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autisticlancemcclain · 7 months

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“Just – don’t do it, Lance. I don’t want you to end up in the west wing, or things are going to get bad in here.”

If Lance is being entirely honest, he has no desire to deviate from Hunk’s directions. At least he didn’t. If Hunk hadn’t said anything, it probably wouldn’t have even occurred to Lance to go to the west wing anyway. This is the second time he has been warned away from the west wing, now. If Lance was curious before, he’s burning with it now.

But Hunk is his friend, and he’s doing him a favour, so he bites his tongue and nods his head and walks down the way Hunk instructed him too. It helps that he’s ravenous, and is more focused on food than anything.

But he won’t lie and say that he doesn’t have to force himself away from dark hallways and beckoning shadows.

———

“Oh, Lance, hello!” Colleen greets him enthusiastically when he walks in the door. Lance wiggles his fingers at her in a small wave. “I’m glad you came out, dear. I was worried.”

“Got hungry.”

“Of course, of course. Sal, heat up the food, will you?”

The giant wood burning stove in the corner of the kitchen chugs to life, vent forming an enthusiastic grin. The sound of frying meat and salted potatoes fill the air, making Lance’s mouth water.

The kitchen is quiet at this time of night; warm. It makes him think of his Abuela, on the many nights when neither of them could sleep, guiding his hands as he kneaded dough, sliced meat, prepared vegetables. Things he can do easily, now, without thinking, in a way he has never been able to do with a plow or bailer. Things that form callouses on the tips of his fingers rather than the pad of his palm.

He shakes his head, shoving the thoughts in the back of his mind. It doesn’t matter, now. The food is warm and smells heavenly, and more importantly, there’s no screaming fiancé to reckon with.

He scarfs back the food so quickly his stomach aches, forgetting to be self conscious. Colleen’s laughter is only teasing, after all, and there is no one else to see it. He smiles sheepishly at her and wishes her goodnight as he finishes his third plate, watching her hop off to a cabinet.

Slowly the lights in the kitchen fade as candles burn low and the embers of the oven start to die out, shadows shifting on the cluttered walls and full shelves. Lance picks up one of the newer candles before the kitchen goes completely dark, placing it gently in a (non-animated, thankfully) teacup to guide him down the corridors. He remembers Hunk’s instructions, pausing for a moment to flip them in his head so he won’t get lost in the wide, dark hallways – left, left, right; now left, right, right. Stick to the path.

He walks out of the kitchen, closing the heavy door gently so as to not wake anyone. He takes his time, not quite comfortable in the dark but not quite afraid, either; his shoes, worn and thin, provide a light enough cover that he can almost feel the smooth marble floors on the soles of his feet, and his free hand traces along the wall as he walks, feeling the rough bricks and occasional soft tapestries. He keeps his candle close to his face, both to help him see and to try and soak up some of the tiny flame’s warmth. His cloak is back in the servant’s quarters – his room – and the castle is warmer than outside but barely.

His fingers brush over a soft tapestry, threads so thin and tightly woven he can barely feel the difference between them, and then brick again, and then air. He pauses, holding his candle a little further from his eyes and squinting to make out what’s in front of him.

Difficult to see in the low candlelight, a massive stained glass window towers in front of him. The colours are too dark to make out, but when he places the candle at the base of the window and steps back, he can see the vague shapes of a young man, tall and regal and dark-haired, holding a sword and standing in front of a castle. Below him are panels of farmland and forest, and beside him are orchards, vills, estates. Above him, to the right, is a shining sun. To the left, a crescent moon.

Left, right, right. Don’t veer off the path.

Lance bites his lip, and follows the path of the moon.

The corridor, somehow, seems colder. As if the bricks are further away from the sun, no longer leaching the warmth collected as it was shining. The darkness seems blacker, too; heavier almost, and soon his candle burns down to the base, extinguishing, leaving him to stumble forward completely blind. He reaches out to steady himself, to trace the wall to stay on track, and has to choke back a scream when he feels a face instead of a wall, sharp teeth digging into the flesh of his palm, snarling and furious. It takes him several minutes to calm his racing heart, work up the courage to reach forward, again, touch the face, map curve of the stone jaw, curling horns, and twisted, scowling mouth. A gargoyle, although Lance has never heard of one inside before.

“Rich people are so goddamn weird,” he mutters to himself.

Shaken but determined, he moves forward.

As he creeps forward, more and more carvings dot the walls, each one angrier and angrier. At one point he has to pull his hand away, continuing forward on his legs alone, because he fears cutting himself on teeth that only appear to get sharper, brick that only seems to get rougher. He keeps his arms extended, moving forward slowly, cautious of what might be in front of him, too scared to stumble.

