her cousin's future. In fact, Lia's family does not want Zoe (Lia's cousin) to go.

On a November morning, when the intermediate winter had not yet set in, the sun was itching to come out. It was the first light of the morning, when the sky was painted in shades of red, resembling a small murder.

The crowd in the not very large living room was arguing heatedly. So much so that their voices carried out of the room. The young woman stood on the doorjamb listening to the discussion inside. Trying to control her nerves, she waited patiently and quietly. When the sounds from inside diminished, she thought the argument was over. He opened the door with great care to find out the final result. Thankful that the doors were freshly polished, he continued to listen to his family's conversation.

“You want us to leave Zoe in the middle of nowhere? That's not possible! She has a very bright future. She is a beautiful and charming young woman. She will save her life by making a good marriage. But not there, you know that, brother-in-law?” Even though he couldn't see his aunt when she finished, he knew she was rubbing her face with her hands. He couldn't stop the whole argument, but he could almost see where the conversation was going.

His aunt was sort of right. Her whole family had worked for her cousin Zoe for years. She fit the profile of the perfect daughter everyone wanted to have. That was why no one had objected. Not even Lia. What could she say, Zoe was in every way the “good” daughter a home should have. She was sympathetic, warm-blooded, coquettish but shy, good with her hands, good at sewing but not much else. By making a good marriage, she could raise her family's name and ensure a better standard of living for everyone. Both for her siblings and her cousins. Although Lia and Zoe were aunt's children, they lived in the same house and grew up like sisters. In fact, it might have been too much like that. Zoe was two years older than Lia, but outsiders often thought Lia was older. This was not because Lia had a more mature body, but because of her “tomboy” demeanor, as the townspeople called it.

After her aunt, she heard her father's voice. “This,” he took a deep breath, the man, now well past his fifties, sounded angry and tired at the same time. “What do we know about this prince?”

“He comes from a very old family, I think of French or English blood,” Zoe replied.

“Yes, he comes from such a noble family that no one has heard of him for so many years” the male cousin began to speak, his voice rising in pitch with each word. “We're talking about a monster, a MONSTER! And I'm not just saying that as a figure of speech, you've heard everyone say he really is a monster.”

As her family continued to argue, each voice was different. One after another, her mother and aunts agreed that it would be best for Zoe to marry a prince.

Her younger male cousins and siblings - the youngest one involved in this conversation was sixteen - raised their voices, saying over and over again that they did not understand why anyone in her family should marry this prince.

Finally, there was a thud. Lia's father had slammed his fist on the table. And it was not a metaphorical blow. The old man was so fed up with everyone's different voices that he slammed his fist on the small wooden coffee table in front of him to silence the whole hall. Even though Lia couldn't see it, she could tell by the sound that the coffee table was cracking and even one of its legs was moving.

“Enough!” Her father said, not shouting, but the harshness in his voice was clear. “I'm not too keen on Zoe going to that palace either. But I think you should realize that we have to,” he took a deep breath and continued. “This is not a game or I will choose a good marriage!” she continued as she turned her gaze to her male cousin, two years younger than Lia ”If you hadn't succumbed to your absurd curiosity of youth and masculinity we wouldn't be having this conversation right now! We are forcing your sister to make a pact with a monster because you have something to prove by entering that manor because you are a MAN,” he turned his gaze to his wife and sisters, ”This is not something we can go and brag about Zoe in this town! I don't want to talk like this in front of the children, but we have no choice. It's not a blank check! We don't have a choice! They've made it very clear that either we give our daughter Zoe to that monster or they're going to slaughter our whole family. And we don't even know if it's a human being saying that!” The man kept walking back and forth in anger.

One of his aunts started to say something about how they were so willing to throw away Zoe's entire future and how all these years of hard work were going to go to waste. Zoe is the one and only of the family, this shouldn't be her fate.

By the time she realized that the argument inside was not going to end, Lia had had enough. Throwing aside her calmness of all this time, she quickly opened the door and burst in, so to speak. This is exactly what was expected of her. To ignore the rules, to be expendable.

“I'll go,” she said without breaking her calm demeanor. With his entire family gawking at him, he rolled his eyes and continued.

“Didn't that monster prince want a girl from the family? Here I go, I volunteer. And Zoe can make the perfect marriage and save all your lives. Because that's my sister's whole life goal,” he continued with a disapproving look on Lia's face. “And what's the most that can happen, it'll be fun. Isn't it?”

“And who could love a monster?”

