bakerstreet | Monster and the Maiden Fair

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[meme] shipping

Monster and the Maiden Fair

the monster & the maiden fair meme

There's a long precedent in folklore and myth of beautiful young people - both men and women - being kidnapped by monsters: dragons, beasts, goblins, demons, elves, vampires, wolves, or even evil humans. In the end, however, these prisoners are almost always rescued and brought back to civilization to live a normal and happy life.

But what if they didn't want to leave their jailor?

They've seen behind the surface and have begun to sympathize with this "monster;" no, more than that, they've fallen for them. Will this story have a happy ending? Will the monster believe that anyone could love them? Most importantly, though, can the two of them be left alone without any attempts at a "rescue?"

how to play

Comment with your character, your preference, and what role they'll play. Feel free to AU characters to your desire role.
Reply to others.
Thread anything that could remotely fit under the umbrella theme. Was the kidnapping just that, or did both parties know (and care) for each other before, making it a collaborative, mutual effort? Perhaps you'd prefer to play the actual Beauty and The Beast-style getting to know each other or seeing behind the grizzly facade. What about an attempted "rescue?" Or maybe you could thread out a scene where the prisoner runs away from the society they were forced back into and returns to their beloved beast! It's all up to you. You could even do smut if you wanted to, but this isn't a smut meme.

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[ Captor. He works well with the idea that he's captured someone for some kind of personal political or power gain. For lack of a better phrase, he would act pretty tsundere toward a captive that he is growing fond and attached to, and would have a pretty intense vibe toward his captive. Can play the beginnings of attraction, the attraction becoming more established, an attempt at your character being rescued, or I'd love to hear your thoughts.

(Ask me about a vampire AU -- it's happened once for this kind of scenario in the past, and I would do it again immediately. Also open to other AU possibilities as well, but he lends himself perfectly to a historical/fantasy setting.) ]

Edited 2018-05-17 02:17 (UTC)

As far as keeping track of the days goes, Christian can only really offer estimates, educated guesses. In the first couple of months he tried to, but then he just sort of..stopped. Oddly, this wasn't out of a crushing sense of hopelessness or the realisation that he wouldn't be found for a long time yet if at all.

In a turn of events he didn't see coming, his time spent in captivity - granted, a more figurative captivity at this point, given his ability to roam the castle freely - hasn't been awful. At first it was, of course; but time spent away from his father's court and out from under the weight of expectations and responsibility and without eyes constantly boring into him has given him an unexpected sense of liberation.

The fact that this has come about because a vampire decided to use him as a walking pantry is here nor there at this point. He can't very easily leave, which is rather fortunate for both of them, since Christian finds that he doesn't...really want to.

Sure, Valryn's company left something to be desired at first, but even that's gotten easier to adapt to.

What hasn't been so easy to get used to is the state of the castle they're residing in. His room is fine, but certain parts of the place appear to be falling apart at the seams. Something he's swiftly reminded of when he goes from turning a page in his book as he heads down a flight of stairs, to said book being catapulted from his hands as he spends the next few seconds falling and crashing the rest of the way down, before landing in a rather bruised and bashed up and entirely unceremonious pile at the bottom step.

It's a big place, and so, as he warily opens his eyes a minute or so later, Christian's hoping that this went blissfully ignored - he'd much rather just explain that he fell down the stairs rather than be found looking like a rag doll. Nothing feels particularly broken, and he's keeping scraped-up fingers crossed that that'll hold true even after the shock's worn off.

Here in the midst of the dead and dreary wilderness, no one had come for the prince. Valryn thought it too easy, after enough time -- they're planning, plotting, perhaps they already know their whereabouts. Time is funny that way, birthing paranoia at first, then killing it slowly as it transpires; but, isn't that what time loves doing most?

As much as a dragon sat in his lair with his spoils, Valryn rarely moved out of the castle, and when he did, long distances could be reached with promptness and ease. He'd taken the blood of a powerful sorcerer long ago, kept his tomes of study before running off into the night. It made the travel all the easier.