Eventually, his knuckles hit a door, the sound of the slight impact bouncing off the walls and echoing down the hallway. He flattens his hands against the grainy wood, mapping out the knots, the iron studs and hinges. He’s surprised to feel the lock pulled free. He wraps his fingers around the door handles and tugs, pulling the door open with a groan.

Moonlight spills into the hallway. It’s silvery and faint, but it’s enough that Lance can see the outline of his hands, even vaguely in front of him. He pushes the door open further, wincing at the slight creak, just wide enough for him to slip in.

The room is…huge. And destroyed.

Inside, it’s even easier for the moonlight to lift some of the oppressive shadow. It’s not bright by any means, but the window that makes up the back wall is massive and clear, and the doors are wide open, letting the full moon spill into the crowded, dusty room. Lance steps cautiously forward, hands still extended, looking around with wide eyes.

Broken furniture litters the floor, leaving splinters and shards of metal everywhere, casting long shadows on the wall. Lance is careful to step around it, but in his attempt to steer clear he very nearly walks into one of the many torn drapes and tapestries hanging from the walls and ceiling. He ducks at the last second, avoiding a facefull of it, but he still nudges it with his shoulder, causing a cloud of dust to fall to the floor, powdering his face and hair.

“Aw, that’s fucking disgusting,” he says, swiping it off his face and resisting the urge to throw up. He shakes out his hair, hyperconscious of how little it actually does, hoping that there is some kind of well he can find on the grounds in the morning to bathe. Or, God, maybe even a real bath! With hot water! It’s a castle, after all. There should be.

He looks again at the state of the room, with the shattered glass all over the wall and holes punched into the plaster walls. Paint is peeled or scratched off in many areas, especially where decorative fabric has been torn, or where coat racks or lampposts have fallen, scratching the walls on their way down. On second thought, hot water baths seem too nice for this shithole.

A glint catches his eye, and he lifts his head just to find himself face to face with his own fragmented reflection, startled expression mirrored back to him, brown eyes wide and eyebrows creased. Half the glass is missing, and the rest of it is spiderwebbed, in shards. The ornate carvings of the mirror’s frame have been half-crushed, like the whole giant, floor-length thing was picked up and smashed on the floor.

Sufficiently spooked, with his abuela’s warnings of bad luck ringing in his ears, he starts to turn away, unsure if he can be cursed if he didn’t break the damn thing but unwilling to take his chances. He's in a rough enough situation. He can’t really afford to make it worse. But as he moves forward, he catches sight of another face reflected out of the corner of his eye, and whips around to face it, hand curled protectively over his heart.

“Oh,” he breathes, air knocked out of him, transfixed on the portrait across from him.

It’s painting, or at least, it was. Like everything else in the room it’s been destroyed, half the man’s face shredded cleanly away. Left only is the shining thickness of his dark hair, the length of his pale neck, and the perplexing, swirling indigo of his eyes. He looks hauntingly familiar, in the way a name on a tombstone brings on a shudder of vague recollection, a chill down one’s spine.

Wary and curious, Lance slowly reaches forward, pinching the corner of the ripped flap of canvas with his thumb and pointer finger, cognizant of the accumulated grime, and hesitant for a reason he doesn’t understand. Slowly he begins to flip the canvas up, running his pinkies along the rejoining seams, too dark to make out the rest of the painting quite yet but noting the strong chin, sharp jawline, regal set of the shoulders –

A red light pulses, suddenly, nearly blinding the room, and Lance’s eyes squeeze shut on reflex, hands dropping to his sides. He turns slowly once it has faded, heart pounding, and sees to his great shock a flower, encased in glass, floating atop a small table, glowing as brightly as a ruby.

As if in a trance, he walks towards it, tripping over a table but quickly righting himself, eyes glued to the flower; noting the way it seems to rotate, almost too slowly to track, and sparkle like freshly fallen snow in early sunlight. He stops when he gets close, admiring it in almost a single-minded focus; the deep, dark green of the stem, the sharp thorns in great number along it, and the softly glowing pinkish-red of the three triangular petals. Lance has seen nothing like it before, not in his sister’s garden, not sold in the town square, not even wild. The flower is enchanting, and Lance is reaching out before he can stop himself, pressing careful hands to the glass and lifting it quickly, setting it on the floor and standing again as fast as he can manage, unwilling to take his eyes off the flower for even a second.

He’s nervous, now, as the flower lays without barrier, brighter and softer alike in the cool air and silver moonlight. His reach to touch it is slow, almost as if he must caress the air around it first, single finger poised to rest gently on the widest petal.

A shadow suddenly dwarfs him. He rips back his hand at light speed, but it’s too late, and Prince Keith snarls at him, teeth bared and mouth twisted and far more horrifying than any gargoyle.

He says nothing for a moment. Condensation huffs out of him in a cloud in the cold night, enveloping his head like a halo of smoke. In the next second he’s leaping forward and Lance doesn’t have time to move, doesn’t even have time to pray, can only let out a strangle shout and sharp inhale.

