the year of the beast


Chastity: Why should I listen to you anyway? You’re a virgin who can’t drive!
Credence: That was way harsh, Chastity. 

Clueless; 1995

for Anon

want one?

One Year | A Gaston Story (Chapter Sixteen)

Gaston (Luke Evans) X OC

Summary: Gaston made all the wrong choices in life, and when a dramatic fall from the Beast’s castle leaves him wounded and near-death, he thinks it’s the end of his time. Suddenly, an old beggar woman appears at his side and heals him back to his normal self but gives him one year, and only one year, to find true love before his time on earth and the town’s memories of him come to an end.

Prologue | One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Sixteen

Tags: @harleyscheekheart ; @jordyhaley ; @gawston ; @araceli91103 ; @the7thsilence ; @blackxthexbeast ; @hobbithorse19 ; @epicfallenismine ; @imoyu-trashblog ; @naildiva87 ; @dracsgirl ; @girl-next-door-writes

In the deepest pit of the forest outside of Brussels was where the trees warped and twisted ominously, stripped of almost all their branches throughout the years, and forever guarded the uncharted land. A thick layer of fog clung desperately to the coal-colored trunks that made all visibility almost infeasible, and as the darkness of nightfall blinded the forest’s inhabitants, the moon hovered above as its beams fought with the thick canopy of branches and leaves. Further in the shadows was the ruins of a stone stairway, its steps leading to nowhere in particular, with a thick, overgrown coat of ivy that dug into each step.

Underneath its archway, Vayle and Tom appeared in midair with a single SNAP! At once, the witch grasped Tom by his vest and threw him to the ground with ease, the back of his head almost colliding with the sturdy wall of the stone arch. She watched as his stubby fingers wiped the sweat off of his brow that dripped down his full cheeks and into the strands of his amber beard. Tom’s expression had changed dramatically since he lit the tavern on fire, his confidence now faltering as Vayle loomed over him. As usual, her eyes were narrowed while her pupil was just a simple pinpoint against the blank canvass of her eyes.

“Don’t hurt me,” Tom instantly pleaded as his back pressed against the brittle stone wall.

“Oh, shut up, I’m not going to hurt you yet.”

As the old woman turned her back to the cowering man, she contemplated her options. Tom was an imbecile, he had completely destroyed their cover, and with Dick now in the hands of the nearby town, there was no doubt in her mind that he had confessed Vayle’s identity and intentions to Gaston. Knowing their plan, the hunter would be stalking them soon, the desire for the hunt and the battle expanding within him every day…and that was precisely what Vayle had hoped. If the witch was forced to remain silent for the next few days, then she would patiently await for the Beast that still lurked deep within Gaston to awaken. His confidence, his temper, his primal instincts: those would all be his downfalls in the end. Vayle knew her daughter couldn’t completely change Gaston. He was too proud of a man, too damaged from his past, and eventually, everything would resurface. All that Vayle needed was time.

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visionaryprime  asked:

What inspired you to create the blogs you have currently?

For Munday, anonymously ask the mun something you want to know about them, their portrayal, or what they will/won’t write.

// Oh GOSH. I don’t know. I first got into Transformers back in 1997 (20 fucking years ago WHAT) when the Beast Wars episide “Dark Voyage” aired and I happened to catch it on a saturday morning. I was pretty hooked. I started roleplaying not long after that, both privately and on chats and forums. The new live action movie that came out in 2007 rekindled my love for Transformers in a whole new way (and it did wonders for the fandom too) and I’ve been around ever since.

I’ve had countless characters over the years, most of which I don’t remember anymore. Inspiration-wise, you may notice that almost all of my blogs (actually, all of them that are active) are rooted in TFP universe (with Barricade being both TFP and Tyran friendly). Transformers Prime and the Tyran universes are hands down the BEST sandboxes for me to play in – they offer plenty of room to grow and be creative, but also (somewhat) solid (kinda) straightforward (okay not really) lore that ultimately leaves alot of room for creative interpretation. 

But, inspiration … let’s be honest, I instantly loved Blackout the moment his giant, beautiful, destructive ass set off those thunderclap cannons of his on the titanic IMAX screen in front of me.

But there was nothing to him. He had no english lines, a smallish role, and, of course, died having accomplished almost nothing. 

Characters like that are what I live for. I love to take them and make them into something no one else thought of. I created this blog in the Prime universe and took some of Tyran Blackout’s attributes, borrowing some of his traits as I played him in private. I didn’t expect this blog to get off the ground but here I am almost 900 followers later with a character who grew on his own and a basket full of people I just love RPing with. 