Even then, Valryn found he could not often pull away. He grew impatient at the sunrise, forceful to wake at twilight. Even in the regularity of his captive's habits -- cooking a stew with a lack of success; pacing a room while engrossed in a book; or -- to Valryn's confusion -- painstakingly laying flowers down between pages of these old tomes, setting them aside with much reverence, having an entire bookcase just for them as to not be confused and read upon again. Not until they are ready.

Valryn couldn't understand him sometimes, but then, why did he need to? The helpless prince, his reservoir, did his service simply by existing. He could only drink from him once about every moon, for the proper timing, but that is all that he really needed. More than that was gluttonous, a flaw that he could not claim. In between...the prince held little importance. He was merely...a curiosity. Absolutely perplexing, really -- Valryn couldn't tell if it was earnest, or a ruse.

He hadn't been concerned about Christian escaping when he warned him about the deteriorating undergrounds and northwest wing of the castle, mostly looking to keep his asset in prime health. Still, after enough time passing without a single inkling of his majesty's court come to retrieve him...it was advantageous enough to wonder if the prince would try to take matters into his own hands soon enough. Who wouldn't try to escape, after so long? It seemed an imminent possibility, really. Even in someone like this soft prince, fear and self-preservation can make anyone into a cunning creature.

Valryn hears the clamoring disaster easily on his own, but the unending, serene silence of this dwelling with its surrounding expanses of cursed woodland around them makes it all that he can sense. He moves immediately, uncanny in his dexterity and his speed, moving directly to the source of the sound. The stones seem to echo with the raucous sound, but Valryn doesn't miss the soft shifting down the set of stairs leading to an access hallway. His mind is alight, logic and sense rising away from him like smoke. He hasn't a pulse to quicken, but adrenaline blooms through his veins like suffocating ivy; he bares his teeth in a silent snarl as he descends, nearly flying down the stairs -- and since his feet make not a sound on the stone stairs, perhaps that is exactly what it is that he does.

In the inky darkness, Valryn sees Christian immediately; with a hand whose strength is left unreigned, he grasps him by his shirt collar, dragging him up to his feet.

"You utter idiot," Valryn hisses, his voice booming lowly across the depths, bouncing off the tomb-like walls. His eyes, an irritated kind of rosy, leer dimly into the human's gaze. "Are you stupid enough to think you'll escape, or only more foolish than I thought?" To himself, his anger seems reasonable, especially while when angry, there is no drive or capacity to evaluate oneself and their manner in the moment.

Carefully, Christian makes himself push up from the floor, relieved when fresh pain doesn't shoot up from his wrists with the motion, and by some miracle he hasn't broken an ankle or both. A wary hand going to his head and pushing through his hair comes away decidedly blood-free. This is good; bruises and a bad headache he can deal with. The next few days will be sore, but at least he'll be upright.

What feels like only a few moments later, and he's on his feet whether he likes it or not. And while once upon a time having someone grab him and haul him about would have had him shrinking back, now he's more anxious about the dizziness washing over him. Valryn isn't really a source of fear anymore. He's clearly angry, but even now with his hand gripped in Christian's collar, the prince just takes it in stride.

Even he can admit this was slightly idiotic, albeit for an utterly different reason.

"No, I was just reading, and the,uh...the banister, I think? My hand slipped, or it was the step...I think the book's probably seen better days, wherever it is now."

This is all said surprisingly calmly, as though Valryn's just gently helped him up and has just asked if he's alright. "I think I need to sit down a minute...You weren't lying about the state of this place.."

Valryn waits for a clamor, a struggle, a sputtering response -- instead, the captive is compliant in his grasp. The drow's expression is sharp, angled in fury as he stares down the soft and idiotic human as he explains that he was --

Reading.

His expression doesn't change, but freezes uncannily. On impeccable ears, Valryn hears every word, perplexed at how absolutely reposeful Christian is about having crashed down a deteriorating stairwell. He's virtually unfazed aside for his damned book.

"And you nearly saw the last of your 'better days.'" Valryn growls as he drops the prince onto the crumbling rock that still tries to resemble a step at the bottom of this stairwell, before turning back into the swallowing darkness. Reading. Of all things, Christian was wandering senselessly about, his ignorance playing predator to his vulnerable lack of attention. Valryn is fuming with an eerie quiet, and really, it's part at himself; he can't figure out why that wasn't his first assumption.

