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sightseertrespasser · 1 day ago

Note

Everything you've shared so far about the reverse mecha au really got the ideas going, and I just had to get this out of my system. It's still a rough draft and there's a lot I want to do with this and improve on, but I'm just happy I finally got it written down.

Prowl threw himself into the shadows of an enormous doorway as a line of blinding light widened and filled the dimmed corridor. He squeezed his eyes shut against the growing glow and strained his ears for any kind of noise. If the scratchy swishing was anything to go by, the Quintesson was moving away from him.

He peeked out from his hiding spot once the blaze of light disappeared from behind his eyelids. In the darkness he could just make out a massive form growing smaller and smaller as it moved down the passageway. He waited a few more seconds just to be safe, then dashed away in the opposite direction.

It hadn’t been long since he’d escaped from his cell, but he had no idea when his captors would decide to check on their prisoner. They could discover his absence any moment, and wouldn’t that be fantastic. He stood no chance against those aliens without his mecha, and it’d be infinitely more difficult to locate it and get out if the whole ship was out to find him—because he wasn’t dumb; for some reason the Quints wanted him alive.

It’d been a blur, his capture. From what he could recall though, the Quintessons had used much more excessive force on Jazz than on him. He couldn’t say why exactly they wanted him alive (though it certainly didn’t bode well for him), but he had no intention of finding out. At least, not while vulnerable.

So he had to get to his mecha and fast. Or Jazz, if he could find him. Whatever came first; he wouldn’t complain.

He picked up the slightest hissing sound, like air escaping from a balloon. Up ahead, another line of light struck the corridor wall as a door began to slide open. Prowl didn’t wait to see what came next; he sprinted for the closest doorway, (a much larger one, he noted distractedly). Squinting against the growing illumination, he pressed himself further into the fading shadows. This time, however, no actual door stopped his movement.

He stumbled into a dark room, the light in the corridor spilling into it like grasping fingers. Yet as quickly as it appeared, the darkness just as swiftly overtook it. He heaved a sigh of relief when he realized the Quintesson in the hallway also moved farther away.

He picked himself up and raised his head, only to be met with a sight he didn’t entirely expect.

Prowl had no words. He didn’t think it’d be this easy, but lo and behold, right at the end of the room stood his mecha. He could only make out the rough shape of it, but there was no mistaking the wings. He scanned the room (at least as well as he could) and listened for any unwanted company.

Nothing.

He stayed near the wall as he approached, already formulating a way to actually enter the mecha. It’d be difficult without a gangway, but he could make do with some of the structures already in the room. The huge boxes were too large, but that cylindrical shape—

Prowl froze.

He stared at the blurry silhouette, hardly believing his eyes. When he walked closer, though, there really wasn’t any denying it. Craning his head, Prowl made out the distinct shape of a weapon only one pilot ever managed to use.

He turned his attention back to the mecha, to the mecha he’d been so sure was his own (because only Support Class models had those wings, not Rescue, not Tanks, not Scouts). Except this close and he picked out all the small differences. The sleeker design meant to enhance mobility and speed. The specialized armor on the legs meant to support the mecha as it fired round after round. The guarded ports on its wrists so the massive firearm could integrate with the its systems more efficiently. The numbers that definitely did not read 028.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Prowl vaguely remembered a familiar voice mentioning “how cool it’d be to have wings like that!”

Against all odds, against everything he knew, here stood Bluestreak’s mecha intact and whole—sporting the wings his brother always wanted.

===========================

Bluestreak opened his eyes to a ceiling he didn’t recognize and stared at it, a bit dazed but intrigued nonetheless.

It was a little funny. Unlike the neat interior of his mecha or the orderly structure of Cybertronian ships, the ceiling looked like a piece of art. Like . . . like abstract art; like those paintings he could never really figure out. That's what the swirls and shapes reminded him of! The waves and curves ran along the entire ceiling like countless tiny streams converging and scattering. Did they start as one big wave, or had they begun as millions of tiny ones until they formed a whole?

Bluestreak tried craning his head to find out, but it moved too slow. He tried pushing himself up next, but only managed to curl the tips of his fingers.

Hmm, that was funny.

It was like his whole body was asleep. Or like it was super heavy . . . like if gravity was pressing down on him so much to keep in place. Yeah, exactly like that, because try as he might, nothing moved as he wanted except his eyes.

Well that’s not right—hold on.

A giddy laugh escaped his numb lips.

Sunny and Sides had pointed out that being confined to his mecha was like house arrest. Now that he was stuck in his own body, did that make him a fleshy prison? A fleshy prison for his soul? Or was it his spark? Wait, no, Sunny and Sides had sparks; he had a soul. Unless . . . what if those were just different words for the same thing? Actually it probably was since that sort of thing happened in basically every language. Aliens could have their own language but they’d probably have words to describe some of the same things he knew. Yeah, that was probably it. He’d already learned that concept first hand when he figured out Sunny’s and Side’s language. Maybe they knew about it too? Didn’t they say they’d been all over the universe? He was pretty sure they did. He’d have to ask about . . . ask about . . . There was something he wanted to tell—no ask—Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.

Bluestreak racked his brain for that something, but anytime he thought he grasped at it, it slipped away like fog. It was on the tip of his tongue, but it stubbornly refused to make itself known. How was he supposed to tell them this thing he didn’t know if he didn’t know what it was? They’d been patient enough waiting for him to talk but—actually, now that he thought about it, that wasn’t right. Things were kinda too quiet.

Normally Sideswipe had something to say when Bluestreak really got going, and Bluestreak always made a point to leave enough pauses so he could have his say too. And if he had nothing to add, Sunstreaker usually had short responses to keep the conversation going.

He scanned the room as well as he could, at least until it hurt trying to look out through his peripherals. He was pretty sure it was empty, well, aside from him of course.

So . . . it was just him in this med bay (at least, he thought it was a med bay what with all the beeping and whirring from behind him; if he could look behind himself there’d probably all sorts of machinery). Maybe the Twins didn’t want to be in this med bay; they did only ever go to medics they trusted, and he knew from experience they wouldn’t step foot into an unknown one if they could help it. Except . . . they wouldn’t let him go to an unknown one either. So maybe being in a strange room by himself wasn’t such a good thing even though he was able to be there without his head feeling like it was burning at a million degrees?

Bluestreak suddenly wished his brain wasn’t as murky as it was. It’d be so much easier to figure things out that way. Or if he could just ask Sunstreaker and Sideswipe about all this since they’d probably—

Footsteps echoed outside the room and he stared down his nose trying to see who’d enter.

“There you are!” The white and black Cybertronian who stepped into the weird med bay was definitely not Sunstreaker or Sideswipe—and he’d definitely just spoken English.

That was . . . surprising. Bluestreak couldn’t remember the last time he heard someone speak it.

The Cybertronian chuckled. “Did you get another concussion? What else would I be using with you?”

Had he said that out loud? “Oh, uh, it’s just basically everyone else I’ve seen doesn’t and I’m pretty sure none of them even know about it so this is definitely a surprise.”

“Riiiight.” The Cybertronian stepped closer then looked him up and down. His blue visor gleamed when he glanced to something behind Bluestreak. “Well none of this looks like it's trying to kill you. Let me figure out how to disconnect everything.”

“Oh, well that’s good. It’d kinda suck if it was killing me.”

“You’re telling me. Now, can you get up or . . . ”

“Right now it’s like gravity decided to pin me to this berth. That or maybe my body just got heavier?”

“Okay, I’m just going to help you up so I can start unhooking everything. Please let me know if anything starts hurting.” He gently slipped his fingers beneath Bluestreak’s back and carefully slid him back until he leaned against the beeping machine. “So how’re you feeling? Any other weird side effects aside from that and tolerating light?”

Tolerating light? “I mean, aside from becoming a fleshy prison for my spark-soul it’s also kinda nice to be outside my mecha prison without all the extra pain, you know? I mean, it’d also be nice if I could actually sit up on my own but other than that I think I’m doing just fine. Oh, by the way, if you can let Sunny and Sides know I’m okay that’d be really great!”

Now that he wasn’t on his back, he saw the mess of wires and cables trailing all over his body. Every few seconds he’d feel a soft tug from behind, then one of those wires retracted away from him. It was mesmerizing to watch, and he would’ve continued watching if not for the flare of light at his side.

He glanced up at the nice Cybertronian and found the gleaming blue visor focused on him.

“Er, is something wrong?” This time when he tried craning his head, his body actually complied. “I mean I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with you watching me, I appreciate the company, it’s just no one but the Twins really get this close to me. Something about how the others aren’t as used to organics, I guess.”