But Keith does not claw him to death, or sink his teeth into Lance’s heart. He only slams the glass case back over the flower, wrapping himself around it almost protectively, mouth still twisted and eyes still angry and cold.

“Why did you come here,” he hisses, stalking towards him, matching every step Lance takes backward. His claws scratch on the floor with every step.

Lance says nothing.

“What about this place seemed inviting to you?” Keith’s voice is low, carefully controlled. With every word Lance’s heart lurches, and with every step his lungs get tighter and tighter. “What about the darkness and closed door made you feel you had the right to enter?”

There’s no overt animosity to his tone, no animation. His voice is flat; deadly. This is not some kind of banter; there is no upper hand for Lance to gain. This conversation doesn’t need him at all.

This is a cornering. A final toying with a trapped animal.

“It’s only a flower,” Lance manages, and the words are barely out of his mouth before Keith roars, a hundred times louder than before, shaking the very ground with the force of it. There is nothing human or humane about it.

“Do you realise what you could have done?!” he shouts, so mounstrous it reverberates in Lance’s bones. He slashes wildly, splitting an already broken chair in two, flinging the halves at the wall.

Lance presses himself against the wall, as far away from him as he can manage, breath coming in short pants. “I didn’t mean –”

“Get out!” Keith booms, and Lance doesn’t waste a second.

He turns around, and he flees.

— — —

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actualbampot · 3 months

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Step into the light

#Today we're forgetting that she's meant to have 4 horns #Cinder Fall #BATB AU #floaty smoky hair supremacy #art by bampot #rwby #rwby au #rwby fanart

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mistyfoxxy · 4 months

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@tirednapentity @rainbowangel110 @secretly-of-course @marcholasmoth @probablyhuntersmom doodlesssss

#huntlow #the owl house #my stuff #sketches #willow park #batb au #harpy hunter #dragon oc #hunter x willow #hunter noceda #hunter toh

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magicclownjuice · 5 months

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OHH MY GOD HE'S BACK

#fnaf sb #fnaf security breach #fanart #fnaf #the daycare attendant #dca #fnaf eclipse #eclipse fnaf #eclipse #beast!eclipse #beauty and the beast #batb x fnaf sb #batb au #dca fandom #dca fanart

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intothewestwing · 3 months

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beauty and the beast // au where belle’s love reversed the spell- but only before gaston stabs the prince

#beauty and the beast #beauty and the beast retelling #beautyandthebeast #beauty and the beast au #batb au #batb disney #beauty and the beast 1991 #disney fanart #blood tw

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lordoftherazzles · 11 months

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“Beauty is not skin deep, Thorin. It’s what’s on the inside that counts.” Though the outside was just as desirable, and a little exotic, anyway. - Dragonhearted, Chapter 12

#baggishield fic #fic rec #in honor of this weekend's coming update...#bagginshield #the hobbit #thilbo #thorin oakenshield #bilbo baggins #batb au #beauty and the beast au #dragonhearted my beloved #fic: dragonhearted #artwork: dragonhearted #razzyedits #myedits

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fanfictionsrookie · 2 months

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Ruby awoke to the stark white of a frozen window and the snow beyond. The frost peaking from behind a partly opened curtain, reached through the air to caress the skin uncovered by a tangled and haphazardly strewn blanket. The morning chill, kept at bay by the strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling the Huntress tight against the mass of muscle, tussled hair and fur which was an eternal beacon of unnatural, but sought after warmth.

The in- and exhale which soaked such warmth in her chest was nestled in the back of Ruby's neck, where the Beast was hiding from the stream of light. Ruby turned around to catch a glimpse of Cinder's face, chuckling when she was met with a defiant groan which worked her way tighter against the Huntress' back.

"Good morning."

Ruby drawled, voice rough from misuse, but as much so as the rumble from the Beast's chest. It was as much as an acknowledgement Ruby was going to get, but still she continued to coax.

"We should start getting up soon. Emerald has started making breakfast I'm sure."

As if to convince the other, Ruby's stomach grumbled. Only to be met with a low whine to which Ruby couldn't help to snicker at. Shuffling the rest of the blankets to turn around and nudge a single amber eye to look up at her from out the shade. Basking in the moments of silence, Ruby combed her fingers through dark and wispy hair and meeting Cinder's gaze, dilating with recognition and attention as she woke.

"Sleep well?"

A purr of content rumbled against Ruby's chest and Cinder's eyes closed with a sharp-toothed smile working it's way on her gave as her tail snaked around Ruby's hip. The Huntress could only smile in turn, knowing that getting the Beast untangled and out of bed would be nothing short of a battle.

But why the haste?

Ruby could do with a few more minutes...

#rwby #cinder fall #ruby rose #cinderruby #fallen petals #batb au #beast!cinder #rookie art #and a lil drabble!