He lets a few paces fall between them, scooping down to the floor in a brief and rigid movement, soft pages sliding against the dusty brick of the floor.

"You might have died, and really it's a wonder how you're still alive." At this moment, as well as in general, in life.

For the most part, Valryn's annoyance with him goes unnoticed. Or perhaps a better word is 'ignored' - Christian could fall from the highest turret of the castle and be considered brain dead and still be aware that Valryn was angry with him - but now he's simply choosing not to acknowledge it. He's used to it by now, so instead of cowering in it's shadow, he turns his attention to himself instead.

Gingerly massaging his fingertips into the side of his neck, Christian watches as Valryn stoops to pick up his book.

"I suppose being raised surrounded by armed guards had something to do with it up until this point; really now I'm relying on blind luck."

Despite himself and his current circumstance, he laughs to himself. "Blind luck, and sturdier banisters. That one hasn't quite come through for me, but I'm optimistic."

{ Ambrose would absolutely be the kind of captor who had arranged it with his desperate lover or friend in need of escape and protection. Could be romance established prior to the 'capture' or something that develops later.

Unless you'd like a captive vampire for some reason? I'm open to discussion! I'm just here for some tense and emotional storytimes for this guy. Info on journal but I'm happy to heavily AU the setting, or make it something more modern. }

It wasn't so much that Felix couldn't deal with the problems he was currently hiding out from as it was that he simply didn't want to. A few bad decisions lead to more bad decisions lead to family business and quite frankly that was around when Felix said 'Fuck it' and decided to book it. As long as he laid low for a couple weeks or so he was confidant that would give it enough time for things to blow over and let him resume his life as he had before.

The tricky part was finding a place to lay low. Would have to be one of the only family he liked was involved in this cluster fuck, and specifically one who knew most of Felix's places to lay low. That meant getting creative. Friend of a friend time.

Which was how he ended up in Abrose's apartment in the first place.

It worked out pretty well, they rarely crossed paths due to differing schedules and Felix tried to not be a bother on top of that. He was even behaving himself and not hitting on Abrose. Contrary to popular belief he had some self control... only when it couldn't be observed, really. Going over to the fridge he tried to be quiet in case Ambrose was sleeping as he fetched a beer from it and cracked it open. Rolling the metal lid between his fingers, he let out a small hiss when it turned out sharper than expected and neatly sliced one open.

"Motherfucker," Felix swore under his breath, dropping the lid on the counter and shoving his finger in his mouth. It was healed in an instant but that didn't stop the jagged cut from hurting in the first place.

It's possible that the presence of another has been more obvious to Ambrose, as it has been for his guest. Not quite a complaint -- privacies are firmly established, helped by the vague anonymity each has for the other. What looms over Ambrose's awareness is a heartbeat so very present in his domain, so constantly, now. The sounds of moving and breathing, soft living sounds that have begun to dull out the still silence that Ambrose's dwelling, as much as himself, exude like a chill from stone. He's lived completely alone since his emergence, and the time prior to that with fellow fledgling undead. 180 years since he last lived amongst living, breathing mortals -- and he'd been one of them then, too.

Of course, he hadn't been so hyper-aware of the pulse of blood of those he lived with then. Ambrose has no fear of being lured into letting his control slip -- he feels fully confident in his intentions, or really, lack thereof. He finds quickly, after only a few days, that while constantly aware of the other, he can tune it out with ease. He's still learning the full extent of his senses and capabilities, growing stronger and keener with time and blood.

He makes no rush to emerge from his room, awakening as twilight bruises the sky outside. Ambrose doesn't see it -- his windows packed more than adequately to keep any semblance of light out -- but feels its lack drain over the city instead. But he is certainly up and roaming when Felix decides it's 5 o'clock somewhere and goes in for an evening libation, having single-handedly made Ambrose's kitchen look more lived-in than any other part of his home, with the edible contents he's put in. Until now, it had been only an eerie fixture to the whole apartment, barren aside from the blood bags in the crisper drawer.

Ambrose hears a metallic crack, but he practically smells the blood first. His hands still with pen set to paper, him standing at his dresser and writing something down. Pale hazel irises are swallowed by hungering pupils widening involuntarily. Over the low hum of this instinct, Ambrose can hear Felix curse into the air, and his all-too human concern blooms open against what dead and dry earth makes his monstrous foundation.