The visor continued to shine on him. “You’re not Prowl, are you?”

“Umm, no.” Bluestreak knew they looked similar, but was it really—waitaminute. His brain latched onto what he’d just said. “Wait . . . you’re looking for Prowl.”

“Uh, yeah. But now that I’m here I think you could do with some help too.”

“No—hold on—if you’re looking for Prowl that means he’s here? Like, on this ship here, right?” He didn’t wait for answer. “Can you take me to him?”

===========================

They watched the Quintesson turn the corner, waiting until the scraping of its armor faded away. Neither uttered a word; right now stealth was everything. The necessity of silence ruled out verbal communication, and the jamming device on the Quint ship compromised their comms. Though for them, that was hardly an obstacle.

//Found him yet?// Sunstreaker asked across their sparkbond.

//I think he should be up ahead.// Sideswipe answered.

Incredulity blossomed across their connection. //You think?//

//Well whenever the jamming isn’t messing with my sensors, I’m able to see an organic lifeform somewhere in front of us. So unless you found a way to deal with that, this’s the best we got.//

//Fine, let’s just get him and get out.// His brother made no sound as he sent that, but the frustration across their bond was enough to make up for it.

Sideswipe didn’t miss the way his hands tightened on his energon blades either. //Look, I know you’re twitchy with this many Quints, but—//

//I know. I’m not stupid.//

//Hey, just saying.//

//Yeah yeah. But if they did anything to him . . . //

//Nah, I got it. There’ll be a bloodbath for sure.//

They continued down the corridor until they reached the only open door they could see. Sunstreaker watched the hall while Sideswipe scanned the room. His sensors had cleared up some, but it still blurred with interference. From what he could tell though, the dot indicating Blue’s location had to be someone in the room. It would make sense too. His mech stood upright and offline at the back, his gun laid neatly at its pedes. If he’d managed to get away from the Quints, of course he’d go for his mech to get out.

//I don’t see anyone, but this is his last known location.// Sideswipe sent.

//This is the only room he could’ve entered, and there’s no sign of him out here.// Sunstreaker followed him in and used the blinking panel to close the door. //Let’s check it out.//

“Blue, you here?” Sideswipe called softly.

No answer.

//Can you see where exactly he is now?//

//Give me a klik.//

//Fine. I’ll check his mecha; maybe he’s inside and needs a power jump?// Sunstreaker approached it slowly and spoke quietly. “If you’re in there Blue, let me know now. Or else I’m assuming you need help getting your mech back online.”

Again, nothing.

Sideswipe watched his brother step up to the mech, hands slowly moving to its chassis. At the same time, the feedback in his HUD finally cleared. //Got something.//

Sunstreaker paused and followed his actions as he move to the side.

Sideswipe focused on the blinking dot and scanned the stacks of containers until—there! Peering over one of the lower stacks, he found a familiar head of white.

“Guess you didn’t need us for your grand escape, huh?” He lowered his hand. “Are you okay? I don’t know what the Quints did, but we gotta get you back to your mech and get outta here.”

He expected a flurry of chatter, maybe even some surprised exclamations. He did not at all anticipate the unintelligible yelling.

Sunstreaker rushed to his side in an instant. The fact he forewent their spark bond attested to his own shock. “Do you want us to get caught?”

“It’s not my fault!” Sideswipe protested. He tried scooping Bluestreak up, but their friend simply darted out of reach. “Just—Blue, it’s us!”

The human showed no signs of understanding or recognizing them. In fact, he went so far as to try running away.

Sunstreaker pushed the containers aside, cutting off his mad dash. “Bluestreak, come on.” His hand darted forward and grabbed him with deadly precision.

If he was yelling before, now he was screaming—and hitting.

“Wha—Blue, stop!” Sunstreaker met Sideswipe’s gaze. “Any ideas?”

“For starters don’t drop him!”

“No slag,” he snapped. “What else?”

“The Quints are probably behind this, so whatever they did we just have to reverse!”

“And how’re we supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know, maybe get him to his mech?”

“If he’s fighting us like this, what’s to stop him from fighting us when he’s inside it?”

“Well do you have any bright ideas?” Sideswipe demanded. The glare he got in response told him all he needed to know. “Look, let’s just get out of here. We have some good medics and scientists; they’ll know what to do.”

Sunstreaker held Bluestreak further away as his yelling devolved into screeching. “Yeah, good plan, except now our stealth’s fragged.”

Sideswipe had nothing to say to that. Yeah . . . things were a bit more complicated now.

===========================

Jazz held his hand over his shoulder, careful not to jostle Bluestreak as he moved down the corridor. Although, he probably didn’t have to worry about catching him any longer. Now that he wasn’t hooked up to that monstrosity of a machine pumping him full of Primus knew what, Bluestreak was more steady on his feet. In fact, Prowl’s brother seemed to have regained most of his mobility and presence of mind.

He no longer swayed as he held on to Jazz’s fingers, and he now kept his head on a swivel as they travelled through the Quintesson ship. Every now and then he’d point to something in the distance, and Jazz would follow his new directions. It wasn’t like he had any better idea of where to go; he’d mapped out most of the upper levels of the ship when he’d infiltrated, not those at the rear. Besides, the interference to most of his sensors also impeded them, so any direction (as long as it included minimal Quints) was better than none at all.

He felt a spike of nervousness from his shoulder, and scanned the darkened corridor. His visor picked up the slightest movement from the intersecting hallway up ahead, and he darted back to the corner they’d just passed. The faint sound of Quintesson armor scraping against itself echoed in the silence, then faded. Jazz peered around the corner and caught a glimpse of inky tentacles as the Quint moved out of the passageway. He glanced back at Bluestreak and gave a small nod. The human returned it with a shaky thumbs up.

Not for the first time, he wished they had some way to talk through comms. Sure, he could rely on Bluestreak’s EM field to get a basic read of threats he saw, but comms would’ve simplified communication. And given them a chance to actually talk.

Their first interaction might not have been the most accurate portrayal of character, but that along with the constant activity of Bluestreak’s EM field made it clear the human had a lot to say. The urge to speak became a tangible thing on his shoulder, one he could sympathize with. It wasn't often that—

Bluestreak’s EM field spiked with confusion, then jolts of shock.

Jazz looked his way and found him gripping his fingers. He scanned the corridor, then asked softly, “Bluestreak, what’s wrong?”

It took him a moment to answer. “You know how I mentioned I wasn’t able to stay outside my mech—” he squeezed his eyes shut like Prowl did when the lights were too much, then brought a hand to his head “—for long? I think whatever the Quints did so I’d be okay in that lab is wearing off.”

That wasn't good. “Then we better get you to your mech and fast.”

He began to move past the corner when muffled shouting drew him to a stop. The yelling—in languages he understood—was close by.

Jazz scanned the passageway again. No one new in sight, but the shouting clearly came from the hallway up ahead. He thought he could make out some pretty colorful swears and something about . . . a race?

Bluestreak managed a weak smile. “Something tells me we should check that out.”

“I’m inclined to agree.”

Jazz stepped away from their hiding place and moved towards the noise. Hopefully they’d be the only ones who noticed the commotion.

Well, I wanted to keep going with the eventual reunion and the epic fight scene, but that's something I want to do justice to (so maybe next time, hopefully). 'Cause that'd have a great way to explain why Blue had the wings added to his mecha (I was thinking maybe he got them installed later by the Cybertronian scientists who'd helped him before, probably to help him with processing all the information he'd be getting? And to his mind, what would be better to use as a reference than the one other mecha he knew pretty well?) Oh, and that bit about a race...I thought it'd be funny if Sunny and Sides finally settled on the idea of just transforming and racing out of the ship. Like Jazz and Blue enter the room to see them fighting about who'd be taking "Blue" with them, and their arguing had just devolved into who's the fastest

This was a treat to read!

Love it when things get shuffled around a characters have to improvise how’ll they’ll work together on the fly.

Also love the use of Prowl’s crappy vision to draw out the reveal. Poor dudes loosing his mind most likely trying to interrogate Sunny and Sides for the location of his brother.

#asks #reverse mecha au

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talesfromawannabewriter · 1 day ago

Text

Submissive, Respectful, and above all Obedient

@things-arent-what-they-seem66

Lucifer sighed out for the thousandth time as he tapped his claws anxiously on the meeting table he was seated at.

Awaiting for none other than representatives of Heaven to meet with him to discuss a grave matter.

According to the letter they sent they wished to discuss the exterminations. They claimed that wanted nothing more than to claim a ceasefire.

However Lucifer was skeptical of what their intentions were.