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[tookishcombeferre]

i look at you, in the looking back glass twelve - reading through mayo clinic articles analyzing symptoms, trying to find reasons, meaning, a lesson, or really just anything to make the torment make sense. parents know the answer, hold every key to this jötunn's true identity, yet choose to bury it beneath "normalcy." glamor, gloves, and masks only cover superficial cracks, and my power only grew, because in a world full of ugly ducklings, prize winning golden gooses, and sweet nightingales there is you - maleficent's raven, or are you poe's doomed to whisper "nevermore," ever more. i look at you, in the looking back glass sixteen - lost in wonderland seat belt on the roller coaster of life broken and bent as the world takes you for a ride flung this way and that way, clinging for dear life music your only tether to the world of your birth the words cycling in your mind a swirling vortex of an icy blast - do not fail, do not fall, make something of your life - do not fail your classes do not fall in love incorrectly make something of value out of your life. do it all on your own. i look at you, in the looking back glass twenty, nearly twenty-one - pacing the bridge lost in hysterics, and debating the worth of your life. weighing the scales of good and merit. against the mistakes and botched jobs you have done. heart beating frozen in your chest, and true love is so hard to come by. music plays softly and the birds you have said "good morning" to, each and every blessed day, come to rest in your path. tomorrow, you owe it to them to explain goodbye, but only for now. i look at you, in the looking back glass twenty-five - packing up your classroom for the very last time. you will miss those faces. but, your body will not miss the discordant sounds from the intercom, or the pacing. limitations have always been part of your vocabulary. or, at least, they should have been. weary. you are weary and you have aged three years for every one. so, you stand, clumsily on your feet one last time. pick up the box, saying goodbye to this chapter of your life. spotify recommends me my middle school favorites i hold them in my arms the way they should have been cradled. i hear the taylor swift anthem of 2012. i tether them back to reality and take the coffee away. i hear that marianas trench song that stayed my feet. i leave an extra treat for my unkindness and my murder, "hello again." i hear the song "all star" on the radio. i hold their hand and remind them they have saved the world. i stand on the other side of the looking back glass hearing all the names, seeing all the sights, riding each memory like an ocean wave, i wonder what you'd think of who you became: actor, singer, poet, parent, teacher, and friend. nine years feels like a blink, feet steady as you walk one foot after one foot roses still blooming and no longer wilting petal by petal. no longer counting the days 'till the curse will be permanent. look at you go. so many victories and you dare to call them simple. you have put color back in the sun, brought life back into stone, pulled yourself up out of your wreckage by trusting again. my dear, listen to me, we are a marvel. ~ "through the looking back glass:" the darker side of disney: part 1 P.S. Shuller ** Some personal reflections on writing this below the cut. TW: Suicidal Thoughts and Ideation **

I'm doing some reflections on turning 30. My birthday is coming up in January. I just went to my first Marianas Trench concert yesterday. I've been a Trencher since I was about 12 (2009ish). When I was at the concert, they played two songs from their older albums. (Masterpiece Theater for sure and I can't remember if the other song they played was also from that album or one of their other older albums.) I was lucky enough to have a friend who knew the venue well and got us ADA seating so I could stim while the concert was going on. I was able to have a whole little runway up in the balcony to dance like I used to as a young person. I remember listening to the song "Alibis" from "Fix Me" a trillion times (not literally) when I was in middle school. As I got older, "Ever After" and "Porcelain" became incredibly important songs to me. It was the song "Ever After," if memory serves, that stopped me from deciding to jump off a bridge while studying abroad. I don't think anyone knew how bad it was. But, we get through things, and I'm nine years on the other side of actively thinking of an attempt. I'm so fucking happy and proud. Yet, at the time, I had been absolutely certain my parents were going to disown me for coming out as nonbinary when I returned home. I was terrified of being homeless. I wasn't sure I was going to be able to get through school. But, I wasn't sure how I was going to get through life any other way than coming out. Yet, somehow, I managed to stay in the closet and keep living. There are still times where I feel like I wasn't brave enough to accept my fate, and I should have just come out anyway. But, kids, safety is SO FUCKING IMPORTANT. Stay safe first and don't be a martyr. Your feelings, like mine are valid, but know that making my choice is a valid one even if the feelings surrounding it get messy. Things are better now with my family. (As in my dad and I just don't broach the topic, and my mom is trying to get us to facilitate conversation but I've just given up. But, I'm at least "Still a part of the family Madrigal" so to speak.) However, as I was thinking about all of this now that I'm rested from the concert, I decided I wanted to write a series of reflections on life bridging my life from the two different sides of it. Side one is the musical side of it. I love rock music. I love opera. I love all sorts of crazy stuff. I've never met a genre of music I don't like. And, I have a history there. A lot of that, however, is darker and sadder. It's willing to acknowledge its mess and nuance. However, I also have a two year old. I'm watching a lot of Disney movies. I'm watching lots of stuff that has happy endings. But, there is a lot in there that is *sad!* There is a lot there that is dark. There is so much more than just the happy-happy, goodie-good, fun stuff. So, the old school emo and goth parent in me wants to explore that. I want to live into that reality that life is one of push and pulls. It's dark and light. It's not happily ever after. It's happily ever for now, and dark tomorrow. It's windy and rainy for twenty minutes and sunny skies forecasted in about an hour or two. I have a history, and I want the space to record the hard fought wisdom I've earned. I don't know if it will benefit anyone. But, I know it usually benefits me to write it. If you've read all of this, thank you. I'm just kind of in a pensive mood lately. So, thank you for bearing with me.