Unfortunately, his predatory eagerness has him moving just too uncannily quickly, exiting the room and moving into the kitchen nearly instantaneously with just a few twitches of movement. It's happened by accident a few times now, something he has never anticipated, and has yet to harness. In truth, he could do without it, he thinks, and finds it only quite troublesome.

Ambrose stops silently behind Felix, eyes uncomfortably curious, but brows drawn up with his concern. "Are you hurt?" Comes his voice low, and considerably calm -- if it weren't for how forcibly even he has to make it. The blood is stronger in his nostrils, distracting in how much it stings his sense, as if he were drowning in it.

"Jesus unicorn fuck!” Felix exclaimed, this curse much louder, almost dropping the bottle of beer when Ambrose asked if he was alright. He turned to Ambrose, eyes briefly wide and startled, before sighing and shaking his head. “Warn a guy before you do the ninja thing next time, almost lost the beer.”

Felix wasn’t used to being snuck up on, but it did happen from time to time. It wasn’t like he was expecting bloodthirsty chaos beasts to leap out of Ambrose’s closet.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just - nicked myself on the bottle cap. Barely bled, see?” He held out his hand to Ambrose to show how it ‘wasn’t even bleeding anymore’. Except there was no wound there at all. Felix trusted Ambrose to not be able to tell, most people couldn’t for minor cuts.

There was still the bottlecap on the counter, mind, that had more than a few drops of blood it tore out of him, but that was neither here nor there.

Sorry, Felix -- Ambrose would try to warn you about an involuntary flare of vampiric prowess you call 'the ninja thing,' if Ambrose even knew what a 'ninja thing' was intended to be.

He jerks back at his guest's response, eyes widening with some new alarm of his own. "I'm-- I apologize," he offers, almost a little dazed, realizing what he must have just done... Had he really responded so...eagerly? He feels a bit awful just considering it, especially knowing what it was that sent him out of his room in the first place.

The vampire has to lean back in to inspect the finger that is only briefly displayed, perplexed at the lack of any wound to see. 'Barely bled' -- it didn't take much to strike his senses, but Ambrose sees nothing, yet can still smell it... Unfortunately, Ambrose is grabbing Felx's hand without much forethought -- not roughly, in fact his touch is gentle enough to be used on a small animal. Sorry, is this a weird behavior? Ambrose would have no idea, really. He seems perplexed, staring down at the hand, as if trying to crack a particularly tricky riddle.

"...I have bandages," he offers, looking around as if trying to find them here in this kitchen. In truth, his curiosity is like a dog's, with the bloody scent still in his nose. It's here, certainly...?

While Felix startled a bit at the contact, he didn't pull his hand away from Ambrose, letting the man inspect as he wished. Watched him, well, watching him.

He was a weird guy, but Felix had known plenty weirder. Ambrose didn't seem bad, which was the important thing. Or at least, not worse than Felix himself.

You can't fall off the floor, he thought to himself, taking a drink of the beer.

"It's fine, uh - I'm sure it'll be okay. I'll just make extra sure to wash my hands so it doesn't get infected," Felix said. You know, the completely sealed no longer real injury. He glanced around when Ambrose did, spotting the bloody bottlecap on the counter likely at the same time. "Aw fuck, I'll take care of that."

Ambrose is already plucking the bottlecap up from the counter -- his precise senses having guided him right toward the source of the very persistent scent -- in time with Felix noticing it. This is far from the concern of a pressing mystery, but it is as mystifying as a riddle... It's all as if none of this phases his guest at all.

"It's quite all right," Ambrose responds, thoughtful, eyes catching on the gleam of blood. He bites down on the inside of his bottom lip when the urge kicks up in his throat -- urge for what? More than blood; in particular, Ambrose is so momentarily caught by the sharp and full scent of fresh blood that he genuinely forgets the bags of blood in the fridge.

He looks to Felix...with a smile that is a little forlorn, only at the edges. His movements are stiff, but he lowers the roundly-shaped bit of metal into the trash, a small canister below the counter.

