Angus MacScottishname, Highlander


>You are Angus MacScottishname, Highlander (Whatever that means)
>Hero of many a shitty romance novel
>Fap material for middle aged housewives in unhappy relationships everywhere.
>Your luxurious hair cascades over your inhumanly perfect pecs and back, flowing in a nonexistent wind.
>Your hair is perfect. No weather can phase it.
>Hurricanes mean nothing to your flowing, flawless locks
>No armor except a kilt.
>Armor doesn’t sell books, covers with nearly naked men do.
>Seriously though your hair is just absurdly perfect.
>You wield a gigantic claymore no human could realistically lift; an entirely unsubtle metaphor for your penis
>You’re searching for your next sexual conquest.

>Rumors reach you that terrible bandits have captured a virginal lady and imprisoned her in a keep nearby
>These rumors also claim she’s not human, but beastkin of some sort.
>Eh, you’re in the mood for something different after the last twenty women, all of whom looked exactly the same and are easily replaceable with the reader.
>Time to get to work.
>You look at your horse. Your horse is amazing.
>It’s flowing mane is almost as glorious as yours.
>Through means unknown, probably something to do with your fabulous hair, you strap your sword to your bare back.
>You mount your horse like you mount women, just without the sex.
>It’s all very erotic and masculine of course.
>Naturally, you ride bareback. Saddles and realism have no place in stories like these.
>You will your horse to gallop, and off you go.
>Your instinctual awareness of vulnerable women will guide you to the keep.
>Days pass. Are you lost? Surely not.
>In that keep is a nubile young woman just waiting for you to save her and show her what love is.
>Your instincts have never led you wrong before.
>This must be a trick of some sort, you decide.
>Finally, though, you spot walls in the distance. This must be it.
>You will your horse to ride to the keep.
>You will your horse to ride to the keep.
>It doesn’t move. It must be jealous your hair is better than it’s mane.
>With a “Hyah!” you kick at its sides. (Such an undignified and unromantic way to motivate a horse)
>After a bit of snorting and stamping, it trots forwards.
>Moments later, you pass the first body.
>It’s laying facedown, like the man had been running away from the keep.
>Deep lacerations run down it’s back. Bandits? Highwaymen, must have been.
>No self respecting villain would leave a body by the road where a noble hero like yourself could see it.
>Bodies don’t set the right sort of atmosphere for romance.
>As you close in on the keep, you notice a few more, littering the landscape.
>How dare these corpses bring down the mood.
>You arrive at the keep in a bit of a sour mood, an expression of disgust marring your otherwise flawless face.
>Thankfully your hair more than makes up for it.
>The doors are shut, nobody’s manning the walls, it seems deserted.
>That’s not right.
>How are you supposed to do glorious battle with nefarious bandits (and glisten with sweat for your target demographic) if nobody’s here?
>As if that wasn’t enough, your horse has only become more uncooperative.
>Something has spooked it, but nothing spooks your horse.
>You ride around the walls, searching for any sign of life.
>You find the opposite. From a distance, you spy a pile of bodies.
>How barbaric. These men are worse than you could have imagined.
>You consider taking a closer look, but who wants to read about corpses, let alone an entire pile of them?
>You ride back to the gates and begin to yell, insulting the bandits for their barbarism and lack of decorum.
>Somewhere in the keep, unbeknownst to you, a set of ears prick up.
>Outside where you are, nothing happens.
>No rain of arrows, no single challenger stepping through the gates. What is going on here?
>You try calling out for the supple, innocent woman you’ve come here to conquer.
>Deep inside, unheard by you, a snarling, angry voice speaks. “I thought I instructed you to tell me when he arrived?”

>You’re about to leave, when a shrill scream echos out.
>That must be her!
>Immediately, the doors swing open.
>As you vault off your horse, it bolts, abandoning you. No matter. It will return.
>You charge into the keep, your massive sword in hand.
>A horde of guards are there to greet you as you pass through the gates, weapons at the ready.
>The guards attempt to fight back, but are so clearly terrified by your masculine glory they provide no challenge.
>You easily sweep their half-hearted spear thrusts aside
>With the power of your hair and being a half naked buff man in a kilt, you deflect their swords.
>Their axes inflict only the smallest of cuts on your tanned skin.
>They are just bandits, you are a man on a mission
>A mission to save those soft breasts and creamy thighs waiting for your touch.
>You have within your body the power of thousands of desperate MILFs who wish you were real and coming to rescue them.
>The ease with which you’re chopping your way through these men is unusual though.
>You aren’t even sweating. How unfortunate.
>Many of them drop their weapons and run.
>That’s never happened before.
>No matter, no one really cares about a few extra sentences of fighting when ravishing awaits.
>You stab and hack your way through the keep, only a few drops of blood sullying your perfect body.
>Too much blood would kill the mood.
>Gore is so unromantic.
>Your hair, of course, remains undisturbed and flowing.
>More terrified men stand between you and the stairwell up to the tower, where your woman is being held. Probably.
>Your instincts still don’t seem to be working right, but where else would she be?
>These men charge you one by one, almost… almost welcoming their deaths at your blade.
>This is strange. This seems too easy.
>It’s like they weren’t even trying to kill you.
>Maybe you’ll think about it later, but thinking is for beta males without glorious pecs and phallic metaphor swords.
>You charge up the stairs, chopping your way through more evil, terrified… oddly relieved to see you, men.
>One of them just spreads his arms for you as you run him through.
>As a trickle of blood runs from the corner of his mouth, he whispers “Thank you.”
>You pause at that.
>Something in your underdeveloped brain is screaming at you, telling you this is wrong.
>Something just doesn’t make sense here.
>These things don’t happen in your stories.
>You press on though, very romantic euphemisms for sex await you.