When his daughter had come back from her disaster of a court hearing with the Heavenly council she explained what they told her.

They would make no hasty decisions and they would keep all their options open until they were able to decide on what was best.

Which was now he supposed.

He had to say that it was quite a spectacle for him to have been the one to arrive first. Usually they were always on his ass about punctuality.

Even Adam would jump on him like a wolf if he was even a second late. But then again he was Heaven’s prized lapdog.

Always doing what they request of him without even a hint of hesitation on his end. It was disappointing to say the least.

Even after being given free will this was what he chose to do with it. Serving out Heaven’s grace and commands.

There was a sudden light that appeared before him as he was graced with the presence of none other than an angel he hadn’t seen since his fall.

Ezekiel.

An elder of Heaven that had been around since the very beginning. He was a throne who never bothered in hiding his true form.

Lucifer was surprised by his presence as it was this angel who was the first to support the extermination to happen.

Beside him was a young seraphim that he had never seen before. She appeared to be around Charlie’s age.

What caught his attention about her was how she was shivering. Not from coldness but what he saw as possible fear as she tried to hold back her tears.

Ezekiel: Lucifer Morningstar, we have much to discuss.

Lucifer: That we do Ezekiel, you claimed that you wish to stop the exterminations?

Ezekiel: Yes, I think it’s time we come up with a more productive approach to this whole issue of overpopulation.

Lucifer: What would that be?

Ezekiel: First allow me to ask you, how long has it been since you’ve been without a queen?

Lucifer: …..Almost eight years.

Ezekiel: What if I told you that Heaven will compensate the loss of your old queen for a new one?

Lucifer: What?

Ezekiel: In exchange for keeping your sinners and Hellborn in check and never even suggesting the idea of an uprising amongst them we shall give you a wife. One that would satisfy any desire you have or wish for.

Ezekiel clicked his fingers and the shaking seraphim’s head snapped over to the throne.

Ezekiel: Emily would you please retrieve the girl.

That wasn’t a question and the seraphim knew it as she tried not to choke on her own tears while standing up and leaving.

For a few minutes it was only tense silence as Lucifer tried to stare at anything BUT Ezekiel and his multiple eyes.

When Emily had arrived he almost breathed out a sigh of relief. But stopped when he saw the woman next to him.

She appeared to be a mortal woman with not even a hint of divinity or damnation.

She was simply human.

But she was oh so beautiful. Possibly the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen.

She was wearing a pure white robe like dress. Her figure was generously curvaceous. A head full of long curly brown locks. Her head was bowed as if she dared not to look up.

Ezekiel: Lucifer meet Ada, she is everything that a husband could wish for in a wife and more. She will do your every bidding without complaint and be at your back and call. Isn’t that right child?

Ada: Yes my lord, I will gladly serve my husband and master.

It was then that finally the woman turned her head upwards. Though they didn’t reach his own he could still see her eyes.

But what made her stand out were her brown eyes. They reminded him of the healthy soil of Eden. Which in turn reminded him of……..

No, it couldn’t be….

Lucifer: A, Adam?

#adamsapple #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel adam #hazbin hotel lucifer #female adam

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reomikagekin · 1 day ago

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HI IM BACK POOKIE 🫶

I’ve thought of this one for a while, but could you do a Lovesick!Stanley Snyder x reader? Where it takes place in their childhood, to adulthood, then to the moon mission. We all know Stanley is EXTREMELY PRETTY even when he was just a kid, I’ve put this on my little Dr.stone idea rant thingy, so I can just imagine him trying to look good and cool for precious y/n everyday 🤭

I just like the idea of the almighty Stanley Snyder, the most dangerous soldier, being a school girl in love. Like y/n could be talking about her favorite subject and his pov is practically like “Blah, blah, blah, proper name, place name, backstory stuff” and he’s just like “uhuh😍”

Also off topic but tell me why I had to babysit a bunch of kids at my family’s party 😭🙏 it was fun but they were constantly yelling and screaming in impossibly high pitches that even Ariana Grande can do 💔🥀

WELCOME BACK POOKIEEE

ngl those kids might become ariana grande 2.0.. ANYWAY HERES THE FIC!!

Trajectory

Stanley Snyder was nine years old when he decided he loved you.

You were late to school that day. Hair a mess, one shoelace untied, swinging your backpack around like it was a lightsaber. You sat next to him — uninvited — and offered him a broken pencil with teeth marks on it.

“Hi,” you said brightly. “You look like you hate fun.”

Stanley blinked. “…I don’t.”

“You do. But that’s okay. I’ll fix it.”

He didn’t respond, just adjusted his collar and looked back at the blackboard.

You passed him a note.

"Do you think the moon’s lonely?"

He didn’t answer. He just kept that scrap of paper tucked in the back of his notebook for years.

By twelve, you were his best friend.

Though Stanley never called it that. He didn’t call things what they were unless he had to. Labels made things real, and real things could be broken. Still, he sat with you at lunch. He walked you halfway home. He let you talk, even when it was about stars and gravity and string theory you barely understood.

You once tried to teach him orbital mechanics using a sandwich and two juice boxes.

“This one’s the Earth. This one’s the Moon. The sandwich is us. No, wait—”

“You’re gonna waste your lunch.”

“It’s worth it,” you grinned. “I like when you pay attention.”

He pretended not to blush.

He always pretended.

By sixteen, he was everything you weren’t.

Military-focused. Hyper-disciplined. Stoic. Already looking at sky missions while you were still tangled in lab work and dreams too big for paper.

Still, you made time for each other.

You'd show up to his house after physics club, spouting facts and cold pizza. He’d open the door like he hadn’t been waiting there all day.

“You always talk like you're running out of time,” he said one night, lying side-by-side on his roof.

You blinked at the sky. “Maybe I am.”

Stanley didn’t reply.

Just turned his head slightly, watching you with that expression he’d never let anyone else see.

Soft. Guard lowered.

“I like hearing it anyway,” he said.

He stopped calling when he enlisted.

You didn’t blame him. It made sense. You were on two different tracks — him with fire in his hands and silence in his voice, and you with ink stains and cracked formulas and your name buried in research documents no one read.

Still, it stung.

You saw his name once in an international report. Something vague. Something redacted. You stared at the screen too long and whispered his name aloud, like that would summon him.

“Stanley Snyder,” you murmured. He didn’t appear.

You thought maybe he’d just disappeared for good.

Then came the Petrification.

Then came the silence.

Then… a miracle.

When the world woke up, Stanley did too — older, sharper, heavier in the eyes.

You were already at the new lab base by then, covered in moon dust and caffeine. He entered the room with a rifle slung across his back, eyes alert, posture tight.

You stood frozen.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stared like he didn’t quite believe you were real. Like he’d been expecting you to vanish if he blinked.

“Hi, Stan,” you said.

His mouth twitched. “You look the same.”

“You look awful.”

“I know.”

And still, he stayed in the doorway, eyes flickering from your face to your hands to the barely-hidden tremble in your shoulders.

“Still talk too much?” he asked.

You nodded.

He stepped forward.

“…Good.”

You were chosen for the moon mission. Stanley was your escort.

“Of course he’s going,” someone had muttered. “He’d follow them anywhere.”

Stanley didn’t deny it.

You worked side by side again, like no time had passed — like you were still sixteen and pretending roof tiles were constellations. Only now you were older, more tired, more careful. You stole glances across control panels. He hovered when you were testing unfamiliar tools. You told him you were fine. He never believed you.

He always walked one step behind. Never in front. Never beside. Like he was built to guard but not to belong.

You hated that.

“Stan,” you said during a flight simulation. “Do you ever stop being so serious?”

He didn’t even blink. “We’re preparing to launch into space.”

“I know. But like. Do you ever… laugh?”

He tilted his head. “Do you want me to?”

You faltered. “I—”

“Then I’ll try.”

You looked away quickly.

He didn’t push. Just stayed by your side, like always.

The night before launch, you couldn’t sleep.

You wandered outside the shuttle hangar, arms wrapped around yourself, mind buzzing too loud. You weren’t scared of dying — not really — but of leaving nothing behind. Of saying too little. Of leaving things unsaid.

Footsteps.

“Should’ve known you’d be out here,” Stanley murmured behind you.

You smiled without turning. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“I don’t sleep much.”

“Of course you don’t.”

He came to stand beside you. The lights from the hangar flickered faintly across his face. He looked softer than usual. Tired, maybe. But clear-eyed.

“I ever tell you I read all your papers?” he asked.

You glanced at him. “What?”

“Back then. After high school. Even when I couldn’t call. I found them. Every single one.”

Your heart caught. “Stanley—”

“You wrote about the stars like they were people,” he said simply. “You made it sound like they wanted to be found.”