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demetera-kaziaik · 11 months

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Oh he’s more than happy to break Robbie’s curse too, believe me

#sportarobbie #sportacus #robbie rotten #lazytown #lazytown fanart #batb au

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tinyfantasminha · 9 months

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Girl I'm ON THE FLOOR CRYING AND THROWING UP, LOOK AT THIS PHENOMENAL COMMISSION I GOT FROM MY BESTIE @nicoliharu 😭😭💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗

ITS SO BEAUTIFUL I CAN'T STOP LOOKING AT IT UGGGNHHNNN

PLEASE GO SUPPORT AND FOLLOW MY HOMIE @nicoliharu RIGHT NOW HER DRAWINGS ARE AMAZING

#twisted wonderland #jack howl #jack howl x oc #twst oc #twstvic #batb au #others art #BEAUTY AND THE BEASTT AU TO FEED MY SILLY LITTLE BRAIN SOME SEROTONIN OUUUGHHNHHHNH #❤❤❤❤💗💗💗💗💗💓💖💖💖

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autisticlancemcclain · 10 months

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(prev chapter)

“You’re a – an actual –” Lance stammers.

Prince Keith growls, low in his throat.

“A beast.”

— — —

The Beast is bent so close that Lance feels the heat of every exhale flutter along the back of his neck, hears the silent whoosh of it rush through his ears. It makes his hairs stand on end. He circles Lance, slowly, clawed feet silent on the marble floors, yellow eyes scanning him up and down, analyzing him. Lance feels as if he is a tiny deer, separated from the rest of the herd, circled and scrutinized by a giant, hungry wolf. His heart pounds. His mouth is dry. Fear lights up every nerve in his body, forcing him on high alert.

He is in danger. Real danger, possibly, because the Prince is a beast, not simply beast-ly.

As suddenly as before, the rippling fury boils up in his belly, ramping up his heartbeat for a different reason, clearing his vision, setting his jaw.

He has come here, to this stupid fucking castle on results of a lottery ordered by decree, he has travelled days on horseback in stony silence with his brother through the predator-heavy forest, he is the only person putting himself out right now. He is the only person ripped from his home.

And Prince Loser over here has the audacity to be a dick?

“You’re an actual asshole,” Lance snaps, finishing his earlier sentence. Vaguely, behind him, he hears a muttered “Stars a-fucking-bove”, but he is too busy relishing in the blatant shock on the Prince’s face to give much of a shit. “Yeah, bet your prince-y prance-y ass hasn’t heard that one before, huh? Too busy huffing and puffing around this stupid place?” He jabs his finger in the Beast’s chest, all fear completely gone, riding the high of being the one who has the upper hand in the situation, against a prince. “And speaking of this stupid place! Clean up every fucking once in a while, will you? You have hands, do you fucking not? Pick up a broom! Fucksake! The dust here is so thick I can hardly see through it, and I’m meant to live here! It’s nasty! And maybe have one of your servants — holy shit, you’re such a douchebag, who has servants — put some fucking hay in the stables! Maybe your rich person horses can fucntion on…fucking…unicorn dick and gold flake crack, or whatever, but my horse needs fucking hay! Fuck!”

His chest heaves as he gulps in as much breath as he can, slightly lightheaded, glaring bloody murder at the Beast. “Oh, and another thing —”

“Do you have any who I am?” The Beast interrupts. His voice is barely above a whisper, deeper than before, carefully controlled. Dangerous.

Lance screws up his face. “A be-east,” he mocks, rolling his eyes. He hears rapidly cut-off, shocked laughter, poorly disguised as a coughing fit. It bolsters Lance greatly, and he smirks. “I can fucking see that, Prince Charming. I thought the nickname referred to the attitude and temper, but obviously not.”

The Beast snarls. “You are going to be the worst one yet. I cannot wait for you to go running.”

“Well, you can fucking get used to me now, shitbrain. I’m going nowhere. Pucker the fuck up, because we are getting married, and you are going to live with it, even though I cannot fucking stand you.”

The Beast scoffs, taking a step backwards. Some of the animalistic fury has faded from his posture, and his expression appears human-like in its huffy stubbornness. It’s the same expression Lance has seen every single time he went to school and someone was forced to partner with him at a desk. “Marriage. You are my last choice for that, that’s for certain.”

Lance rears back as if hit. His breathing picks back up, slightly, and his hands begin to shake.

He has no right to feel the pierce to his heart as deeply as he does. He has started the vitriol, after all. The Prince is being no crueller than he is. In fact there is objectively no cruelty to his sentence at all — of course Lance isn’t his first choice. He has had dozens of engagements before Lance. Hundreds, even. Lance isn’t even sure how many engagements he’s really had, as he’s had then as long as Lance can remember. Lance is not his first choice; not even his second or third and ninth or twentieth or two hundredth. Lance would never have even crossed his royal mind, in terms of a romantic partner.