I have other blogs of course, but I don’t want this to get too long. If you have any questions about Grindor or Barricade or anyone else I would LOVE to answer them but I guess I’ll dedicate this one to Blackout’s blog.


Okay I had this sitting about since December. I should have shared it sooner but well. I love this movie so much it reminded me why I do what I do

Just wanted to give huuuuge thanks to everyone who is still reading One Year and commenting/liking it, and sharing it. It’s now 16 chapters long and I’m completely blown away by the support and love I continue to receive from yall. The story is winding down now with only 9 chapters left and an epilogue, but I’ve been outlining everything and shit’s about to get real right now. Love you all so much and thank you again for making me fall in love with writing this story! I really don’t want it to end hahah

Originally posted by evansluke


Ashamed of his monstrous form, the beast concealed himself inside his castle, with a magic mirror as his only window to the outside world. The rose she had offered was truly an enchanted rose, which would bloom until his 21st year. If he could learn to love another, and earn her love in return by the time the last petal fell, then the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast for all time. As the years passed, he fell into despair and lost all hope. For who could ever learn to love a beast?

episode one :: Yuuri Katsuki is the most beautiful disaster that Victor has ever met in his entire life, and Victor has built his empire on beautiful disasters.

Victor isn’t sure he knows what he’s doing anymore by the time casting rolls around for season 22 of The Bachelor.  Okay, he knows what he’s doing, but it’s all autopilot.  He’s got a dossier of Chip Vanderbones and Tad Hardbeefs to look at, but is almost resigned enough to just give into Lilia and Yakov’s suggestion to cast Georgi Popovich, notorious histrionic Bachelorette season 10 runner-up, as this season’s lead out of sheer notgivingafuckness.  At this point Victor isn’t even sure whether he really wants to be in this game at all anymore, but what the hell else he would do besides sleep for a thousand years if he retired before thirty?  

And then Phichit Chulanont comes into his office to distract him during a conference call with Yakov to tell him a story about his friend who just crashed and burned at the Figure Skating Grand Prix Finals, and everything click click clicks into place: redemption narrative.  Twenty young men are going for the gold, but only one can win the heart of Yuuri Katsuki– he can hear the promos, see the character arcs unfold, and the narratives rush through him like they’ve always lived inside him and it feels–exciting.  

“Phichit,” Victor says suddenly, interrupting Phichit and grabbing him from across his desk.  “We have to get him.  He’s our next bachelor.”

“Oh my God,” Phichit replies, eyes widening, and then again, “Oh my God.

“Do you think you could get him?” Victor asks.  He’s seeing figure skating dates, thematic destination shoots in Chile and Finland and Iceland, “The Bachelor: Love on Ice” title screen flashing over two champagne glasses on the lip of an outdoor hot tub.  

“Do I think I can get him,” Phichit repeats dismissively, looking the closest to offended that Victor has ever seen him.  “What do you think you hired me for, Nikiforov.”

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your father was an inventor. you knew better than to trust him in the center of town. he came home with scrap metal and built ships to glide on the grass. when you were young, you loved him for making. for a brief five years, you hated him, embarrassed of the town loon, embarrassed of what raised you.

but time shifts things. the man in town wants to marry you. a beautiful man by every account, and you hear many accounts. your nose in books doesn’t stop the stories of him: Gaston, bright, young, proud. Gaston, who could hunt and carve and flex his muscles. who forgot even himself what was true and what was fiction. it is a small village in paris, at the base of a kingdom. he is the bachelor you should have your heart set on. 

you try to teach yourself to love him. he grins at you over beer mugs. never reads the books you suggest to him, drops one in the mud. and one night you hear him, drunk and singing, laughing with the others about your father, the crazy.

that night your father brings you a single white rose from a garden. you kiss your father and think of Gaston’s log cabin, where you could live in comfort.

they come for your father in the night. he is the property of the prince, on account of theft. his hands should be cut off and sewn to the walls of his house, to remind him of his failures. an inventor without hands is a death sentence. they come with fire and hatred. rip you out of bed. your knees hit the mud. you’re too small to fight them. they tear your father away from you, and your heart out of your chest.

you run to gaston. tall, fast, manly. you beg him. it’s a mistake, you cry, you must help - you gulp - and then we will marry. 

gaston laughs and slams oak door against nose. you stumble back, feeling like a knife is in your throat. you take the wagon horse and ride improper, legs spread and bent forward, none of the lady your mother would have wanted. you ride for the life of your father.

at the door of the castle you stop. it is raining. you shout and rave and beg anything. take me, you scream, if you’re listening i’ll do anything. what do you promise on that doorstep, crying yourself empty? what do you promise to keep him alive, to keep him whole, to keep him healthy?

the door opens late. no one is there. you remember, suddenly, the tale of the beast who lives here, who ate the prince, who is terrifying. you think you hear your father and suddenly you are running, following his voice down dark hallways with no ending. 

he is in a cell. his head is bleeding. you feel your breath hitch. 