>At the top of the tower, the leader of these men guards a door.
>This is it! The final battle!
>This will decide the fate of the poor, helpless girl in the room beyond!
>You think. She’s got to be in there right?
>You’re so close, why can’t you sense her vulnerability or her supple, smooth… fur?
>It’s got to be the fur, right? That’s surely why your instincts have been off.
>”S-So you’ve come! Y-You’ll never defeat me, h-hero! Her body will be mine!” He stammers.
>He’s barely even looking at you.
>He keeps glancing back over his shoulder as he speaks.
>This is the final obstacle?
>What’s going on here?
>He looks right, almost as large and gloriously muscled as you
>His sword is just as absurdly large as yours, if slightly shorter.
>Size matters.
>Why is he so afraid?
>Why were his men so afraid?
>This story isn’t going to sell well, this has been too easy! You’ve barely worked up a sweat!
>The wrongness of it all is banished from your mind as the man swings, locking blades with you.
>The sound of steel on steel rings out as you both swing your swords at each other.
>Silently, the door you’ve both forgotten about opens just a crack
>Were you paying attention, you’d notice a single, glowing eye peeking through.
>Your fight is legendary in it’s ferocity… and honestly a bit pathetic compared to what a real sword fight would look like, but when has that ever mattered?
>Lonely, unhappily married MILFs don’t know the first thing about medieval combat.
>This is what you’ve been waiting for. This is what it’s all about.
>This and the sex anyways.
>You’re never happier than when you get to cross swords with another man.
>Except for when you get to sheath your pork sword in a woman’s honeyed treasure cave.
>To slide your masculine weapon of desire into her sodden precious depths.
>These are absolutely normal terms normal people use to refer to genitalia.
>It’s all very romantic.
>The edge of your sword meets the edge of his in a shower of sparks, and neither blade ends up damaged.
>What’s edge retention? Chipping? Swords don’t do that.
>His fear is still there, but he’s using it now, letting his desperation fuel his strikes
>Against all odds (but not the script) he begins to drive you backwards.
>Each step backwards you take gives him confidence, and his strikes grow more precise, your situation more dire.
>He’s backing you towards a corner, but that’s ok.
>Angus MacScottishname, Highlander, never loses.
>Finally, he makes the mistake you knew he would, the mistake they always make.
>He underestimates you.
>You whip your head to the side, distracting him for a moment with your voluminous locks.
>”Victory is mine!” You cry
>You step backwards to dodge his strike, and prepare to deliver the final blow.
>You are Angus MacScottishname, Highlander!
>You are the hero of countless terrible romance novels, ravisher of ripe, virginal women!
>Star of terrible sex scenes written by men with no knowledge of the female body!
>You are… falling?
>You’ve tripped over something as you stepped backwards to dodge
>This unexpected development surprises you and your opponent.
>This isn’t supposed to happen, this never happens!
>You angrily turn your head towards whatever dares to interrupt your scripted victory, the other guy can wait.
>Nothing interrupts your-
>It’s an arm.
>Just an arm.
>It’s been ripped off at the shoulder.
>This was no clean cut. Shreds of skin and muscle hang from the disembodied limb.
>Almost like it was torn off.
>Where did this come from? What happened?
>You haven’t hacked any limbs off in this room yet
>Your eyes follow a smear of blood to the rest of the body, in the corner a few feet away.
>It’s curled up, facing away from you, and it’s back is a red mess of shredded leather, cloth, and flesh.

>And there’s SO.

>MUCH.

>BLOOD.