You stared at him.

“…You remember that?”

“I remember everything you said,” he said. Then added, more quietly: “I was nine when I knew.”

You blinked. “Knew what?”

“That I loved you.”

He said it without drama. No flourish. Like it had just been a fact he’d filed away for later.

You didn’t know what to say.

Stanley looked down. “You don’t have to say anything. I know I’m… not easy. I know I left. And I know this isn’t the right time.”

“It’s not that,” you said, breath catching. “It’s not—Stan. I loved you too.”

He froze.

You reached for his hand, your fingers brushing against callused skin.

“And I still do,” you whispered. “Even when you were a rigid little nerd with gelled hair.”

He groaned quietly. “You remembered that?”

“I remember everything.”

He looked at you — really looked — and his eyes were wide for once, not guarded, not armored.

“…Can I kiss you?” he asked hoarsely.

“Maybe after we survive the moon.”

He laughed. Actually laughed. Low and rough and real.

And for the first time in years, Stanley Snyder looked like he believed in something again.

On the moon, he is silence.

Precise, efficient, composed. But you know the truth. You see the small ways he shows his worry — the way he checks your oxygen levels before his own. The way he hovers during sample extractions. The way he never takes his eyes off your back, as if something might tear you away from him at any moment.

“You don’t have to be a soldier all the time,” you say once, voice soft over comms.

He pauses. Then, after a beat: “You don’t have to pretend you're not terrified.”

You smile bitterly. “I’m not pretending.”

“…Me neither.”

Later, during a brief rest window, he catches you staring at Earth. Your gloved hand is pressed to the glass.

“Do you think the moon’s lonely?” you whisper.

Stanley doesn’t answer.

He just rests his helmet against yours.

And in the cold vacuum of space, you feel him breathe.

Post-Mission Scene:

The return to Earth is brutal in its silence.

The re-entry, the rush of gravity, the blinding lights, the grasping hands of ground crew — it all happens in a blur. You’re taken one way, he another. Questions. Medical checks. Protocol. It’s all protocol.

You don’t see Stanley for hours.

You're sitting in the debriefing tent when he appears in the doorway, still in his underlayer suit, dust clinging to his boots, helmet under one arm. His eyes scan the room like he’s hunting for something. When they land on you, everything else fades.

You’re on your feet before you can think.

And he’s already walking — fast, like something’s snapped in his restraint.

You meet in the middle.

Neither of you speaks. He just grabs you, one hand on your back, the other cupping your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he presses too hard.

Your foreheads touch first.

It’s not cinematic. It’s not loud. It’s breathless.

Your noses bump. His skin is warm and rough, yours still trembling.

“I thought you—” you start, voice cracking.

He pulls you closer. “Don’t.”

“I thought something would go wrong. That I’d lose you. That—”

“Stop,” he breathes, forehead still against yours. “You’re here. I’m here. You’re here.”

Silence settles between you, full of all the things you never had time to say.

And then — finally — his lips find yours.

It’s not perfect. It’s desperate and overdue and a little shaky. But it’s real. It’s him. It’s you. The only constant in the chaos of space and silence and fear.

You stay like that for a long time, arms wound tight, forehead to forehead, breathing each other in like oxygen.

When you finally break apart, your hand lingers on his face.

“I told you,” you whisper, voice breaking into a smile. “You always talk like you're running out of time.”

He lets out a low breath. His eyes soften.

“Not anymore.”

#dr stone x reader #dr stone #stanley snyder #stanley snyder x reader

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stupidlittlespirit · 3 hours ago

Text

Rating: SFW Type: Drabble, part of the Maid to Be au Tags: Gen, first meetings, Stan Pines Word count: 3279

For an ask I received a little while ago: 'Obviously their relationship is very much platonic in MTB but I'd love to hear your thoughts on Stan's first/overall impression of Reader' so here it is! Title from the song of the same name on the Maniac OST. You can find it here on ao3 as well. If you're inclined, please show it some love!

Stan is a man of opportunity. He seizes each and every one with both hands and no matter how much they squirm, he’s never been one to let them slip through his fingers.

Which is why, the first time he meets you, he’s quick to snatch up the one you present.

From where he lounges in his porch chair, Stan watches you relinquish your goods to the children, careful to warn them of the weight of each bag and ensure they have a tight enough hold of each one before you let them go. He watches Dipper give you a curt, shy nod and listens to Mabel’s sing-songy thanks, and he notes the way you smile at both of them with equal sincerity.

“We got dinner!” Mabel tells him triumphantly as she clambers up the steps of the porch with her brother at her back. “Well, we got help getting dinner, but we got it!”

Stan tears his eyes from you to grace his great niece with a warm grin. “That’s great, sweetie,” he says. “How ‘bout you put those bags inside before you throw all that out for the birds, eh?” His words aren’t unkind. They’re a truthful request wrapped in a gentle tease; the kid is full of enthusiasm but Stan’ll be damned if she isn’t slapdash with everything else. He’d rather not have to send them both back to the store because Mabel has tipped fifty bucks worth of produce all over the porch. Again.

Mabel nods quickly and after she’s given you a little wave goodbye (and you’ve returned it), she hauls her brother inside after her.

Then it’s just Stan and the stranger.

He’s told the kids about talking to people they don’t know. Discouraged it. One of them listens more than the other. It’s clear that today, however, neither of them have paid much heed to his wise old words. They’ve brought home another waif and stray, unannounced.

The cautious, defensive guard that Stan has spent so many decades crafting hikes back up the moment you’re alone with him. His eyes flick up and down your form, assessing every inch automatically. He’s never seen you before. Well, that’s not true. Stan thinks he can recall seeing you in passing. Gravity Falls is a small town and it’s hard to not come into contact with everyone and their mother in a place this intimate, but that doesn’t mean he knows you. Years alone on the road have made Stan hardened to the presence of the unknown and he feels himself slip easily into that Fort Knox attitude with you.

You cut an unimpressive figure standing on the lawn of his house: your now-empty arms are folded across your chest and a look of mild discomfort colours your features. Your clothes are un-ironed, borderline dishevelled, and there are dark circles under your eyes. You seem as though you hadn’t expected to come across anyone capable of holding a conversation above the level of the two boisterous fourteen year olds you’d accompanied home and now that you’re faced with the prospect of it, you’d be happier allowing Mabel to run you over to her heart’s content rather than engage. There’s a mildly nervous near apprehensive edge to you that Stan recognises well. It seems that he isn’t the only one who’s feeling guarded.

When Stan only continues to stare, you clear your throat awkwardly and shift from foot to foot on the spot. “You must be their great uncle, right?” you ask, shoving your hands in the pockets of your jacket.

Your fingers play with something unseen in their depths and momentarily, Stan’s heart stutters. It’s incredibly unlikely you’re carrying anything that might do him harm, but he’s always cautious. Force of well learned habit.

When nothing appears, Stan grunts and sucks his teeth. “What’s it to ya?”

You shrug one shoulder, oblivious to his surveillance. “Well, they were telling me about you on the journey over here and I just figured….”

“Figured right,” says Stan, purposely obtuse. “They didn’t break nothin’ of yours, did they?” His eyes flick up and down you again, searching for any sign of a potential cost liability. The last thing he wants is to hold a reasonably polite conversation with you if you’re only going to wind up costing him an arm and a leg in civil court because the twins have gotten handsy with a random person’s prized possessions without permission yet again.

“Well, they mowed me down with their trolley,” you say lightly.

Stan swears under his breath and rolls his eyes, but you smile. It isn’t the reaction he expects and it gives him pause. People are usually much more upfront about their ire and for all your edginess, you don’t seem to be upset at all.

“It’s fine,” you tell him, shaking your head. “They didn’t do any lasting damage so…. No harm done.”

“Right,” mutters Stan, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. “Right. So, what? You wanna try and get some cash outta me before you sue us for assault?”

A tiny crease erupts between your brows as you frown up at him, honest confusion written all over your face. “Why would I sue two teenagers for being…. teenagers?” you ask.

Not buying it, Stan gives you a stony look.

You return it, owlish yet unflinching.

He attempts to dial the severity up a notch, both in the hopes of intimidating you into fucking off and to see if you can be intimidated in the first place. Most potential problems can. But you don’t take up either option. You just stare right back at him, bewildered.

“So, what d’you want then?” Stan asks after a moment, when it’s clear you’re not going to turn into a pile of ash under his hot glare. He’s quite pleased that you don’t. It’s no fun when people give in immediately. “A reward for helping ‘em? ‘Cause you ain’t gettin’ one.”