[freckled-words]

Her Beautiful Beast - Part One

This one has been in my head for YEARS, and I was originally planning to use it for my ‘SONGS STUCK IN HER HEAD’ series, but that muse has unfortunately faded off. Of all the versions of this song that could have hit my suggestion list, this one just had that perfect edge to tickle my writer’s funny bone.

Inspired from ‘Beauty and The Beast’ by Kurt Hugo Schneider & Chase Holfelder

I'll post this first part here, but I'm not sure if I'll post all of the chapters on here. But you can definitely find the rest HERE or with its corresponding number on the list (#18) pinned on my account page.

Summary:

Loki didn’t dream, he had nightmares. His fall through the void of space, and his time spent in Thanos’ clutches ensured it.

Desperate for a single night of rest he decides to visit the dream of the most normal person in residence. Except her dream isn’t normal, and more surprising, is that he’s starring in it.

TW: Flashbacks of torture, gory/graphic mutilation.

“...Little Prince…”

He lay upon a cold, metal table. The only source of warmth came from the blood that ran down his body, not yet dried upon his skin like the rest of it. He could see the jagged, white edges of his own bones protruding from his legs, portions of muscle and skin hanging from the edges. If he dared to turn his head, he would see the same from his arms.

He had no ability to scream, as his mouth had been filled with molten silver prior to the breaking of his bones.