But to be the last choice? That is explicit. That is a choice in itself. That is there are countless people on Earth, some vile some evil some irredeemable, and still they are a better choice than you. That is you are everything I despise just by virtue of who you are. That is you are my worst possible nightmare.

To be the last choice is to be so unthinkable that your inferiority is marked. To be the last choice, again and again, everywhere you go, is to be simply inferior. The worst option. The opposite of a hail mary.

Lance is always the last choice. The only time he has ever been chosen first was when he was chosen to leave.

Something in his face must give him away, because a kind of shuttered look clouds Keith expression, like he realizes he’s gone too far. Lance hates it, more than he hates the Prince himself, because he doesn’t know him, no one does, no one chooses to know the worst option, and it stings terribly and it’s worse that a stranger can burn him so badly. It’s worse that this prince, who for all intents and purposes is no one to Lance, can dig so deeply into him.

“Hey,” the Beast says, an awkward tone to his voice, “I didn’t mean —”

“Save it,” Lance chokes out, and flees. He runs randomly in the vague direction Adam and Shiro had been guiding him into before everything went to shit, ignoring their cries for him to wait, praying that no one follows. As he turns down hallways and ducks through corridors the sounds of their voices fade to nothing, and eventually he slows, chest heaving, hiccuping, face wet with tears.

Mortified that someone may see him, human or not, he opens the nearest door, barely checking to see if it’s a bedroom before collapsing on the small, rickety bed, twisting the worn quilt in his hands, and truly begins to sob. He lets out loud, wailing cries, louder than he’s ever been in his life, even when he’d run out into the woods and climb the tallest tree he could. They tear themselves out of him, the sobs, and leave him shaking in their wake, the pain of being the only one left waiting, this pain he’s carried locked up inside him since he was born, too late, too early, too nothing to be noticed. He lets the snot and tears run down his face and into the pillow and forgets for a moment to watch for a red nose and swollen eyes. He has no home to return to. There are no other people, really, in this castle to see him. His husband-to-be couldn’t care less if he flayed himself open and bled out on the marble entryway. He can let himself break, here, and not worry about keeping the pieces held closely together, because no one wanted him when he was whole, anyway.

“That’s it, honey. You let it out.”

Lance screams.

A voice screams back.

Lance screams louder. He screams until his voice cracks, actually, wrenching himself up from the mattress and scrambling backwards until his back presses to the wall, frantically sweeping the room to see who had spoken.

“Who the fuck is in here?!” he shouts, fist half-extended in front of him like it will do anything. There’s nothing in this tiny-ass room except the bed he’s sitting on an a faded yellow wardrobe.

“Yeah! Show yourself, intruder!”

“No! No intruder!” Lance turns wide eyes to face the wardrobe, which just moved. “It’s you!”

Oh, fuck this stupid weirdo castle.

“Well, of course it’s me,” says the wardrobe incredulously. “But what was all the screaming about?”

Lance stares at it. Him. Them. He’s not sure yet. He blinks rapidly, as if he can communicate the fried mush of thoughts in his brain into the sturdy wood. It, as expected, fails to work.

“I forgot,” he says slowly, “that non-living things are living, in this godforsaken place.”

The wardrobe hums. “Ah, that would do it.” It inclines the decorative carving on the top of it, which Lance can now see is a face, in his direction, smiling wryly. “Sorry for freaking you out, man. I’m Hunk. I’d shake your hand, but I don’t have arms.”

Lance smiles slightly, sniffling. “Hi, Hunk. I’m Lance.”

“It’s good to meet you, Lance.” He rocks side to side slightly. “So, uh, why are you here? Not that I’m not happy, or anything! Man, no one’s been to the servant’s quarters in ages, on account of no one needing them anymore. It’s nice to have visitors. And human ones, especially, that’s crazy —”

“I’m, uh, the fiancé,” Lance interrupts quietly. He tries for the same smile he had earlier, when he was bantering with Shiro. “Mail order bride, at your service.”

Hunk laughs loudly, shaking the floors with it, bent in an unnatural way that wood doesn’t bend but in a way that makes Lance think of a young man, smartly dressed, helping lift and fix clothes and gadgets alike in the castle. What Hunk could be if he was human, at least in Lance’s imagination.

“Aw, this is great! We’re gonna be friends, man. I can tell already. You don’t take any shit, huh?”

Lance’s eyes go wide.

That was so…casual.

“Yeah,” Lance says hastily, before Hunk can change his mind. He quickly swipes his face to get rid of the tears and look marginally less like a goober. “Sounds good, Hunk.”

Hunk nods to himself, satisfied. “Nice. Oh, hey, you must be hungry. It’s a pretty long journey up here! Want me to see if I can get you some food?”