>It’s pooled around the corpse, it’s run along the cracks between the wooden floor planks.
>There’s so much. There’s too much.
>You turn pale at the sight.
>You nearly vomit, but that would be disgusting, and even worse, unmanly.
>Why is there so much blood?
>You’ve dismembered countless men, you’ve never seen this much blood, that’s not romantic!
>You’ve never seen much more than a few drops come out of any of the men you’ve felled.
>Surely you haven’t found your way into one of those ‘bee-dee-ess-em’ stories, have you?
>Even for one of those, though, this is excessive.
>This is WRONG.
>That’s not how this works, that’s not how any of this works!
>You look up at the man standing over you, as he hefts his sword, a strange feeling spreading in the pit of your stomach.
>Is this what fear feels like?
>He’s recovered from the shock of your unexpected fall, and gives you a… a sympathetic smile?
>”It’s ok. I’ll make it quick so she can’t hurt you.” He whispers, and swings his sword at your neck.
>What?
>You are Angus MacScottish name, Highlander, and you are about to die?
>The door slams open, a roar rips through the room, a blur of orange and black and white >passes by, and your would-be executioner is no longer there.
>You’ve been saved?
>But you’re supposed to do the saving, WHAT is happen-
>A scream echos out through the room, snapping you out of your stupor.
>What horrors are they visiting upon your woman and her soft, nubile body?
>You have to save her-
>”No! No please I’m sor-”
>The voice of your opponent cries out, silenced immediately by the wrenching of metal and…
>and the tearing of flesh.
>You don’t look as the screams ring out again, and the terrible, horrifying sounds continue.
>Something warm and wet splashes against the side of your face.
>You try not to think about what it is.
>Bone cracks, skin rips, there’s a wet thud in front of you.
>It’s another arm, with too much blood oozing out of it.
>The screams quickly turn to terrifying, nausea inducing gurgles.
>”I told you to let him win.” A cold, vicious, feminine? voice snarls.
>“It was supposed to be just like the stories.”
>More gurgling. “And you lied to me when he arrived. You tried to pretend nobody was here!”
>”I thought an example would be enough to set you straight, but no!” the voice growls, followed by the distinct, macabre sound of snapping bone.
>”How can my hero rescue me” It continues, the tone suddenly warm, maidenly, even if the voice is a bit too deep,
>”If he’s DEAD.” The violent snarl returns.

>Crunch.
>Crunch?

>Your curiosity finally gets the better of you, and you look towards the source of the >terrifying, alluring voice, and those awful, sickening noises.
>You vomit immediately.
>You are Angus MacScottishname, Highlander
>and for the first time in your life, you are truly afraid.
>There’s no corpse when you look, just ground meat in a pool of blood.
>That’s not a human body right?
>How could that ever have been human?
>You’ve never seen so much blood in your life.
>How can someone contain this much blood?
>You’ve cleaved a man clean in two, you know how people work.
>There’s just red meat and a bit of blood, anything more would be gory and thoroughly kill the mood of anyone reading.
>There aren’t supposed to be entrails flung about.
>Skulls aren’t supposed to be that flat.
>This isn’t romantic. None of this belongs in a romance story.
>You don’t even look at what’s responsible for this carnage before you begin to pass out.
>You hear an exasperated “Oh, god dammit.” as your consciousness fades.