“No more eloquent lies to sing for me Little Prince?” There was a glimpse of purple from the corner of his eye, a feather light touch against his throat, and then it began all over again.

~~~~***~~~~~~***~~~~

Loki gasped as he woke, and immediately began shivering from the cooled sweat on his skin and the phantom pain running throughout his body.

The AI built into the tower noted Loki’s state and slowly brightened the room, giving Loki’s eyes time to adjust and allow him to re-center his mind.

He was not with Thanos. He was on Midgard, in the tower built by Stark, in the bedroom they’d assigned to him.

Looking to the bedside clock Loki swallowed back a groan. It was 2am. He’d kept himself awake at least until 12:30, at which time he’d lost the fight against his fatigued mind and let himself sleep.

But like every night before, his mind was set on making him relive the worst moments of his life.

Other than the magically aided sleep he’d been put in back on Asgard, there had not been a single night since his failed invasion where he didn’t return to Thanos’ clutches. No matter how he searched, prodded, and experimented with his own magic on his mind, he couldn’t find a tether or connection linking him to the Titan’s pet psychic.

He’d been told that the scepter was the connection point for their psychic conversations, and without it in his hands, the distance across the galaxy was too far for The Other to reach.

‘Then why do I continue to suffer these particular memories?’

Exhausted as he was, Loki didn’t bother to try and return to sleep, not when it would just put him right back into those nightmares.

He showered and dressed, and went out to the kitchen.

Thankfully no one else was awake. There had been a few times he’d found one of the Avengers puttering about in the kitchen or dozing in the connected living room. The ones he knew to be afflicted by their own pasts merely grunted in acknowledgement. Those that couldn’t help themselves would try to pry into what was keeping him awake, only to be met with deflection or a counter question they were trying to avoid themselves. Each outcome had Loki returning to his room with his desired beverage.

It was much more to his needs to remain in the living room, away from the temptation of his bed and its false sense of security.

He made a large mug of coffee loaded with sugar and cream, and made himself only slightly comfortable in one of the recliners. With a wave of his hand a pile of books appeared on the coffee table. Some he’d brought from home, others he’d found among Stark’s ridiculous collection. Should any of the other residents in the tower glimpse the titles (that they could read) they would start asking him questions. Or in specific cases (Romanoff and Barton) become worried he was plotting something.

For what possible use did he have for the study of psychology and the study of the mind’s inner workings, if not to find a means of manipulating his way to freedom?

[folkoreluvr]

My princely beast | chapter one

Summary: Loki and thanos have almost successfully taken over the planet and have dispensed of the earths mightiest hero’s. In the action however, Loki brings Tony’s daughter to his grand estate in the countryside, addled with guilt for his actions as he begins to break free from Thanos’ mind control.

Pairing: Loki x stark!oc

Warnings: darkish!loki, mind control, captive?, blood, violence, gore, smut

A/n: after re-reading ACOTAR and watching beauty and the beast this little scenario popped right into my head and after days of day dreaming I decided I had to write it.

I stare out of the fogged up window of my bedroom in this strange estate, I suppose I should be more relived I haven’t been thrown into some sort of dungeon or cell. Then again, my captor decided to throw my father to the cells and keep me so maybe I should be more worried. I have spent three days here and am yet to come across my captor, I’d have hope he doesn’t live here if not for the group of servants potting around the place, each with a hanging fear over their heads.

I turn around at the sound of a knocking at my door. Helga, a maid, comes in and places a plate of cookies on the desk in my new cell.

“You should eat something.” She tells me, not a suggestion but more of a command. I shake my head, pulling my soft hand away from the cool window, wiping the wet condensation on my night gown. I have been left such strange clothes, some clearly modern but most what I can only assume is Asgardian. I haven’t worn any of them, only kept onto a silk nightgown that drops to the floor in a soft pink hue and my black crew neck with the words “stark industries” printed on its front in bold white words. I see now that’s it’s probably all that’s left of my family, my legacy. The great Starks, reduced to nothing at the hands of a cruel god. “He hasn’t poisoned it.” Helga stars again with a roll of her eyes. “He’s not been here to poison it and I doubt he would bother himself with such trivial matters if you seem intent on starving yourself anyway.” I grab for the pale cream cookie with anxiousness, watching Helgas face as I eat. I try my best to keep an ounce of dignity, but I haven’t eaten in nearly three days.

“Why am I here?” I ask as I finish the cookie, desperate to grab another and scoff that one but I’ll wait until she goes. Helga surveys me as I sit on the bed, my body pulled as far into itself as possible, hands clenched into fists. Fear. Im completely petrified of why he kept me and what he plans to do to me.

“I do not know.” She tells me, a bow in her head showing her honesty. Maybe that’s worse, if his intentions aren’t clear to his servants then maybe I should try and leave, run as fast as I can and hope to find someone out here in the depths of the countryside. “You are free to leave.” Helga tells me, as if she has read to mind. “He has said that much.” I only stare at her in confusion. He must be a terrible captor if I am free to leave. Helga leaves me at that and the second the door clicks closed I grab for the plate and groan at the taste of sweet sugar.