“That’d be great,” Lance says gratefully. Wasting no time, Hunk-the-wardrobe clanks twice against the wall he’s leaning on. He waits a moment, and then there’s a three-clank response, and he smiles.

“Tea is on the way,” he promises.

Lance frowns, trying to puzzle that one out — tea? From where? How was ‘yeah there’s a guy sobbing on the bed in my room and I think we could probably get him some grub’ communicated in two wall slams? And, just for good measure, why is this castle so fucking weird? — but no sooner does he open his mouth to ask these questions does the door slam open, startling him, and quick as a horse a tea cart races in, door slamming again behind it.

“Hello, hello, darling,” says a tall, slim teapot on the cart. “I’m Colleen.”

Well.

Honestly, that’s par for the course.

“Hi,” Lance says hesitantly.

The teacup smiles gently. “I heard you had a bit of a rough start, here. Hopefully I can help smooth things over. Would you like a spot of tea?” She taps her spout on the side of the cart and a little teacup hops up. It has a face just like the teapot and every other enchanted thing here, only around its eyes is painted the largest set of spectacles Lance has ever seen, and Veronica is legally blind. “My daughter and I can get you a nice, refreshing cup, right, Katie?”

The little teacup shrugs. “Sure, I guess.”

Lance opens his mouth. He closes it again. He thinks about how he feels about drinking out of a teacup that is alive, somehow, and considers how he may phrase this, as delicately as possible.

“That’s a tad too weird for me,” he says politely. “Do we have any teacups that aren’t anthropomorphic?”

———

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aquato-family-circus · 1 year

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Beauty & the Beast AU Helmut and Bob (monsterous + princely editions)! I wanted this to come with some sketches of scenarios and ideas but a gal’s tired you understand

…there is one tho:

ID #1: An illustration of Helmut Fullbear walking energetically as he holds a violin and bow. He’s wearing a long blue cape with a red and orange latch, a teal vest with a white undershirt, a belt with a large buckle, blue pants and darker blue boots. End ID.

ID #2: Two illustrations of Bob Zanotto. To the left: Bob is a small, bushy creature with thorny spines growing out of his back. He’s wearing a long and tattered yellow cape with orange spots. To the Right: Bob is a human wearing a long blue cloak, broken glasses, a tattered shirt and pants. End ID.

ID #3: A sketch of Helmut giving monster Bob a little peck on the cheek, surprising him. End ID.

#sketches #psychonauts #psychonauts 2 #BatB au #aus #bob zanotto #helmut fullbear

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gamerbearmira · 3 months

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You know what? There aren't enough Dolores and Mariano stories out there.

Beauty and the Beast AU but with Dolores and Mariano, Dolores hears what sounds like a bunch of people at the edge of the Encanto and decides to investigate, finding an abandoned castle with enchanted objects as servants who serve a poetic beast who wants nothing more than to love and be loved, not even knowing his heart's desire for love is the key to breaking his curse.

YOU’RE SO RIGHT GUYS WE NEED MORE :((( 🗣️🗣️ (I should do one, maybe a one shot for mama isa,,,,,) <////33

Listen. Love Dolores, love the idea, don’t get me wrong. But why did she investigate alone, like hasn’t homegirl heard the stories 😭😭 still. She got a bf, even if he is cursed, it’s fine. It’s too bad Mariano gives love but doesn’t receive much of it back. But it’s cool, he’s got lots to give. Maybe. Idk, his curse is pretty bad.

Imagine Dolores mentioning him casually and just leaving. No one knows what she’s talking about.

#my asks #my asks are open #encanto #encanto au #au #encanto dolores #encanto Mariano #batb #beauty and the beast #batb au

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andrewwtca · 4 months

Text

drum roll please...

hello @kingarmorking! I'm your Secret Santa!!!

I will admit, your prompt had me confused at first glance but once I came to actually look at your account and work, OH was I eating!!! Sora as the Beast??? Riku as the Beauty??? it's been such a hassle not reblogging your art and leaving comments in order to keep anonymity... I'm obsessed with this AU and this is the product of that!

in case you don't remember, you asked for a scene written or something taken straight from Beauty and the Beast, and. I hope you don't mind if I was a little self-indulgent. I took some inspiration from the film but also... angsted it. ahh, I hope you enjoy it!!!

(everyone else, go read SEDI!!!)

secrets never kept, promises never made

Riku wonders which is Sora.

The two portraits hang proudly on the wall, even with time making them fade away and tearing at their corners. They both have dark green backdrops, the subjects facing each other, and Riku props his hand on his hip.

One is of a blond boy and the other is of a brunet. They have matching blue eyes, faces etched into permanent frowns of solemnity (although the brunet looks like there’s a slight whisper of a smile threatening to escape), and hair slicked down. They wear matching royal blue suits, and while only their upper bodies are shown, they seem so well put together.