Your look of confusion grows. “No, I just…. I wanted to help. They were struggling so I figured they could use a hand.”

Abruptly, the gears in Stan’s head begin to whir. He isn’t an idiot. He knows that sending two children out to grocery store isn’t going to rank up there as one of his smartest ideas, but his back is utterly fucked at the moment and if he’s being honest, there’s no way on god’s green earth that he’s summoning the wherewithal to do it all himself anyway. It isn’t as though Sixer is going to find the time, either. Where Ford makes up for Stan’s physical limitations, he lacks the focus outside of his own bubble to apply his efforts more liberally and that fish is dead in the water. There’s little point in even asking.

What Stan needs is a do-gooder. Someone who will do it for him. Someone who can’t help but help. Someone…. like you. Anyone who willingly bothers to take on chores that don’t involve them in the first place can probably be bartered into taking on more, and that is exactly the kind of person Stan can find good use for: A good natured sucker.

Still, he’s wary of roping strangers into his life, of allowing them around the kids and his brother. You can never be too careful these days and this family is more delicate than most. He isn’t in the habit of holding the door wide open and letting any old person nose around in his business. Life has taught him better than that. You could be anyone for all Stan knows: a government agent in plain clothes. A shapeshifting monster looking for its opportunity to live a normal human life. A deal making deity in cheap walking boots.

“You local?” Stan asks, although he’s reasonably sure of the answer. Anyone passing through the Falls is a tourist and you certainly don’t look like a tourist.

Automatically, you go to shake your head before you seem to catch yourself, as though you think better of it. “Yes,” you say, though it’s not particularly confident.

“You lyin’ to me?” Stan presses immediately, a tiny red flag springing up in his mind.

A little taken aback, you shake your head with more fervour this time. “No, no, I…. I’m just new here. I don’t know if I quite graduate as ‘local’, is all.”

Stan grunts again, eyes narrowing.

At his cool hesitancy, you offer: “I’ve only been here a few weeks. I’m kind of, uh, between places right now but Susan, the lady from the diner, she says there’s some guy she knows who’ll lend me his cabin to stay in as of next week, so…. I guess I will be local, then.”

You smile and even at this distance, Stan can see it’s strained. Uncomfortable, either about the topic of yourself or your situation.

Between places. Stan’s heard that before, too. From his own mouth nonetheless. That explains the downtrodden look, at least.

He’s not one to judge. Well, he is one to judge because he’s doing it right now, however he’s well travelled enough to know that things don’t always go smoothly for people and circumstances don’t make the individual. Things happen. There could be a million and one reasons why you’re down on your luck right now; you could be a highly wanted criminal on the lam from the law or you could be skipping town for more insidious reasons, but Stan keeps his ear to the ground on those types of matters. Though he might not be in the game anymore, he has an eye for it and he can’t recall anyone fitting your description running around in those underworld rumours….

Stan decides to chance it. Maybe he’s gone soft in his old age or maybe it’s a bleeding hearts united kind of thing. He’s never liked to examine those sentimental feelings too closely. More than anything, he tells himself, he does it because he’s seizing the opportunity, making the most of a schmuck, and nothing more. He needs a dogsbody and you’re the most available person he’s come across thus far.

You’ll do.

He’ll have to test that you’re made of the right stuff to run with them, of course. Make sure you’re sound to be around and that you’re not easily scared off by a little weirdness. It’s unlikely you’d be in this town if you were, but still…. You’re a new face and he has to be sure. He’ll throw you in at the deep end, make it seem like an easy score and then do a little investigating of his own; he can glean much better information on your background once your guard is lowered and he can keep you at arms length the whole time he does it, too. It wouldn’t be the first time.

After a few long moments of calculating silence, Stan sits up straight with a grunt of effort. He leans forward, balancing his elbows on his knees, his gold chain glinting in the sun as it swings back and forth, and he nods once. Decisively.

“You lookin’ for work, kid?” he asks, eyes never leaving yours.

“I’m not a kid,” is your sharp reply, and it makes Stan’s lip twitch in a smirk. “....And technically, I suppose so.”

“‘Technically’?” Stan echoes, brow arched.

“Uh, yeah,” you say, sounding a little unsure. “I’m employed at the diner right now, that’s how I know Susan, but I….” Your words die on your tongue and for the first time since your arrival, your gaze drops away from him. It lowers to the ground for a half second, distant and slightly forlorn, and then you’re rolling your shoulders, setting your jaw, and you’re back to that strange forced confidence again. “I’m open to other options.”

There’s more to the story than that. Stan can tell. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter after all and there’s something in the way you hold yourself that suggests an undercurrent of unspoken implication. Usually, avoidance like that would arouse his suspicion but for some reason, Stan can’t sense malice behind your evasiveness. Your presence lacks malevolence. It could be a ruse, obviously, but Stan considers himself to be pretty good at sniffing things like that out first try and you? You just don’t fit that assessment.

Privately, he wonders what you’re hiding.

Stan huffs a laugh under his breath and hauls himself to his feet, groaning again. He hears and feels his knees crack (and he’s fairly certain you do too, judging by the wince of pity you offer him), and he shuffles over a step or two until he can lean up against one of nearby support beams that hold up the veranda’s overhanging roof. He presses his shoulder against it and sighs.

“I got a bad back,” he announces after another moment of mutual silence.

You stare at him expectantly but Stan doesn’t say anything further.

He wants to see what your reaction will be. Stan needs a chump; someone overflowing with pity. He’s perfectly capable of going to the store himself when he’s allowed his joints to rest for a few days but you don’t know that and he’s not about to tell you so. He needs you to put the pieces of the puzzle together incorrectly yourself, to build a picture of him that isn’t strictly true, so that he can make use of you without you ever really realising that he’s stringing you along a bit. He’s not completely taking advantage of you, though. He’s no monster. But he is lazy and he really doesn’t want to go to the fucking supermarket any more than he as to, and if you’re willing to do it for a little bit of (underpaid) cash in hand then, well, everyone wins, right?

The exact breed of sympathy he’s counting on flickers across your face and you open your mouth: “Oh, I’m sorry, that’s-”

Bingo.

“I need someone to take care of stuff around the house every now and then,” Stan says, interrupting you the moment you begin to speak. He’s being difficult on purpose; it’s all part of his masterful test. “Can’t be runnin’ around like I used to and these kids ain’t got a clue how to run a ship.” Stan gestures over his shoulder towards the closed front door that the kids had bolted through earlier. “I swear, if I have to choke down another pint of Mabel Juice instead of a decent coffee in the mornin’, I’m gonna lose it.”

Stan suppresses a shiver and it’s clear from the look on your face that while you’ve no idea what he’s talking about, you’re doing your best to be polite about it.

“If you’re lookin’ to make some extra cash, I could do with some help here and there,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “Grocery shopping. Cleanin’ the gutters. Yard work. That kinda thing. Interested?”

You are. There’s an undeniable light that blooms behind your eyes, one that he is very familiar with himself: The light of opportunity. Working at the diner can’t pay all that well and you strike him as reasonably enterprising. It’s probably not particularly stimulating to work with the likes of Susan every day, either, serving some of the weirdos in this fucking town. He almost feels bad for you. Almost.

Stan watches with great interest as you tilt your head and the look in your eyes turns sharp. Prudish, even. He’s caught your interest.

“How much are you offering?” you ask, not impolitely.

Cool as ever, Stan shrugs one big shoulder again. “How much you makin’ at Greasy’s?”

Again, you pause. Your body language shifts minutely: your shoulders lower and then rise almost imperceptibly, like you’re pinning them back to make yourself look more authoritative than you really feel, and your chin juts out a tiny bit. You’re zhuzhing yourself up.

“Fifteen bucks an hour,” you lie.

Stan almost chokes on his dentures. He should be pissed off at your gall yet frankly, it’s a little bit endearing and he isn’t really certain as to why.

“Oh yeah?” he scoffs, giving you a blatantly disbelieving look. “You join a union or somethin’?”

You mirror one of his own cool headed shrugs back at him. “I’m good at my job,” you say confidently. “They pay what I’m worth, plus tips.”

It’s a total lie. Susan pays $7.95 an hour. Stanley knows because he’d asked once when one of their old waitresses put her parts on because he’d refused to pay gratuity (“Here’s a tip for you, toots: Fight for better pay and don’t expect the customers to make it up for you….”). Technically, Susan is still paying above the legal minimum. Although it’s not a bad wage, all things considered, it’s not great either. Not enough to get you on your feet if things are as difficult as Stan suspects they might be. You’ll be open to making any extra money you can and he’s willing to play on that to his benefit.