Afterwards, I look down at myself and see the dirt clinging to my nightgown and the messy nature of my hair and decide to shower, after all it’s very unlikely anything could happen to me in there. I walk into the vast bathroom, it’s an odd mix of old time decor and the newest technology. I fiddle with the knobs until I have it running smoothly and hot and turn around to lock the door. I pull off the jumper and fold it on the shelf but the nighgown I accept is a lost cause. When the hot water begins to cascade down my throat I all but groan, savouring the feeling of warmth and comfort. The shower is fully stocked with an array of luxurious products. I grab at the soap and scrub my body red and raw, desperately trying to remove the dirt from me but it clings to me. I slide down the soaked wall of the shower and sit on the floor, bringing my knees to my chest and for the first time in three days, since I lost everything, I cry. The pattering of hard water on stone drowns out the sound of my choked out sobs, as I heave and heave, searching for breath. After a few minutes I stand back up on shaking legs and scrub at my brown locks. I pull myself away from the warmth of the water and wrap towel around myself.

I step out of the bathroom to find the sheets of my, his bed have been changed and the plate of crumbs removed. Tugging the cotton towel closer, I survey the large chest of drawers, the top is filled with underwear, a lot from my own drawers back home and some of it new. Thick cotton socks are shoved into the corner and corset like bras are lined up in a multitude of colours. I pull out one of these corsets and a pair of my own underwear and toss them on the bed. The next draw is stacked full of nightgowns - again a mix of mine and new ones. The third draw is full of soft cotton shirts and leggings, along with thick knitted jumpers. The fourth draw is the most interesting however, I pull out stacks of thick leather, noting a deep cut vest that laces at the front and black trousers, ones that would no doubt cling to me like second skin. I shove the clothes back in the drawer and wander over to the dark oak wardrobe. All the furniture looks old, worn but the appliances, such as the large tv, new. It was as if the house had been left here abandoned and my captor had claimed it, that was easily possible.

I run my hands along the soft fabrics as I chose a dress. I land on a more earthly dress in a faded green colour and toss it to the bed too. Lined up at the bottom of the wardrobe is an assortment of shoes, red bottomed stilettos, country boots, leather boots that matched the other leather apparel my captor had left for me and an array of slip on shoes. I chose black ones with a small heel and dress myself. The dress falls to my ankles, billowing lightly around me, it cuts diagonally at my shoulders, showing my collarbone. The back laces up and I wrestle with the fabric as I tug them tight, allowing the dress to cling to the curves of my body. I slip on the shoes and sneak at my door, worried I’ll find someone outside it.

I pull open the heavy wood and find an unbreathing corridor. I keep my hands clenched into fists as I walk slowly down the hallway, my head anxiously darting from left to right like the god will attack me from the shadows. I turn at the end of the hallway and find the stairs to the foyer. I scale down them anxiously, watching the door with heavy breaths. I don’t see anyone else around the house, no cooks or cleaners but the house is in perfect condition and there is no way Helga could do it all herself. Magic most likely, dark dangerous magic belonging to a darker and much more dangerous man. I reach the bottom of the stairs and contemplate going for the door and running but I have no clue where I am, no coat or food and no weapon to defend myself. That’s what I should do, find something to defend myself with. I wander the hallways in search of a kitchen, hoping to steal a cutting knife, better than nothing. I find the kitchen at last but nearly grown as I find Helga in there, preparing a large chicken with numerous spices, I see bubbling pots on the stove full of vegetables and a tray of bread rolls waiting to be cooked. It can’t all be for me. Dread settles over me as I realise he’s coming to the house, to my prison. Helga looks up at me and says nothing, going back to her cooking, the knives are on the other side of the kitchen and if she is distracted she probably won’t notice me grabbing one for the rack. Attempting to be nonchalant, I walk around the kitchen Island and towards my weapons but before I can wrap my sweating palm around a blade Helga interrupts me.

“He keeps his weapons in the armoury, it’s in the right wing, the doors down and to your right.” I don’t turn around, or move or make a noise. I can’t help but question why she would tell me such things, what motive she might have. “There’s a chest full of throwing knives and daggers, ones with sheaths.” She tells me, not looking up from the potato she is currently peeling. “You’ll cut yourself on that knife if you keep it at your chest, the smartest place to keep a knife.” Trusting Helga seems stupid but she seems to have lied about nothing else and there is nothing malicious in her tone. I retreat from the kitchen without a word and stalk down the corridors, I takes me nearly an hour to find the armoury in the maze of a house and true to her word it is full of weapons. I find a chest and prop it open, fishing out a dagger, its handle is gold and carved with runes that match the ones on the leather sheath. A large emerald stone is placed at the hilt and I turn it over in my hands, feeling the heavy weight of the metal - most likely Asgardian. I shove it down my chest and stand up. He might he furious at me for taking from him, he might even kill me but I do not care, I do not have much to live for anymore.

With the dagger safely at my chest, I retreat and head back to my room but I stop when I hear voices coming from the kitchen, I hide around the corner, recognising the quick tone of Helga and the dark growl of my captor.

“She left her room?” He asks, Helga responds in a simple yes as she chops, the sound of the knife clattering though the room. “And what did she do?” He asks her. I still, the colour draining from my face, limbs shaking.