Which is Sora? Riku can’t figure it out. He's passed this hallway a few times, without the Beast ever knowing, and he keeps trying to figure it out, and to no avail over and over. Was it the blond who seemed so serious, so sad? Or was it the brunet who seemed to try to hide a smile that even the painter picked up on?

Riku figures it’s the blond. Sora doesn’t seem like the smiling type.

But then again—if Riku was trapped in a body for that long, he wonders how much he would change. He isn’t the smiling type or the particularly over-joyous type, but Riku still had some joy in his heart, even if he couldn’t show it. Where would it all go?

Buried deep down somewhere like some sort of coffin.

His metaphor is cut too soon with a sudden gust of wind.

This hallway is abandoned, with cobwebs wrapping themselves around candles like babies to their mothers, with all the blue walls having turned into darkness. Curtains hug the windows and even if it was day, no light would be omitted. For all intents and purposes, this hallway was intended to be left to time.

And yet, the door slams open, and Riku’s cloak flutters behind him. Riku doesn’t feel the fear he expects himself to be overcome by when he turns to see the large keeper of the castle standing there, shadows covering his face and expression.

Instead, Riku only turns. What else is there to do?

You’re not supposed to be here.

“I apologize,” Riku says, in only half honesty. He does feel bad for breaking Sora’s rules, as it seems it’s all he has left—he doesn’t feel bad for wanting to learn more. For wanting to end this eternal darkness plaguing this realm.

It’s why he hesitates and bites back his tongue to ask, 'Which one is you?' Is it important? Does Sora even remember? (Would he even tell Riku?)

Get out. A please is added after a moment, and Sora’s large form takes a step closer as if trying to goad Riku out. The shadows seem like a good place for him like he was made for it, and Riku wonders if that bothers him.

Both of the twins didn’t seem particularly sad. Neither of them seemed like they lingered in the shadows—

And yet, here they are.

Riku glances down and sighs. He can't suppress his curiosity, craving the safety knowing would bring. “Sora,” he calls. “How—”

It was a long shot, Riku knew, but he didn’t expect Sora to let out a mighty roar that shook the whole room. Riku lets out a startled yelp and hardens his gaze as Sora simpers, standing taller in the light, covering as much of it as he could as though he owned the darkness, he was the darkness. I said GET OUT.

It rings in Riku’s ears and he presses a hand to either one. He presses harder because the ringing doesn’t stop, and it echoes into his brain. It makes him nauseous and he—he has to get away from Sora.

I’m sorry, Sora, some part of him calls, stumbling backward. I’m sorry this happened to you.

The ringing, the ringing, the ringing, it drives Riku crazy and he keeps limping until he reaches what he thinks is a balcony. The ringing is going quieter, but it’s still there—is Sora still in that room? Riku hears something behind him—maybe Sora tears down the painting. Riku doesn’t know, doesn’t care, he scales the side of the castle walls the way he and Katsu used to climb houses when they were smaller.

Riku keeps moving forward—why won’t the ringing stop?

Is this Sora, trying to push him away; or trying to pull him back?

It’s getting quieter, though.

Riku keeps moving forward. I’m sorry, he keeps repeating in his mind, as though to swat away all of Sora’s rage. Neither of those twins seemed like they could get too angry. Well—the blond, maybe. So that must be Sora. So angry all the time, but Riku knows he would be too, so he could still be the brunet, and on and on Riku’s thoughts go. I’m sorry, he’ll repeat, and he’s not sure if he’s sorry this happened to Sora and he can’t save him, or sorry that he’s wondering this at all. I’m sorry I made you feel like you’re not enough.

The ringing stops.

Riku drops his hands and suddenly recognizes the cold. Wrapping his arms around himself, Riku shivers and blows out condensing cold air, trying to take note of where he is. Trees—ah, the forest, of course.

There’s still some light. Riku turns around and huffs. This is the last place he’d like to be found in the darkness and the last place he’d like to be found while the world keeps falling to its creatures. In short, this is one of the few places Riku likes and he can’t understand Yuu’s obsession with it. The name sends a jolt of warmth through him, the warmth of joy: Please have made it to the capital alright.

The warmth of joy is washed out with a bucket of shame: he came here to save the realm. And he spent his time wondering what Sora looked like. He spent his time aggravating him instead of freeing the realm.

And of course, Riku—the shivers rack through him violently, interrupting his thoughts—wonders what exactly is going through Sora’s mind. Telepathy isn’t enough. Riku wonders what Sora feels and what Sora actually wants to do, instead of what he says. Riku wonders so much, but that’s not important.