“Seven,” Stan offers.

Your nose twitches in annoyance but you do well to save face in spite of being rumbled instantly. “Twelve,” you counter immediately.

Huh, Stan thinks, a little taken aback. It takes balls to barter, especially with a man you barely know who is purposefully being unfriendly to you. The bravery makes him feel momentarily generous, and so he says: “Ten.”

“Come on, man,” you say, wilting with exasperation. “I’ve got to feed myself too, y’know? Eleven seventy five.”

Stan smirks. “Ten fifty.”

You huff, and he can tell you’re resisting the urge to either roll your eyes or flip him the bird. Quite admirably, you do neither. “Eleven, on the dot,” you say instead.

It’s more than Stan wants to pay, but it isn’t terrible. His brother is the breadwinner and he’s the one who’ll technically be paying for it anyway; they’ve been discussing the possibility of hiring some help with the house’s upkeep for a little while now so it’s no skin off Stan’s nose if your assistance falls on the marginally dearer end of the scale. Stan just enjoys the game of haggling for old time’s sake.

“Done,” says Stan after a few seconds of dramatic consideration, extending a hand out for you to shake.

Your brows raise momentarily and it’s clear that you hadn’t expected to get him to agree, but you school your expression quickly and give him a haughty nod, as though that had been your plan all along. It reminds him of his brother.

Cautiously, he watches you assess him before you come closer. It’s not subtle and Stan isn’t offended; it’s smart to be careful and even though you’ve just dropped two kids off at his doorstep, you’re equally as in the dark about him as he is to you. It’s sensible, if anything.

After a few seconds of hesitation, you drag your feet up the few steps to the porch and you take Stan’s big palm in your own. Your handshake turns out to be firm, much firmer than he’d been expecting, if a little sweaty. The shake is strong and confident in spite of your gentle nervousness, and quite without meaning to, Stan chalks another notch into the ‘pro’ side of the mental chart he’s keeping on you in his head.

“So, kid, what’s your name?....”

I hope that's okay! As I said, I've been building up more of Reader's backstory recently and felt this worked better in a little drabble form rather than me just explaining things. Also, it would be of great help if you could reblog this too because it won't get much motion otherwise….

#im gonna be cheeky and put this in the #ford pines x reader #tag because it technically is part of the au for it #if that bothers you then sorry teehee #reader insert #banners by cafekitsune

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heartsiebyul · 10 hours ago

Note

wait wiat had another genius idea heartsie!! well if you write Transmale reader...

so yeah Transmale Yuu who is pre surgeries!!! so still wearing binders and stuff yknow?? (maybe when the got picked up by the carriage with or without their binders on but thats ur choice ig?) i hate to do this but i definitely feel they would get misgendered for a bit if they didn't correct people🥀🥀🥀, imagine them getting their period one day and since its an all boys school i don't think sam would have any menstrual stuff (unless he knew about reader being trans, you can choose) and yeah, just a mini fic or longer type fic of a transmale reader trying to live along the guys while still transitioning 🙏

(obviously its up to you how long it is and you can choose the characters if any, but i imagine this more as a more reader focused story and characters just appearing to help or just to talk for a bit but yeah... UP TO YOU AGAIN HAHGCc)

Twisted Wonderland x Transmasc!Yuu

— Ramshackle: Ace : Deuce : Ruggie : Grim. Warnings: dysphoria, misgendering, mention of menstruation (no graphic details), realistic trans experience.

Yuu had been lucky—lucky enough to grab his binder before getting yanked into a coffin-shaped portal. It wasn’t like he had time to pack. One moment he was walking out of a convenience store, slushie in hand, and the next, he was tumbling through a void and waking up to Crowley’s mask grinning down at him.

He hadn’t had time to explain much. Not with a talking cat, floating coffins, and magical turf wars unfolding around him. So when Crowley called him “young lady” the first few times, Yuu bit his tongue. Just for now, he told himself. Just until he settled in. Just until it’s safe.

But “for now” stretched into days.

“Hey, wait up—miss! Um, what was your name again?” Ace called across the hallway during the first week.

Yuu froze. Should he correct him? Would he laugh? Would he stop if he just stayed quiet?

He forced a smile. “It’s Yuu. Just Yuu. And I’m not a girl.”

Ace blinked. “Oh. Uh. My bad, man. Seriously. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

Deuce, bless him, looked stricken. “I-I’m sorry too! I just assumed because... uh... I mean, not that you look like—not that there’s anything wrong with looking like that—”

Yuu chuckled. “It’s okay. I just wanted to clear it up before it becomes a whole thing.”

He thought that would be the end of it. That once people knew, things would click into place. But being known and being understood weren’t the same thing.

──── ──── ──── ──── ──── ────

The cramps hit on a rainy Tuesday.

He curled up in bed at Ramshackle, hissing softly as Grim nudged him. “What’s with you, human? You smell weird. Are you dying?”

“Only a little,” Yuu muttered, pulling the blanket over his face.

He’d bled through his last pair of clean boxers. He hadn’t even thought about this happening—not here, not at an all-boys school with no pads, no heating pads, no privacy.

Crowley wouldn’t be any help. Asking him felt humiliating. Asking Ace or Deuce felt worse. Sam was... maybe his best bet?

He shuffled to the Mystery Shop with a sweatshirt tied around his waist, binder pulled tight against his ribs. Sam looked up with his usual grin.

“Well now, little imp, ya don’t usually come visitin’ without Grim dragging you here for snacks. What’s the occasion?”

Yuu hesitated, heart pounding. “Hey, um... weird question. Do you sell, like... menstrual products?”

Sam blinked. Then slowly—blessedly—nodded.

“I don’t usually stock ‘em. But I keep a box behind the counter just in case. Figured one day someone might need it.”

Yuu wanted to cry.

“Thank you,” he said, voice tight.

Sam handed over the box quietly, slipping it into a brown bag. “Ain’t nobody’s business but yours, darlin’. If you ever need more, just ask. Quietly or not. I got you.”

──── ──── ──── ──── ──── ────

That night, back in his room, Grim sprawled out on his chest.

“You’re kinda weird,” he mumbled sleepily. “But I guess you’re my weird human.”

Yuu stared at the ceiling. Everything still hurt. His binder was starting to chafe, and tomorrow he’d have to pretend nothing was wrong again.

But for now—for tonight—he let himself breathe.

──── ──── ──── ──── ──── ────

A few days later, he was sitting alone on a bench tucked behind the botanical gardens. It had become his little secret spot—a place where no one asked questions, where he didn’t have to smile or talk or bind or explain.

The scent of soil and morning dew wrapped around him like a blanket. And yet, even in the stillness, he couldn’t escape the quiet ache—both in his body and somewhere deeper.

“You look like you could use a snack.”

Yuu looked up to find Ruggie standing there, a meat bun in one hand, a crooked grin on his face.

“Didn’t ask for one,” Yuu mumbled, but took it anyway.

“Didn’t say it was a choice,” Ruggie replied easily, plopping down beside him.

They sat in silence for a bit, chewing. Birds chirped. A breeze passed by.

Then Ruggie spoke again, voice lower. “Dunno what you’re dealin’ with exactly. But I know how it feels to live in a world where people assume everything about you before you even open your mouth.”

Yuu turned to him, surprised.

“I see you,” Ruggie added. “You don’t gotta pretend when it’s just me.”

It was said so simply, like a passing breeze. And somehow, that made it feel even more true.

──── ──── ──── ──── ──── ────

Later that week, Ace dropped by Ramshackle with a heating pad he "borrowed" from the Heartslabyul kitchens.

“Don’t ask how I got it, okay?” he said. “Just... I dunno. You looked like you needed it.”

Deuce awkwardly shoved a bag of chocolate in Yuu’s hands too, cheeks red. “I read somewhere it helps. Um. With cramps. Or emotions. Or... whatever.”

Yuu blinked at the unexpected pile of kindness on his bed.

He didn’t know how to say “thank you” without crying.

So instead, he said, “You guys are idiots.”

And they all grinned.

It wasn’t easy. It wouldn’t be easy.

But in between the misgendering, the aches, the tightness of his binder and the anxiety in his chest, there were moments like this. Small, quiet, defiant things.

Moments that said: You are real. You belong. You are seen.

And that — for now — was magic enough.

I’m still new to writing content like this, so I hope it came across okay! I genuinely tried my best, and I really hope I didn’t offend anyone — but if I did, please feel free to let me know so I can learn and do better. Also, fun little thing — one of my oomfs actually requested something similar too, so I’m going to work on that as well!