“Came in here in search of a knife.” Helga drones, entirely uninterested. I wait in heavy silence for a negative reaction from my captor but receive none, only an interested hum. “I told her she’d have better luck in the armoury and she left, almost likely to grab a better blade.” My captor muses himself with a huff of his breath and sighs. “Interesting…” he says. “Do relay my message to her.” He asks and then he’s stalking out of the room and I press myself as far into the wall as I can go. I thank whatever good is out there and he turns and storms down the hallway, not even noticing me.

Hours later, Helga stands at my doorway again. I put down a copy of “little women” I found on one of the shelves in the room and look up at her, wondering if it has anything to do with my captor and his conversation with her.

“The prince has invited you to dine with him.” Helga tells me, no emotion in her voice. My dark eyebrows furrow in confusion at his ‘invitation’. “He wishes to disgust a deal.” She informs me, I still remain frozen upon the bed. “If I were you I’d listen to what he has to say and if things were to go awry then… run like hell.” She tells me and then she is gone, shouting down the hall to be ready for eight. I glance at the clock and see it is in an hour.

After twenty minutes of consideration, I decide I will go. I keep on the dress I’m already wearing and ignore the makeup laid out for me on the vanity unit. My hair has now dried and I decided to plait it on a wreath around my head, keeping it up and out of my face, a practical hairstyle in case things go awry.

[azihearts]

Vocês já pararam para pensar que Thor 1 é uma adaptação de Bela e a fera?

O príncipe egoísta e egocêntrico recebe uma punição pelo seu comportamento, a fera a maldição e o thor o banimento e a perda dos poderes, conforme o filme passa eles conhecem uma mulher, mudam seu comportamento, aprendem uma lição de vida e os dois se tornam dignos, a fera de amor, assim retirando sua maldição, e o Thor de se tornar o rei e empunhar o martelo, assim recebendo seus poderes de volta e retirando seu banimento. ENFIM eu diria que é a melhor adaptação de bela e a fera.

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Beauty And The Beast - Chapter 5 - Loki Odinson X Female Reader

Title: If She Doesn't Eat With Me...

Loki Odinson X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Clint, Natasha, Mrs. Potts, Morgan, and Bucky (Mentioned)

Beauty And The Beast Retelling Fanfic

Chap 1 | Chap 2 | Chap 3 | Chap 4 | You Are Here | Chap 6 | Chap 7 | Chap 8 | Chap 9 | Chap 10 | Chap 11 | Chap 12 | Chap 13 | Chap 14 | Chap 15 | Chap 16 END |

WC: 1,297

Warnings: Imprisonment, rude Loki, italics, banter, teasing, nicknames, yelling, mentions of going without dinner/food, mentions of death/killing/murder (very brief), slight angst, and fluff?

Meanwhile, Clint and Natasha sat in the dining room with Mrs. Potts and her daughter, Morgan. The atmosphere in the castle was heavy, but Clint attempted to lighten it with some optimism.

“Your Highness, the table is set for you and our guest,” Clint spoke up, trying to maintain a calm tone.

The Beast’s head snapped up, his eyes flashing with confusion. “You’re making her dinner!?” He growled, completely bewildered. His voice echoed throughout the room.

Clint, caught off guard by the Beast’s reaction, scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “Well... We thought you might appreciate the company,” He reasoned, though his words stumbled out under the weight of the Beast’s intense gaze.

The Beast huffed, pacing back and forth. His large frame cast long shadows across the room as his agitation grew. Meanwhile, Natasha, standing by the fireplace with her arms crossed, sighed in frustration. She raised her hands, shaking her head as if trying to distance herself from the entire ordeal. “Your Highness, I just want to assure you...” Natasha began, shooting Clint a glare. “That I had no part in this hopeless plan. Preparing dinner, designing a gown for her, or giving her... A- A suite in the east wing! None of it.” She practically spat out the last part, clearly trying to prove her innocence.

The Beast whipped his head toward her, narrowing his eyes in disbelief. “You gave her a bedroom?” His voice was low, but filled with fire, the anger beneath the surface clear as he loomed over the two of them.

Natasha quickly pointed the finger toward Clint. “No, no, no. He gave her a bedroom.”

Clint raised his hands in surrender. “This is true,” He admitted. Then, attempting to redirect the Beast’s anger, he added, “But if this woman is the one who can break the spell... Then maybe you could start by using dinner to charm her.”

Natasha took a step closer to Clint and rolled her eyes, “Good thinking, Clint.” She couldn’t help but throw in a sarcastic punch to her friend’s shoulder, though her expression softened.

“What?” The Beast growled, baring his teeth slightly as his brow furrowed. “That’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard,” He scoffed, his sharp claws flexing with irritation.

Clint took a deep breath, his voice becoming more urgent. “But you must try, your Highness. With every passing day... We become less human.” He gestured to Natasha, Mrs. Potts, and even the young Morgan, trying to drive home the importance.

The Beast glared down at the floor, his fists clenching, the weight of the curse heavy on his heart. He shook his head, his voice growing harsh again. “She’s the friend of a common thief. What kind of person do you think that makes her? That thief friend of hers probably killed someone’s parents or something. I don’t know,” He grumbled, his voice thick with disdain.

Mrs. Potts rolled forward on her trolley, gently nudging Morgan behind her. “Oh, you can’t judge people by who their friends are, now can you?” She asserted, giving the Beast a knowing look.

The Beast let out a frustrated sigh, knowing there was truth behind her words, but he was still too agitated to admit it. He muttered something under his breath before turning on his heel and storming out of the room.