What’s important is the people he loves who he can’t count on one hand, who grow every single day. When he was small it was his brothers, and then it was Kairi, and then it was the town, and now it’s the realm. (And maybe, now it’s the castle. Maybe, now it’s Sora.) He can’t lose sight of that. The moment he does, that’s when he’ll be in trouble—

Riku lets out a yelp as something latches to his leg. He kicks at it, but his boots are dull and tired, and the something yanks him to the ground. Slamming to the ground without an ounce of gracefulness, Riku grabs a handful of snow and chucks it forward, alongside kicking with his free foot.

The something lets out a warbled hiss and backs off quickly, and—

Shadows.

Riku doesn’t have a weapon.

Riku scrambles to his feet and looks around. Slowly, white snow is overtaken by these creatures of the night and Riku only has a few seconds to think, and oh! Trees! They have sharp branches, don’t they?

Riku rushes out of the opening and grabs a fallen branch, the first one he grabs with no care for sharpness. He maybe should’ve cared. This one is duller than a dying light, but beggars can’t be choosers and Riku can’t be monster food.

The shadows are small enough, but Riku knows that small things can be overwhelming in larger groups. He needs to keep them down to keep an upper hand, and Riku sweeps his stick in a low arching movement, knocking three of the creatures to the ground.

They dissolve into the night and Riku dances with the night. He spins and strikes, and for a moment, there are only two more left, and he can head back to the castle and work—

A shadow claws at Riku’s leg and it tears through his slacks. Letting out a shout, Riku falls forward and quickly turns onto his back. No, no, no, he isn’t going to let these puny monsters be the death of him, not when he has so much to fight for (but how, there are so many, he can’t do this alone!)

Shadows restrain Riku’s wrists and he headbutts forward, trying to knock the closest one off balance, but all he ends up doing is flailing. What do they even want, his soul? Well, they can’t have it! Riku keeps fighting and he feels darkness suffocating him. They can’t have it, they can’t have it, they can’t have it, he needs to protect the ones who he loves, it’s getting darker and darker—

The shadow is tossed off Riku’s body and the weight is lifted from his limbs. Riku’s eyes search, dazed.

In the darkness, Riku finds something even darker; something more light than anything here. “Sora,” Riku groans. The shadows are regrouping, and Riku pushes himself up onto his elbows.

I’m sorry, Sora tells him. It seems like he’s panting; it seems like he’s human. I shouldn’t have gotten mad at you like that.

“I shouldn’t have pried,” Riku automatically says, holding his head. He's spinning. No, he's not, he's on the ground. Yet, he's spinning. Maybe he was a dancer in a past light.

No…you’re within your right, Sora begins, before turning. But shall we deal with these first?

“Probably smart,” Riku tells him, pushing himself to unsteady feet. He lurches forward and Sora is there to grab him and to hold out— “My sword!”

I had a feeling, Sora explains, holding his hands out at either side of him, that there would be trouble.

“You have some pretty good feelings,” Riku says.

I hope so. I only have so many.

Riku is about to laugh, thinking it’s a joke, until a shadow jumps at him and he needs to swing his sword down. The arch is true and it feels right, unlike the imitation called a stick. This feels right, this fight, and when the shadow is extinguished, it’s time for the next one.

The cold doesn’t bother Riku. The numbers don’t bother Riku. Nothing bothers Riku are he swings forward, accompanied only by the sound of metal, his grunting, and Sora’s loud footsteps. Sora, Riku thinks, sparing a glance or two or three or four at him.

Sora is a fighter. It’s like he was made for this, mixing between magic and physical combat. Both leave Riku reeling and for a second, Riku imagines someone else.

He imagines the boy with blond hair, back to back with him. “We’re almost there!” Riku tells Sora and Sora lets out a grunt to let him know he heard, and the two kick off each other again. The shadows keep going. But they’re bound to come. The blond is nothing but rage, nothing but—

Riku feels a wave of joy take over him, a joy that isn’t his.

Riku slices and imagines the boy with brown hair, switching spots with him. Sora’s better at large groups and Riku’s better at large shadows. The two nod to each other and they’re fighting again, and there’s almost a hop in Sora’s step, like he hasn’t fought in a while. No, he has fought.

Like he hasn’t fought with someone in a while.

Riku slams his sword down and imagines the boy with brown hair, sticking to his forehead, laughing.

The shadows are gone. Riku turns around—

And sees the Beast looking back at him.

Riku smiles at Sora.

I’m so sorry.

I wish I could save you.

I wish I could love you.

…can I?

I hope you enjoyed that!!! like I said, EXTREMELY self-indulgent. I'm so sorry, your AU just gave me brain rot! I was inspired by the scene above where Belle gets attacked by wolves and the Beast comes to save her, except... well, this is Soriku, they would kick ass together!

happy holidays! thanks for a lovely prompt <3

#andrew's fanfics #fanfiction #kingdom hearts #soriku #beauty and the beast #batb au #go read SEDI everyone!!!#secret santa 2023

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