>You wake with a start. What a horrible, terrifying nightmare that was.
>You laugh at the absurdity of it even. That much blood? Impossible.
>And the very concept of someone saving you, Angus MacScottishname, Highlander, is the very height of comedy.
>No no, you are the one who does the saving.
>You reach out to grab your overcompensating sword,
>It’s not there. Where is it? Where’s your steel rod, your rigid length, your penetrator?
>Where is your dick metaphor?
>You take a moment to make sure that your actual dick is still there too.
>Thank god, you’re still intact. Mostly. That sword is as much a part of you as your turgid length.
>You forget locating your blade, though, when you realize this isn’t the bed you fell asleep in.
>In fact, you’re not in the room you slept in last night. Where are you?
>You look around the room and… there she is, lying next to you in bed.
>The woman you came here to save.
>Your next conquest.
>Dear lord she’s massive.
>She must be almost as big, no, bigger than you (And what a blow to your ego that is)
>Rather than smooth, pale skin, she’s covered in admittedly very soft looking fur and striped just like a tiger.
>She’s staring at you dreamily, her head resting on her red paw, a smile across her red muzzle.
>What an odd coloration. You’ve never heard of a tiger with red fur.
>You stare into her eyes, waiting for her to swoon under your gaze.
>Nothing. She certainly seems infatuated with you, but where’s the swooning?
>Your masculine gaze sweeps downward, over her prodigious bust, her creamy-
>No, she has fur.
>Your eyes sweep downward, over her prodigious bust, her downy breasts quivering beneath your-
>Quivering beneath your masculine gaze-
>Where’s the quivering? Why aren’t her breasts quivering like every other woman you’ve slept with?
>That’s what’s supposed to happen right? This is a romance story.
>Everyone knows romance stories are accurate depictions of real life, so why aren’t her breasts quivering in anticipation?
>Well, you did want a change of pace, and a woman playing hard to get can be fun too.
>Or maybe it’s the fur.
>You look lower, over her soft, feminine stomach-
>Wait are those abs?
>You look up at her breasts. Definitely female.
>You look between her legs. Definitely female, though you notice a distinct lack of quivering there too.
>You look at her abs. Why would a woman have abs?
>Abs are for men, they’re for heroes like you.
>Masculine manly men who slaughter evil-doers who have normal amounts of blood in their body.
>It was on the ceiling. How does that happen?
>Oh well. You can deal with abs for a few nights of unbridled passion. And nothing more.
>The rest of her makes up for it.
>She may be bigger than you, but she is big in all the right ways.
>What a sight her breasts are.
>And those childbearing hips.
>You shudder internally as a sudden intrusive thought worms it’s way into your tiny, single track mind.
>A thought of children and being a father.
>Of a woman speaking that blood-chilling, eldritch phrase.
>”I’m pregnant.”
>Absolutely horrifying. You’d sooner die than be tied down like that.
>”My hero!” She says with an unsettlingly toothy grin, snapping you out of your stupor.
>She gently places a paw the size of your head on your cheek.
>”You saved me from those evil men~! My own prince charming, after all those stories I read!”
>She abruptly pulls you into an alarmingly tight hug, trapping your arms against your sides.
>What? That’s not right, you’re supposed to take her in *your* arms and make her swoon with your dashing looks and physics-defying hair and chiseled muscles.
>Well, you did want something different.
>Besides, a woman is a woman and you can pillage her glistening portal of womanhood with your molten meat stick all the same.
>Even if she is… just a little bigger than you’re used to.
>You can feel her claws pricking your back, with points sharper than any blade you encountered this day.
>Why do her paws feel damp against your skin, though?
>And why does she smell so strongly of blood-

>Finally, somewhere in your long neglected and atrophied brain, it all clicks.
>You turn pale, your blood feels like it’s frozen solid, and the nausea returns.
>Why you got lost.
>The bodies outside the keep.
>The reason the doors didn’t open immediately. Why nobody responded to your taunts.
>Those men weren’t terrified of you. They weren’t running from you.
>That scream you heard outside wasn’t her at all.
>All those men who welcomed death by your blade.
>Who wouldn’t when that body you tripped over was the alternative.
>All that blood.
>What it was that saved you from a swift decapitation.
>Were you really saved though, or would that death have been a mercy as he suggested?
>There was so much blood.
>The lack of quivering. The lack of swooning.
>That’s not red fur on her muzzle and paws.
>She isn’t a vulnerable, naive girl waiting for you to show her what love is.
>She wasn’t captured. She wasn’t trapped in this keep with these men.

>They were trapped in here with her.

>”What’s wrong?” She asks you, a look of concern crossing her bloodstained face.
>”Oh, it’s the blood isn’t it? Oh I’m so sorry,” She sighs, sitting up. “You passed out and I was just so worried and excited to finally have you, you know?”
>”It’s ok though, I’ll be right back after I clean up, and then you can ‘ravish’ me all you want~” >She teases as she leaves the bed.
>Her tail brushes over your penis, but not even that can distract you from this horrid realization.
>You’re too terrified to even think in dick euphemisms right now.
>She turns and flashes you a predatory smirk, full of teeth.
>Her animalistic eyes look you over like a piece of meat.
>”You’re going to make such a lovely husband.”

>No.
>No no no.
>Not that. Anything but that.
>You’ll take the blood, the guts, dying, anything but Commitment.

>You aren’t in a romance story anymore. This was never a romance story.
>This is a horror story.
>Pure, primal terror courses through you.

>You begin to scream.

 

3 votes, average: 5.00 out of 53 votes, average: 5.00 out of 53 votes, average: 5.00 out of 53 votes, average: 5.00 out of 53 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5 (3 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5)
You need to be a registered member to rate this post.
Loading...
484 Views

3 thoughts on “Angus MacScottishname, Highlander

  1. I agree with Komma’s review. The story shows that you are very good at writing parody/sarcastic storyes, but you are equally good at writing more serious themes.
    I wonder how would you write a serious, hopefully not sex-filled, story.

    1. Very, very slowly. I’m gonna give writing a less shitpost-y, non-greentext sequel to this a shot but writing has always been something I’m genuinely awful at. This was written in like 4 hours the night before last in a manic, sleep-deprived haze and I’m genuinely unsure how I did it.

Leave a Reply