#twst #twst wonderland #twisted wonderland #twst disney #twisted wonderland x reader #ace trappola #deuce spade #ruggie bucchi #twst grim

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m0rguekh7i · 1 day ago

Text

harry j. potter x reader

warnings: a bit of angst, exes to idk lovers?

The Hogwarts corridors felt heavier now — like the walls themselves were holding onto some dark weight.

You hadn’t spoken to Harry in weeks, maybe months. Not since he called it off. That being with him put a target right on your back.

And after everything — after the Astronomy Tower — the whole school felt different. Quieter, almost like it was holding its breath. Everyone spoke in hushed tones, as if something sacred had been cracked wide open.

You should have gone back to your dorm, to your friends. But you didn't. Quietly walking to the seventh floor, towards that one room, the door appeared.

You paused just a moment before stepping in.

It was a dimly lit space, warmed by a low fire. An old sofa sat there, familiar. The same one you’d shared with Harry more times than you could count.

You breathed out.

And then you saw him.

Harry was curled in the corner of the sofa, elbows on knees, fingers tangled tight — like he was trying to hold himself together. His glasses slipped down his nose, but he didn’t look up.

“Harry?”

You took a cautious step forward. “I can go if—”

“No,” he interrupted, voice quick. Then softer. “Stay, please.”

You took a deep breath, crossing the room to sit on the other side. Silence settled between you—heavy, uncomfortable. Full of the words left unsaid.

You looked at him. He looked drained, hollowed out by something heavy. Like the weight of everything crashing down on him had etched itself into his skin.

“You were there,” you said softly. “With Dumbledore.”

His jaw tightened.

“I’m not asking about details,” you rushed on. “I just…I know you’re hurting.”

Something in him cracked then. Quietly, barely noticeable. But his breath caught. His hands clenched tighter. Still no eye contact.

“I couldn’t stop it,” he whispered.

Staring at him, no words being able to come out because of the discomfort, you just held your head down.

Finally, he looked at you causing you to look up and his eyes met yours.

“I let him die.”

Without thinking, you reached for his hand. He didn’t pull away.

“I keep losing people,” his voice caught. “And I don’t think I could take losing you too.”

Your heart caught in your throat.

“That’s why I ended it,” he admitted, eyes fixed on your hands. “Because I thought keeping love and all this at a distance would make everything easier”

A silence stretched out.

“Can you just hold me?”

Your breath hitched. Those words—it was so raw, so vulnerable, so entirely him. The boy who’d never really known love. The one carrying the weight of the world and still afraid it might crush him completely. The one who wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask for something so simple.

You moved closer and wrapped your arms around him. He leaned in without hesitation, like he’d been waiting for this moment. His head settled on your shoulder.

You held him close—one arm around his back, the other threading through his hair. His breath was shaky, uneven against your neck.

After a while, he whispered again, “I miss you.”

You closed your eyes. “I miss you too.”

“I hate that I pushed you away.”

You pulled back enough to meet his gaze.

His eyes searched yours.

A soft, sad smile touched your lips. “We’re all just trying to get through this, Harry. No one really knows what they’re doing.”

He laughed softly, and jagged. “You always know what to say.”

“No,” you told him.

Hesitant to even say this, words stuck and feeling like instead of a second, hours passed “I just love you.” came out.

He looked at you as if hearing those words again was a surprise — like he thought he wasn’t allowed to anymore.

Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned in.

The kiss was gentle. Careful. Like he was scared to move too fast, afraid you might disappear. But it was real. Bittersweet, filled with sorrow and hope and everything left unsaid between you.

When you finally parted, his forehead rested against yours.

“I don’t know what’s next,” he murmured. “I have to leave soon. Dumbledore… he left me things to search for.”

#harry james potter x reader #please stop tagging other harry potter men under this tag thanks #harry potter x reader #i was bored #harry james potter x reader fluff #harry potter x reader fluff

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deadhands69 · 2 days ago

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In The Stacks Part 4: Fate, or Something Like It

Tomura Shigaraki x Reader

A mysterious library patron catches your eye, seeking information about his past life. You help him, stirring up your own past in the process. Contains: gn/afab reader, SMUT, cussing, mentions of injuries/violence, obsessive/yandere behavior, spoilers.

[previous] this is part 4 [series masterlist]

"In lieu of flowers, send him back."- Andrea Cohen

You remember it like a dream. Or, maybe you remember it so well because for the longest time you dreamt of nothing else since that night.

It was the evening of the final war. As an underground hero, you were late to the fight. No one ever tells me anything, you remember thinking as you searched for signs you were going the right direction. The streets were littered with debris everywhere you looked, any direction should lead you somewhere. You followed where the dust hadn’t settled, hanging heavily in the air. It was eerily quiet and too warm for spring, but the clouds were moving in quickly. As you walked through the evacuated streets, you watched the sun setting in a deep red blaze between the remnants of what was once buildings.

While moving deeper into the city center, you heard a crash overhead. Using your quirk and a fire escape, you quickly made your way to the source.

Two people were fighting on top of the buildings. Each of them seeming to have some sort of floating quirks to keep them in the air between hits. It was clear which side you were intended to help: the green haired boy who appeared to be high school aged had just been slammed down the street at a distance. You wondered who let children join the fight, but that's a question for another time. The villain still remained.

He hadn’t noticed your presence yet, too distracted with the fight at hand. With a running start, you jumped from the adjacent building, landing on his back. He barely stumbled.

You tried to use your quirk on him, but he deflected it before leaping off the edge onto the roof next door. His shoulders flexed under you, filling your brain with thoughts that didn’t belong there. This is a villain fight, you reminded yourself, pull yourself together.

You always did love wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

The force of impact from his landing sent you over his head where you crashed hard on one leg, sliding to the other side of the rooftop. You clutched your knee in agony, catching your breath to rejoin the fight.

Then you looked up. And there he was, in all of his glory.

Tomura Shigaraki stood at a short distance, long white hair waving in the wind. He walked in your direction, looming over you as you struggled to make it back up to your feet. The quick rundown you received before leaving said to hope for All For One, he'd be more reasonable. That's not what you found though.

Tomura's eyes shifted from cloudy white to vivid red and his facial expressions followed. What was disdain transformed into curiosity. There was a softness to it that sent your heart into somersaults.

Standing, you took a staggering step towards him, only partially weighting the knee you just landed on. You were in absolute agony but you willed yourself to look up. If this was going to be the end, you at least wanted to meet him face to face.

Suddenly, the world stopped. It was like love at first sight – you’d never been so drawn to anyone in your life as you were in that moment. The war ceased around you and there were no heroes and villains. None of that mattered; not now that you know he exists.

The last light of the day reflected in his eyes. You stared into him and he into you, both lost to the world. Everything about him made you feel like you fell in the ocean and were being swept out to sea. But you liked it. Wanted it. No one had ever seen through you like that before. You were happy for him to sweep you away to sea.

Before that night, all you'd ever heard about him was destruction. They said he never cared about anything else, but to you he didn't seem dangerous. Just sad and in need of acceptance. Everything in you wanted to make him feel better; to let him know he wasn't alone in it. You hope he felt that from you in that moment.

On top of that, he was by far the most beautiful person you had ever seen in your life. He still is. No news articles or agency debriefings could have prepared you for how breathtakingly gorgeous he is. With the cute scars on his lips and eyes that sucked you in. Matched with his pearly white hair that floated in perfect strands through the air as the wind picked up.

He was perfect.

The two of you stood so close you could reach out and touch each other. Part of you assumed he would, because that’s what he does right? Touches people to their death? You gravitated to him anyways, falling victim to the siren song of his existence. But the end never came. His hand reached out, barely brushing your cheek with the back of his knuckles.

It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds before someone else rushed in to the scene. The momentum of them propelling through the air left a wake so strong that it sent you over the edge of the roof. Weightless, time stood still. You watched the shock on his face before his eyes shifted back to white again as he turned away.

Rain fell along with you as you plummeted to your fate. In some fraction of a second, you remember thinking this is what it must be like to feel one with the word. At peace. There's nowhere else to be, this is it. Your entire life led to this one moment: you found him. At the time, that felt like enough.

Then you were sucked from the ocean to become a raindrop.

The last thing you remember seeing that night was the balcony floor before impact.

Hospital machines beeped overhead, semi-rhythmically but just off enough from each other to drive you insane. The room was bright, too bright, and blurry. You tried to sit up, but the pain was too intense. A few nurses ran in and before you knew it, the world became fuzzy again and you were drifting back to sleep.

For the first week, you knew nothing of what happened in the outside world while you were unconscious. Six days had passed since the war ended, but no one would tell you the details other than “we won,” “we got the person who did this to you,” and “everything's fine, just rest.” It was deemed to be too overwhelming for your recovery to know more.

