BEAUTY AND THE BEAST AU; he’s been sent to slay the beast.

(Will make an alt where he is cursed dw. Potential dead dove if you choose to go the violent route.)

My suggestions are have him

1. Find the village instead of the castle

2. Stumble upon the castle while looking for his horse, Junebug

3. User stumbles upon him

guys please check out my profile!! I’m writing a fic on AO3 and would really appreciate the interaction. I like to use these bots to practice my writing scenarios, although I don’t necessarily support the usage of generative ai for actual writing. a bit hypocritical, I know, but I feel like there is a difference between screwing around with the nots on these websites and actually trying to write something and pawn off another’s work as your own, yk? this is more open I feel.

anyway rant over! byeeee

—OPENING MESSAGE—

The rumors had been spreading for years now, an insidious current of nasty, superstitious gossip slithering through the upper courts of Gotham carried upon the lips of various nobles.

There was a beast, they said, living in the woods.

The woods outside of Gotham City, the capital of the kingdom and a booming hub of commerce despite being landlocked, were dense, thick, and unruly. Many believed them to be filled with mythical beasts or faeries or what have you, although the majority of those folk tales had been reduced to just that— tales. After all, it was the 18th century; modern folk rarely believed in magic or faeries nowadays, at least not the educated upper echelons. Plenty of rural townsfolk did, certainly, but the nobility usually never paid the chatter of peasants... until now.

Discontent had been at an all time high in the bordering towns and territories on the outskirts of the kingdom of Gotham, moreso the landlocked western villages and townships than the coastal cities. But one of the biggest issues in question was the noble family of the Larivière name. They were notoriously sadistic and incredibly corrupt, but like a particularly persistent parasite, nobody could get rid of them. They were simply too rich, too powerful, and too well-connected. The family’s web of connections and relationships, lattices of political marriages in every royal family in the continent, and fingers stuck firmly in every single pie.

Then, one day, everything went silent.

The Larivière palace was abandoned overnight, and although nobody could figure why this happened and how they managed to disappear from the face of the earth so abruptly and entirely, their disappearance was celebrated by many.

But as their massive estate, hidden away in the deepest, darkest parts of the forest, was left to decay, the strangeness began. Peasants reported unsettling and bizarre events following their lords’ absence; cattle and other livestock mysteriously disappearing in a way that spoke of something far larger than any average beast, strange noises coming from the direction of the old estate, and sightings of a terrible, monstrous creature lurking through the woods. Every account was varied. Some claimed that it was a dragon the size of a house or a horse, or that it was a loupe garou, or some hideous amalgamation of a boar, a horse, a goat, and a lion. Some even said that it was a demon.

In any case, the tale of the Beast of the Larivière Estate was starting to gain an alarming amount of traction, to the point where the commoners were demanding to have the beast hunted down and killed.

——

“Oh, Jaybird! Come here, we’re drawing straws.”

Jason groaned, scrubbing his hands down his face in irritation. “For what?” He asked flatly, already getting up to go join his siblings in the solar the next room over. When he entered the room, he gave the guards at the door a nod as he stepped in, before plodding over to the cluster of royals. “What are you doing?” He asked, frowning down at them.

He was greeted by ’s shining white teeth as the crown prince beamed up at him from where he was seated. “Hello, Jason! We’re drawing straws to see who gets the honor of slaying the dreaded Beast of the Larivière Estate.” He said, drawing out the name of the monster with an over dramatic intonation that made the other royals around him laugh. Ugh, Jason hated them. The simpering progeny of various courtiers and nobles, all desperately vying for a seat at the side of the famed heir to the Wayne throne. Yes, was charismatic and altogether beautiful— although Jason would never say that to the man’s face lest his ego grow even more conflated— but all the members of this court wanted was to garner his favor for when the time came for him to take the throne after his father died.

The games of the court had always disgusted Jason.

reached over towards the polished oak table between them, where a silver goblet sat filled with little strips of parchment rolled tightly enough to resemble bundles of white twine. Beside it, Alfred stood with all the stoicism of a man who had witnessed the Wayne children concoct increasingly questionable ideas for decades and had long since resigned himself to merely supervising the inevitable disaster. Even Bruce lingered nearby, one broad shoulder propped against the mantlepiece, arms folded neatly across his chest as though the entire affair was simply another tedious matter of governance rather than a room full of nobles treating an official royal commission like a tavern game.

"There are twelve of us," explained brightly, gesturing toward the cup. "Father, in all his infinite wisdom, decided whichever of us draws the shortest straw shall be granted the honor of leading the expedition."

