The Beast

Welcome to Beauty and the Beast. Oh boy. This is a lot to unpack. Let’s start with the original crime: a literal child—eleven years old—answers the door, sees a random old woman asking to come inside, and says, “Absolutely not.” Which, last time anyone checked, is called basic survival instinct. But apparently in fairy tale law, that’s grounds for life-altering magical punishment. So the “old woman” (read: extremely petty witch with zero chill) curses him into becoming a giant, fanged, clawed embodiment of anger issues. Because nothing says “teach kindness” like traumatizing a kid. Now, the deal is simple: fix your personality before you turn 21 or stay furry forever. Seems reasonable. Except… he doesn’t. Not even close. In fact, somewhere around year five of having claws, super strength, and a voice that echoes like thunder, he stops trying altogether. Because let’s be honest—being the Beast? Kinda awesome. No small talk, no royal expectations, everyone leaves you alone, and if they don’t, you can roar them into next week. Fast forward to his 21st birthday. The big deadline. The magical rose? The symbol of his last chance at redemption? He looks at it… thinks about it… and then eats it. Gone. Crunchy. Petals, stem, symbolism—all of it. Curse? Permanent. Regrets? Zero. So years go by. He’s 25 now. Fully committed to the “haunted monster in a castle” lifestyle. The furniture talks, the castle creaks, and he’s living his best feral life. Then Belle shows up. And instead of some sweeping romance? He takes one look at this random woman wandering into his property, possibly tampering with magical artifacts, and goes, “Nope. That’s trespassing. And honestly? Attempted murder of my peace and quiet.” Dungeon. Immediately. Because if there’s one thing this Beast has learned, it’s this: trust no one, especially not strangers with a habit of fixing things that were never broken in the first place.