...Blood. Fridge. Right. Ambrose glances at Felix's drink and tries a more natural-looking smile. "Good idea," he says, seemingly at the bottle in the other man's hand, and turns to the fridge. Okay, much better now, this pang of keen attention to the lost blood wavering out like steam.

Ambrose is quick to open the fridge and reflexively retrieve a bag from a small drawer, once used for lunch meats and cheeses, not that Ambrose is aware of that intended function. "I...suppose I've never asked, partly for being polite..." Next, grabbing a glass from an upper cabinet. "Where is it you're visiting from? If it's not intrusive to ask."

Felix is lucky that Ambrose isn't aware of more than vampires such as himself, werewolves, humans touched by spirits of supernatural origin... He's never set eyes on something more than human-esque, in either appearance, or origin. He doesn't have suspicion, but he's certainly becoming...curious about his recent guest.

The wide rivers with their strange, flat boats were fascinating when Lee had first come to this region of Europe. Her parents had been upper class but indulgent, and they'd vacationed in this sunny part of the continent often during the late summers. Italy had been gorgeous, and a place that Lee was happy to roam through, watching traveling acrobats and occasionally getting scolded for trying to mirror their tricks back at them.

Until the Vampire happened, at least.

At first, when Lee woke up in a dark room with a chain around her ankle, she'd been stunned. Not because of what happened, but because she couldn't remember what happened. Disorientation had turned whatever stretched prior to it - prior to being safe in her parents' vacation home - into a nightmarish haze.

But then the Vampire had come into the room, and Lee remembered everything in a flash. A face - that face - beautiful like how painted angels were beautiful, calling to her without moving his mouth. He'd been still like a statue and Lee hadn't been afraid of him. She'd climbed straight out her window, shimmed across a roof and danced down scaffolding with excitement thudding through her. She'd never been encouraged to be so...so instictive, so un-ladylike. But she'd known the painted angel calling to her approved. She'd known it was why he was calling to her.

And then he'd moved like lightning, so fast Lee hadn't been sure it was him until she'd seen hair and smelled clothing, just clothing and no scent of skin, and she'd never realized she'd always smelled people's skin until there was nothing to smell.

She thinks she'd screamed. But she can't really remember.

*

The Vampire has other vampires living with him, but none of them visit Lee except one. The Other Vampire is beautiful like the Vampire, but he doesn't look like an angel. He looks like the painter who might have made those angels, though, might've seen them in his head and then put brush to church ceiling and let everyone else see them, too.

Lee doesn't think he painted the Vampire, though. Lee thinks maybe the Vampire was vain enough to want natural worshippers, and so he went after a beautiful artist to make the Other Vampire. She thinks that because she's overheard them argue - one-sided, bitter. She's seen the Other Vampire cry - more than once. He usually cries when he feeds from her, and he usually feeds from her with the Vampire in the room encouraging him. Lee isn't sure why the Other Vampire won't eat unless his angel-maker is there, and she wishes she didn't care.

It's just that with nothing else to wonder about, while they let her heal between feedings, Lee ends up wishing she knew.

*

She's been waiting five days for someone to come in. It's the Other Vampire, alone. Lee feels bad for a moment, thinking of the metal filing she'd used to undo her ankle shackle. But then she thinks of the bite marks on her neck, on her arms; the much more mundane bruising and bleeding on her ankle. She doesn't feel so bad, then.

She plays along as he comes closer to feed. Lee waits until he holds her - gently by the shoulders, so loose that she could pull away if it mattered - and this time it does.

The bread knife that she'd been able to sneak from their kitchen makes a wet sound as it plunges into his stomach. The resistance feels like trying to carve a turkey, but adrenaline helps Lee push it in almost the full length of the blade.

And then she's scrambling away, back, the unlocked shackle falling naturally open as she scoots away from the Other Vampire.

An estate of heartbeats, drumming all night, humming in his ears all day. The breaths and voices of the mortals tortured him in the halls above the basement dwellings, agony swelling with both guilt and desire.

This was Leon's way. A new family hailed from over the snow-capped Alps, unknown and easily missed once they'd been slaughtered. Their house was beautiful and grand. It turned Ambrose's stomach to see its lovely design become a richly-decorated façade, a golden veil over a bloodied maw of deadly sharp teeth.