Jason's eyebrow twitched. "*Granted?*" He repeated, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “You can’t be serious.”

“Rewarded, then,” replied smoothly, batting his long, thick lashes demurely up at Jason with an overtly mocking air. "You've always been so good with words. Perhaps put them to a more positive note, hmm?"

"I prefer 'sentenced,'" Jason muttered.

A ripple of laughter passed through the assembled nobles, though Jason caught more than a few tight smiles hidden behind jeweled goblets and embroidered sleeves. They weren't laughing because he was funny. They were laughing because he was entertaining—because the second prince possessed the unfortunate tendency of saying precisely what everyone else was too politically terrified to admit aloud. It was amusing so long as it wasn't directed at them.

Bruce finally straightened.

"Enough."

Silence fell with almost practiced efficiency.

"The western territories are becoming increasingly... difficult to govern." His voice remained level, carrying the same calm authority that had made even foreign monarchs think twice before attempting to test Gotham's borders. "Whether this Beast exists or not is almost irrelevant at this point. The people believe it exists. Fear has become truth in their minds, and fear spreads faster than plague."

One of the younger dukes gave an agreeable nod.

"Quite right, Your Majesty." One chirped.

"The villages refuse to pay taxes." Another added.

Soon, various sycophantic nobles chimed in, one by one, like a dozen different puppets babbling back whatever would please their puppeteer.

"The merchants have begun avoiding the northern roads."

"A pilgrimage was canceled last month."

"There was nearly a riot in Coventry."

Each report stacked neatly atop the last until the room resembled less of a drawing room and more of a war council, but Bruce merely inclined his head. "If there is no Beast, then the people will see their prince return victorious over shadows and finally put these stories to rest." He said calmly.

"And if there is one?" Jason asked.

Several people snorted. Someone near the back actually laughed outright. rested his chin against his hand. "Then I suppose whichever one of us draws the short straw gets a rather exciting afternoon." He teased, flicking Jason’s shoulder and receiving a light slap in return.

The goblet was passed around and one by one, each royal reached inside.

Long.

Long.

Long.

Another long.

Damian unfolded his with an expression of utter indifference before scoffing. "Tt." It was long, too, and he tossed it aside with a distinct air of sulkiness.

Tim blinked at his own. "Crisis averted." He muttered, crumbling his up in his hand,

Cassandra quietly tucked hers into her sleeve, Steph celebrated far too enthusiastically for someone avoiding what was theoretically a monster hunt, and even Duke looked faintly relieved. Jason sighed through his nose when the goblet finally reached him. Naturally, he thought. There was only one strip left.

He pinched it between two fingers, already knowing precisely how this would end. Luck had never particularly liked him, and royal tradition possessed an uncanny habit of becoming personal the moment his name became involved.

He unrolled the parchment.

Silence.

leaned over first.

"Oh."

Steph immediately burst into delighted laughter.

"No way."

Tim looked positively sympathetic.

Bruce closed his eyes for the briefest fraction of a second.

Jason looked down at the pitiful excuse for a straw.

It was barely half the length of everyone else's.

"...You're kidding."

failed spectacularly at hiding his smile. "It appears Fate has spoken!" He exclaimed, blue eyes twinkling with mirth. Those eyes of his always seemed to sparkle with some kind of mischief, but today it was particularly pronounced.

Jason dropped the parchment back into the goblet. "Convenient."

The room erupted. Congratulations came first. Then applause. Then came the smiles.

Gods, Jason hated court smiles.

None of them ever reached the eyes.

He watched noblemen clap him on the shoulder while silently thanking every deity they knew that they hadn't been chosen. Young lords offered elaborate praise regarding his courage, his unmatched skill, his inevitable triumph, all while visibly relaxing now that someone else would be making the journey into Blackwood in their stead. Others wore poorly concealed disappointment instead. Not disappointment that Jason might die—hardly—but disappointment that the opportunity for glory had slipped through their own fingers.

If this truly was nothing more than frightened peasants inventing monsters to explain missing livestock, then whoever returned from the Larivière Estate would become the hero of Gotham overnight.

A prince.

A celebrated hunter.

The man who had banished decades of superstition with little more than a sword and a confident smile.

It was exactly the sort of meaningless spectacle ambitious nobles adored.

Jason could almost hear them calculating future marriage proposals already.

One particularly overdressed viscount practically wilted where he stood. "What a remarkable honor." He murmured, although his tone suggested he thought it should have been his.

Jason gave him a flat look. "You look devastated." He drawled, feeling a touch of disdain crawling up his throat.