“will you?” a voice says, “will you trade yourself for your father, take responsibility for his sin?”

“he’s innocent,” you snarl, “you animals.”

“the rose, belle,” he whispers, and you stare at him. a white rose that is wilting beside your bedside would have been the death of him.

“take me,” you say, somehow empty and full at the same time, “if that’s what you need.”

the first night is ugly. you spend it crying. 

over time, the castle learns you, and you learn it. you think you are imagining the talking furniture for most of it. invisible hands whisk food in and out, bring you ball gowns and petticoats and delicate flowers. 

and always, the beast. at first, you were terrified of it. always in the shadows. moving like a ghost, prowling. tall, slim. menacing. never showing any skin, any proof it might be human.

but time and comfort destroy fears. you don’t run when it is in the room, you no longer shield your face in fear. it wears a mask, and this is how you know it really must be beastly. 

it is the second winter when you, playing snowball fights with the statues - you manage to hit the beast in the face. you freeze, and the panic from the day they took your father returns in a firework.

but then the beast is throwing back. and you are laughing. the next morning it is at breakfast with you, and lunch. it comes and goes, and never speaks. laughs, sometimes, you think. talks with its hands. the furniture translates. you learn, because you are good at learning. the hands that mean can i come in? the hands that mean are you hungry? the hands that mean is it okay if i read next to you, here this book is good, i found this for you.

each morning you wake up with white roses by your bedside. you learn to talk a little louder than you’re used to, to move your own hands in a way that acknowledges the beast. it is strange that you were a quiet girl and now you are comfortable shouting. the two of you have your own language, together. it teaches you swordfighting, you teach it dancing. it teaches you archery and you teach it cooking. you walk through the gardens together. there are moments where your hands touch and for some reason you blush like it was kissing. you’ve never had someone who understands you so completely. sometimes you tell it about far-away stories. sometimes you tell it about your village. and sometimes, when you are raw, you tell it about gaston and the marriage you didn’t want and your father and his insanity

one of these nights the beast brings you the mirror. you cry when you see your father. and the beast is pulling you, running, picking out a horse from the stables, gesturing. go, go. you cry when you leave.

you save your father. tell him you’ll bring him back to the beast. do you talk too loud? is gaston only mad you never belonged to him? when the raid starts, you are still taking care of your father. outside, voices, ringing. kill the beast. you think of hands, dancing in the air to speak, and you think you have never heard something so ugly. you’re ashamed to be this species.

you ride in their wake, your father safe. you ride that same panicked race as three years ago to the day. 

you fight, because the beast taught you how. the castle fights, because it is protecting its life. and the beast - you watch the flash of a blade, careful not to kill - the ability you once mistook for savagery. 

it isn’t enough. gaston, and a gun. the three of you stand on the balcony, you in between. again you are begging this man, who means nothing. “leave the beast,” you say, “take me.”

“i’ll have both,” he says, and shoots. you feel the bullet streak by you. the beast is all movement, has pushed you out of the way. they grapple, and you scream when the beast falls, skittering. gaston marches over and you move without thinking. he falls into the night silently. 

you can’t get there quick enough. you gather the beast into your lap, begging be okay. at the mask, you whisper something, and then say it again with your hands. i love you, you say. you were the best thing to happen to me.

the mask slips. a voice says, “belle,” and you are hit with the full force of something that feels like music. you can’t breathe. 

the girl beneath the mask is beautiful. her blonde hair spills across your legs. she touches your face and her hands say i’m okay, and you’re laughing. you kiss her and roses open up in you. 

“i thought you were a beast,” you say with hands and lips a hair above hers, “and here you are, the beauty.”

she smiles sheepishly. it is hard when you are like me. 

your are sobbing. you kiss her again, because you can, because she’s here and perfect and the answer to questions you didn’t know you had been asking. 

her hands, curious, worried, search for your wet cheeks. i’m okay, really, belle. you saved me.

funny, your hands dance, i was about to say the same thing.