~~~

The Beast hesitated at the door to your room, his large paw hovering in the air. He took a deep breath, trying to muster up some semblance of composure. His furry knuckles rapped against the wood, startling you.

“You’ll join me for dinner. This is not a request,” The Beast ordered, his deep voice barely hiding his frustration.

From inside, you glared at the door, anger flaring in your chest. “You’ve taken me as your prisoner and now you want to have dinner with me? Are you insane?” Your voice was sharp.

Clint, listening in from a distance, leaned closer to Natasha and Mrs. Potts, whispering, “Uh-oh. She’s losing it.”

“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Potts whispered, worry lining her face.

The Beast clenched his jaw, his patience fraying. “I told you to join me for dinner,” He repeated, his tone darker, more demanding.

“And I told you ‘no’,” You shot back, turning away from the door and sitting down on the bed, your arms crossing. “I’d starve before I ever eat with you.”

The Beast let out a furious snarl, his body tensing. “Well, be my guest! Go ahead and starve!” He yelled back, spinning on his heel. He stormed past Clint, Natasha, and Mrs. Potts without sparing them a glance. “If she doesn’t eat with me... Then she doesn’t eat at all!” He spat, his voice echoing down the hall as he retreated.

~~~

A few moments later, a gentle tapping came at your door. You sighed, your heart heavy as you grumbled, “I told you to go away.”

The door creaked open, but instead of the Beast, it was a small trolley that entered, carrying Mrs. Potts, Morgan, Clint, and Natasha. “Don’t worry, dear, it’s only Mrs. Potts,” The older woman said with a kind smile. Her porcelain face seemed to gleam in the dim light as the trolley rolled to your bedside. Quickly, you hid the makeshift rope you’d been crafting from the sashes of the gown Madame Wanda made for you, but Mrs. Potts’ sharp eyes caught a glimpse. “Oh!” Mrs. Potts exclaimed softly, her tone compassionate. “Aren’t you a vision! How lovely to make your acquaintance,” She continued, pouring you a cup of tea as if she hadn’t noticed your escape plan. “It’s a very long journey. Let me fix you up before you go,” She added kindly, her warmth radiating through the room.

You hesitated before taking a sip, grateful for the small comfort. “I have found... That most troubles seem less troubling... After a cup of tea,” Mrs. Potts finished, her smile never fading.

Morgan, full of tea herself, waddled over to you. You couldn’t help but smile down at the small cup.

“Slowly now, Morgan,” Mrs. Potts said with a chuckle, trying to keep her daughter in line.

“Pleased to meet you,” Morgan greeted you, nearly spilling the tea in her excitement. “Wanna see me do a trick?”

You nodded, a small smile breaking through your hardened exterior. Morgan puffed up her cheeks and blew some bubbles, giggling with delight.

“Morgan!” Mrs. Potts gently scolded, though her eyes twinkled with affection. The room grew quieter, and Mrs. Potts sighed, her expression softening. “That was a very brave thing you did for your friend, dearie,” she said, pouring you another cup.

“Yeah,” Clint chimed in, folding his arms with a proud look on his face. “We all think so.”

“I’m worried about him,” You confessed, looking down at Morgan in your hands. “He’s never been on his own. Well... He has, but we’re a team. He has Steve, but I’m the brains. When those two get together, madness erupts.” You let out a small laugh, albeit sadly. “I miss him. And I miss Steve.”

Mrs. Potts nodded sympathetically. “Cheer up, my girl. Things will turn out in the end. You’ll feel a lot better... After dinner.”

You grimaced, mimicking the Beast’s harsh tone. “‘If she doesn’t eat with me, then she doesn’t eat at all,’” You mocked, doing air quotes with your fingers.

“Mmm, people say a lot of things in anger,” Mrs. Potts replied with a knowing smile. “It is our choice whether or not to listen.” She and Morgan hopped back onto the small trolley as Mrs. Potts gave you one last encouraging smile. “You coming, my dear?”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, clearly worried. “If the your Highness finds out you violated his orders and fed her, he will blame me!” She said, exasperated.

~~~

@meganlpie @lokixryss @violethaze @johnmurphys-sass @greep215 @giona45-5 @wolfsmom1