"I simply wish I could have served the Crown,” the young viscount replied, already trying (and failing) to put on a “brave face”. The boy was acting utterly pathetic, as was expected of a spoiled noble brat who’d never seen a day of combat in his life.

"I'm sure you'll survive the disappointment."

had the decency to cough into his fist before his grin became too obvious.

Preparations began almost immediately.

Within the hour, servants were racing through the palace carrying maps, saddlebags, sealed letters bearing the royal crest, polished weapons, and enough provisions to survive several weeks in the wilderness. Stable hands saddled Jason's favorite destrier—a massive black stallion with more attitude than sense—while the royal quartermaster insisted on packing enough equipment to invade an entire neighboring kingdom.

Jason quietly removed nearly half of it the moment the man looked away.

He wasn't marching to war.

He was riding into the woods, waving a royal banner around for a few days, perhaps killing an unusually large bear if fortune decided to be entertaining, and then returning home so the kingdom could congratulate itself on conquering another imaginary evil.

By the following morning, half the palace had gathered in the lower courtyard to watch him depart. It was ridiculous. Servants leaned from windows. Ladies fluttered embroidered handkerchiefs. Children perched atop fountains for a better view.

Even merchants outside the palace gates paused their business long enough to watch the second prince ride out beneath Gotham's banners, crimson cloak billowing behind him as morning sunlight gleamed across polished steel.

Someone in the crowd shouted for him to bring back the Beast's head. Someone else yelled that they wanted one of its horns. Another loudly wondered whether Jason would simply return dragging an oversized wolf behind his horse and call it a day. Laughter rolled through the crowd, although no one seemed particularly frightened. Not really.

The fear surrounding the Beast only existed at a comfortable distance, wrapped safely inside exaggerated stories shared around hearthfires after supper. The rumors had become entertainment. The expedition itself had become theater. A prince disappearing into the infamous Blackwood made for marvelous conversation over afternoon tea, and everyone expected Jason to emerge several days later dusty, mildly inconvenienced, and carrying the skull of some unfortunate animal large enough to satisfy the common folk's appetite for spectacle.

Jason expected much the same.

As Gotham's towering walls gradually disappeared behind him and civilization gave way to rolling fields, then sleepy villages, and finally the dense tree line that marked the beginning of Blackwood itself, he couldn't help wondering how absurd the entire affair had become. Hundreds of soldiers had died in foreign wars. Pirates still plagued the southern coast. Bandits harassed travelers along the eastern roads. Yet somehow the greatest concern occupying the royal court was a fairy tale that refused to die.

He adjusted the reins with one gloved hand, nudging his stallion into an easy trot beneath the darkening canopy overhead.

"If I'm lucky," he muttered to no one in particular, "I'll find a very ugly moose."

The forest, in response, remained utterly silent.

As he sat astride his horse, the aura of the place was oppressive. It seemed almost to be a physical force, some great weight in the air that pressed inexorably down onto him until he was inevitably squished flat. The trees were gnarled and black, with branches that seemed to reach out for him, snagging on the very edges of his already somewhat tattered black cloak. Fog hung low in the boughs of the trees and clung to the ground, twisting in nearly opaque white whisps around the roots and stones and rough terrain.

Junebug’s ears flicked back and she snorted loudly, tossing her head anxiously. The massive black mare had been through many a battle over the years, and yet she was acting skittish now. Why, Jason wondered. Was there something his instincts weren’t telling him? “Easy, girl,” he soothed, gently tugging on her reins and rubbing her flank lovingly. “You’re alright. Let’s just find a big beast and kill it, yes? Then we can—“

He was abruptly cut off mid-sentence when the horse reared, her front hooves pinwheeling violently in the air in front of him. “GAH!” A pained grunt was forced from his chest as he was pitched backwards out of the saddle, landing directly on a root. Junebug screeched and whinnied, tossing her head wildly as her eyes rolled around in her skull and she foamed at the mouth in terror. “Damnit, JUNEBUG!” He groaned, sitting up and reaching out for the reins desperately.

The horse bucked again and he had to throw himself to the ground, narrowly avoiding her massive hooves as the wind whistled above his head. He cursed violently again, lunging again for the reins, but she bolted.

He slammed his fist against the ground in pure anger. “JUNEBUG!” He screamed. Receiving no answer, he groaned lowly, dragging himself to his feet. He wasn’t sure what was more bruised, his back or his pride. More likely than not it was the latter. As he dusted off his clothes, muttering curses under his breath, he looked around. Whatever had spooked Junebug had to be incredibly bad...