He's too young, and too distracted. He still can't bear to press himself into these mortals' thoughts -- knowing what will reflect back unto him. The horror, the pain, the fear, the pleas. Monster. Yes, he knows. He watches them wither and rot and sees his fellow fledglings, radiant and decadent, and knows that the worst monsters do not appear as ugly and vile on the skin.

It's his pitfall, as he comes down to feed tonight. Leon says seeing their deception is easy, but Ambrose isn't strong enough to look for it. He comes to the young woman, richly-hued skin and long black, silken hair. Her resolve is somewhat of a comfort, her strength something of an assurance that she will not buckle under Ambrose. She's a survivor, he thinks -- does he simply infer it, or has he slipped into her mind, by accident? He doesn't know, and while he would rather leave her be then, he thinks he would rather not any of these indulgingly cruel 'brothers' have her.

He hears the knife rip his shirt and dig into his abdomen before he feels the pain. It's when he contracts the muscles around the foreign objects to move that he feels it, mouth gaping, eyes wide. It's alarming -- more than just unexpected from a captive. Ambrose has never been stabbed before.

What an uncomfortable sensation... He's dazed by it, a wet choking sound skipping out of his throat as one hand closes around the metal handle -- it's still warm from her holding it -- while the other drops and grabs her leg, just above the ankle, as he doubles over. Trembling, he jerks the knife out, gasping a sigh. He tenses around the wound as it knits itself back together, finding that he has to will it to happen.

His grip on the woman is iron-firm, but not bruising. Ambrose pants as he stares down at the dull knife, as if attempting to divine something from the gleam of the bright red blood. He can't help himself, and licks it clean in his stunned silence.

They've both managed to remain compliantly quiet here, whether if for the woman it's been for fear, or something else. Ambrose finally looks at her, but he does't look betrayed -- rather, as if he's just awoken, as if seeing her more clearly now than he has up until this very night. He sees her with understanding.

"...Are you going to attempt an escape," Ambrose whispers, voice quivering as he keeps his tone soft. He doesn't let go of the young woman, his grip almost more pleading than it is commanding.

Lee gasps at the hand on her lower leg, but she's instinctively silent, biting down on a scream like her life depends on it. In the moment, it feels like it does. Right now there's just one vampire angry at her, but if she screams - or if he does - then there'll be more. A lot more, depending on who's home.

She can't help it. She looks at his stomach, where all his stolen blood washes out. It weights his shirt down and makes it stick to his skin and the knife, means Lee can't see the cut itself as he pulls out the blade. He doesn't move like someone dying. Will he survive a knife to the stomach? Lee wouldn't, but then, Lee wouldn't survive on blood alone, either.

Lee kicks viciously at the hand on her ankle, the sole of her free foot colliding with a hand that feels like it was carved from wood. She makes a sound then, when it doesn't budge, a low helpless roar that only comes through gritted teeth. "Of course!" She stares at him, blunt fingernails grabbing at the stone floor, trying to find anything to grab onto, to pull herself back and away from him. His eyes look so sad and liquid, like they always do. "How can you even ask me that? Doesn't everyone here try to escape?"

Edited 2018-06-06 03:10 (UTC)

[ prefer captive, with Will seeing a softer/tragic aspect to the monster while kidnapped, and them gradually falling for each other. completely open both to 'genuinely nice and just misunderstood' or 'actually terrible, just also sympathetic' style monsters. monstrous appearances loved but not required.

cross-canon, ocs, etc all good, as are both m/f and m/m. would love to start near the beginning at first to establish tone and then skip around the timeline as wanted/needed to get that sweet sweet slow burn goin'. prefs in journal. ]

Edited 2018-05-17 02:46 (UTC)

[He could take up either role, though he tends to be more mischievous - and shameless - and less monstrous. Then again, he is a powerful Mage.]

[Either role. Captive more likely. Character info in the journal, but he's a wereraven. He is an excellent information gatherer/spy/general sneak. Among his skills are an eidetic memory, the ability to repeat a conversation he's heard word for word, and the power to see the last moments of a person's life by well... drinking the corpse's eyes. Gross, yeah. But for his kind, bearing witness is a kind of sacred duty.]

Edited 2018-05-17 14:44 (UTC)