Let me know if you would like to be tagged!

~~~

Main Masterlist | Marvel Masterlist

[teacupfullofstars]

My presents from my family and friends!

[mystically-michaela]

[ariainstars]

What Makes a Story Satisfying?

This is of course only my own point of view, but it’s an idea that came to me recently. Like: why are some stories so satisfying that we love to read, hear or watch them over and over, and others aren’t?

A good, if not perfect way to make a story satisfying is a plot twist. In order to work, it must fulfil these prerequisites:

happen towards the end of the story

be wholly surprising, even better if “magical” (supernatural)

be connected with love / affection

lead to happiness / fulfilment

Good examples

In Beauty and the Beast, the magical moment takes place because Belle is wholly unaware of the nature of the spell that is being lifted. She is stunned and in awe when everything changes, and so are we.

In Snow White, the dwarfs and the prince do not know that the heroine is not dead but under a spell. Much of the happiness of the finale comes from the fact that her reawakening is a total, wondrous surprise for everybody involved.

In Cinderella, nobody was expecting that the heroine would have the second glass slipper at hand which would identify her as the right girl.

In The Little Mermaid, we do not expect that Ariel’s father will relent at last, much less that he has the power to give her a human form.

In Moon Knight, in Episode 4 Marc finds his alter ego Steven, and despite their earlier bickering they form a strong bond and, in the last two episodes, resolve Marc’s internal trauma together.

In the first classic Star Wars film, Han Solo comes back at the last moment to save his friend Luke. In The Empire Strikes Back, Leia can feel where Luke is so that they can rescue him. In Return of the Jedi, Darth Vader unexpectedly chooses to save his son in the end at the cost of his own life.

In The Last Jedi, Kylo / Ben kills Snoke in the throne room scene instead of Rey. This leads to a dramatic scene in which both young people fight the Imperial Guards together, effectively showing that together, Light Side and Dark Side are invincible.

The first season of The Mandalorian ends with the redemption of Greef Karga, the shady leader of the bounty hunter’s guild, after the mysterious child has healed his deadly wound with the aid of the Force.

The Book of Boba Fett ends with Mando’s unexpected rescue through Grogu, who stops the rancor’s aggression by influencing his mind through the Force.

I am also a huge fan of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, among other things because its episodes kept surprising the viewer with unexpected, often sudden plot turns. Other Star Trek shows are much more predictable, which is why I usually can’t enjoy them.

The Netflix show Sex Education has some surprising developments and some satisfying ones, but I can’t think of a single one that is both.

The novel (and musical) The Phantom of the Opera ends with the bad guy / protagonist unexpectedly having compassion with the heroine and letting her go after she showed compassion to him in the first place, something he had never known before.

Bad examples

The awakening of Sleeping Beauty is not a surprise for the characters, again leaving the story without the surprise effect.

One of the reasons why I am not a big fan of the Star Wars prequel trilogy is its lack of surprises.

In The Phantom Menace we learn that the handmaiden Padmé is in truth the Queen Amidala of Naboo, but this is not a supernatural turn of events. Qui Gon is killed by Maul, without an explanation except for what we can make of it: young Anakin will be trained by the less experienced and mature Obi-Wan. This is never said anywhere however.

Attack of the Clones and Revenge of the Sith (although I find the latter a small masterpiece) also do not offer real surprises. As fans of the saga, we knew what would happen - Anakin would sire children, then turn to the Dark Side and Palpatine would take over the power over the galaxy.

Rogue One also does not offer any development or plot turn which we would not have already known or expected, and the end is depressing.

In The Clone Wars, the only unexpected development is Ahsoka leaving the Jedi temple; which is only sad and further emphasizes the moral decline of the Jedi Order.

In Ahsoka, Sabine does manage to master the Force in the end, but it leads to an open end.

Ben Solo’s ultimate redemption in The Rise of Skywalker, the only positive aspect to this atrocious movie, is not a plot twist. It happens step by step, not suddenly, and all except but the most dense of viewers already knew or highly suspected that it would happen.

In the tv show Obi-Wan Kenobi, we have Reva’s final decision to not hurt Luke after all: but since this comes out of nowhere, it falls flat.

The Mandalorian season 2 leaves a bitter aftertaste: Luke coming to Mando’s and his friend’s rescue is cool to look at, but it leads to the worst end possible - he separates Mando from Grogu, when the show made it clear from the very first episodes that these two belong together.

And now we come to the really boring part.

The Star Wars sequels, Loki, The Bad Batch, Ahsoka… all these stories offer no twist and no resolution. They introduce characters which we get attached to, and then don’t seem to know how to finish their arc.

Which leads me, in turn, to interpret why most of the latest Disney Star Wars stories suck.

They lead to no end.

There may be some surprise here and there, but it doesn’t have that twist that leaves you with that “Wow” feeling. The heroes are not saved by magic and love and they don’t find fulfilment. All these stories want is for us to continue watching, hoping that some further development will finally give the characters we have grown to love closure.

The problem is that - we don’t live forever, dear Disney studios. Neither do you.

[corawithfanfiction]

La Belle Et Le Belle I Prince!Tom Hliddleston

MY MASTERLIST! - EVENTS! - HOME!

This is an original story and may not be copied or translated into another language without permission!

Summary: Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a prince who lived in a glittering castle. Although the prince had everything he wanted, he was spoiled, selfish and cruel. But then, one winter night, an old beggar woman came to the castle and offered the Prince a single rose in exchange for shelter in the freezing cold. Not liking her appearance, the Prince turned his nose up at the gift and refused to let the old woman into the castle. But the old woman warned him not to be deceived by appearances. Because beauty is not in appearance but inward, she said. When the prince refused again, the old woman's ugliness disappeared in an instant. And a very beautiful girl appeared. The prince tried to apologize, but in vain. Because she realized that he had no love in his heart. And as punishment, she turned him into a horrible, ugly monster. She cast a powerful spell on the castle and its inhabitants. The monster, ashamed of his horrible and ugly appearance, got away from everyone and shut himself inside the castle. His only connection to the outside world was a magic mirror. The rose she gave him was actually a magic rose and would stay fresh until he was twenty-one years old. Until the last petal fell off, if he fell in love with a girl and she fell in love with him, the spell would be broken. Otherwise, he would remain an ugly monster for the rest of his life.

As the years passed, the Prince gradually lost all hope.

Because who would want to love an ugly monster?

🥇Summer Stories 2021 WINNER 🥇 for WattPad

❊ Prologue

❊ Poker Face (Episode 1)

❊ Toxic (Episode 2)

❊ Edge of Seventeen (Episode 3)

❊ Take Me To The Church (Episode 4)

❊ Bad Romance (Episode 5)

❊ Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High (Episode 6)

❊ Dangerous Woman (Episode 7)

❊ Circus (Episode 8)

❊ Diamonds (Final Episode) (Episode 9)

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