It wasn’t just your head, every part of your body ached from the fall. The knee you fell on had swollen nearly double its size. It felt tight and stiff. Your entire body was covered in purple and green bruises. Any small movements rippled through you, sending pain to places you only vaguely remembered were connected. Whenever you looked at your body, you felt like it wasn’t yours anymore. Like you’d been dropped into this universe into someone else’s life. You hoped that was the case. At least then there’s a chance you’d get sucked back and not have to go through the healing process. You could only dream of being so lucky though.

On top of this, nothing made the pain go away. The button they left you for medication only dulled your senses. You used it anyways, better dulled than sharp and piercing at every breath.

People came and went, or so you heard. You only vaguely remember seeing their faces. Surgeries passed as well, but nothing felt any different. Your body still felt broken no matter how many pieces they connected back together. What seemed like days and years at the same time blurred into a fever dream. Looking back at the dates on the paperwork, you spent nine days in this state.

On what you now know was day ten, a few representatives from the hero commission came to check in on your recovery, deliver some news, and complete their paperwork. Normally the incident report would be your job, but no one expected that of you given the state you were in.

In retrospect, ten days was much too early. Your head swam through the entirety of the conversation, trying to grasp the reality outside the walls of your hospital room. None of it felt real, yet it still left you with a nagging ache deep in your gut like someone had punched you in the stomach.

First, they informed you that your apartment was destroyed, along with all of your belongings. Something about Endeavor’s son destroying the entire neighborhood. Even in your dazed state, the description was confusing. You wondered where the ice came from. How much fire one person could possibly make. However it happened, was irrelevant. The result was the same: everything you’ve ever owned was gone.

Onto the next topic.

A doctor came in to speak with the representatives about your injuries. Which is how you were informed in a room full of people that you're not likely to recover in any way that would allow you to continue your hero work. Heroes need to be able to turn their heads to see approaching villains, they said. A substantial number of vertebrae in your neck and upper back had been fused in place, limiting your range of motion too much for them to feel comfortable allowing you back at work. You asked about healing quirks but at the time, everyone with one had been too busy with cases much worse than yours. In addition to that, you weren’t able to use your quirk to its fullest extent without getting a massive headache– something you tried in your confusion when you first woke-up stuck full of needles and tubes in a hospital bed.

So, not only did you lose everything, you no longer have a job.

The Hero Commission representatives offered compensation to help you rebuild your life and assistance switching careers. You were overwhelmed. You hadn’t seen so many people in your hospital room at the same time since you arrived here, now here they are with more news than you can handle. Their words blurred together, you could hardly believe any of it was happening.

Then came the time for questioning.

“On the rooftop with Tomura Shigaraki, our other heroes at the scene described you as being in a trance. Can you elaborate on what happened?” one of them asked, snapping you out of the daze.

No, you at least had the sense to think, you absolutely cannot.

“I, uhm.” You mumbled, rubbing your head. “I'm sorry, I don't remember anything that happened that day.”

Case closed.

No one argued, it's not unreasonable for someone with a massive head injury to not have memories around the time they sustained it. So, you played it up. Pretending whenever it was convenient.

The same day you were visited by the representatives, you were also cleared to receive your cell phone. It powered up slowly then took a few minutes for the notifications to load. After responding to your messages, you opened a news app.

That’s how, a week and a half after the rest of the world, you learned of Tomura Shigaraki’s death. Shortly after this, you discovered that he’s who they thought was responsible for your fall over the ledge. You couldn't correct anyone because you already told them you have no memory of the night, so you were stuck listening to everyone ask how glad you were that he paid for what he did to you.

You never had a response to that.

When everyone left, it wasn’t any better. Then it was just you and your thoughts. You wished you weren’t lying, you’d love to not remember it.

It's like the light went out over your little corner of the world. Seeing him for the first time felt as if the clouds parted over the overcast expanse that was your life before. You felt things awaken in you could never have imagined and saw in colors you'd never dreamed of. Less than two weeks later, the veil was pulled back over your eyes. You couldn't forget it though and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't move on.

As much as you knew you'd never be okay, you could never say the reason out loud either. What are you supposed to tell your old hero friends, “I'm devastated because I fell in love with a villain I'd been tasked to take down?” or “I was within reach of him only moments before he took out half the city but chose to stare deep into his big beautiful eyes instead?” No, that wouldn't work. So, you lied again. Blamed your despair on the change in jobs and altered physical state. People were supportive, they understood that as a struggle. None of them knew what you were really going through though.

Understandably, even with the smiling faces surrounding you, you were still miserable inside. Doomed to spend the rest of your life wondering if it meant the same to him as it did to you. And worse, you were stuck spending every day without him. Of course you knew you weren't supposed to be this upset over the death of a villain, but he meant so much more than that to you.

You would love to say you had the mental fortitude to get through it gracefully, but your thoughts got pretty dark for a while. How could you possibly go on living when life is so meaningless? You're almost certain that's why they kept you in the hospital as long as they did, never letting you out of sight. Most of your injuries would have been manageable enough at home.

If you had a home to go back to.

There were solid nights spent tossing and turning in bed. You couldn’t sleep without nightmares and it was just as awful being awake. The lack of sleep left you feeling like you had the flu, feverish and sweating.

No matter what you did, you felt like a piece of you was missing. Your medical team told you this was just the morphine withdrawals, and maybe they were partially right, but you knew what you really needed.

And you knew you could never have it.

Then the rumors started.

Quiet whispers in dark corners of the internet telling you he's alive and he's out there somewhere. No one had any proof, but you wanted so badly to believe. You had to or you wouldn’t have made it out.

None of what you found painted the picture of Tomura as you remembered him. They all said he was irredeemable, reclusive, and could never get close to anything without destroying it. The descriptions made sense though considering that most of these blogs were hero sleuths on a paranoid side quest to prove a villain was still at large.

All of them started from one simple fact: there was no body.

Then came the photos. There were sightings reported all over Japan if you knew where to look. Obviously, some of them had to be fake, but would it be too much to believe that at least one of them was real? That he was out there somewhere? You had to believe it, it's all that kept you going.

After that, came the theories. A lot of them were strange government conspiracies. Others held up a bit better. Resurrection quirks. That the Tomura Shigaraki people reported seeing was a ghost or vestige. Some guesses even involved time travel. You didn't have your own theories, but you'd take any of them that meant there was a chance he'd come back to you.

Suddenly, you had a reason to get up in the morning and try. Because just maybe, he was still out there.

Months passed and the rest of your life didn't get any easier.

Without work in common, the people from your past life slowly slipped away. All of your old UA classmates went back to their duties: rebuilding. You were left to rebuild your own life. Painstakingly, piece by piece with the small stipend and re-education fee granted to you.

You needed something to distract you. A goal outside of everything to focus on. You’ve always loved libraries, finding it calming to be surrounded by books. If you were going to start over, you might as well pick something you actually like.

Some of the core curriculum from your studies before becoming a hero transferred, meaning if you studied full time you’d be qualified to work in a library in less than a year. The packed schedule was difficult, especially since you were still recovering from a concussion, but it beat having too much free time to dwell on things.

Doctors still hadn’t cleared you to leave the hospital, moving you to a rehabilitation wing instead. You stayed there for months. Re-learning how to walk on your surgically replaced knee. Gaining any amount of movement you could in your neck and spine. Little things like nodding that were never a big deal took you weeks to regain.

Eventually, you were cleared to leave. The Hero Commission sent you a check towards your living space that was destroyed; it was just enough to get you into an apartment. While searching, you narrowed it down to one specific neighborhood.

It’s not that you wanted to be in the place Tomura Shigaraki died, you just didn’t know how else to be close to him. Besides, with the reports of him being alive (or a ghost) you wanted to be where you knew he'd been before. You didn’t know what else to do.

Fortunately, the neighborhood was cute. Old buildings were spliced in between newly rebuilt additions. A park ran through the middle that would be depressing if it wasn’t designed to be so void of emotion. And, there was a library still standing a few blocks from the apartment complex you’d just applied to.

After moving in, you finished your coursework and applied for a job. Lucky for you, most people found it depressing to be in that neighborhood while it was still being rebuilt so there wasn’t much competition and you got in easily. The transition wasn’t so bad, you picked up your duties quickly after a short week of training. Everything was falling into place.

Almost everything.

Then, one day, a man in a hooded sweatshirt walked in, face obscured. You could barely make out his red eyes and white hair, but you’d recognize him anywhere from his presence alone.

Tomura Shigaraki is alive.

And right in front of you.

It was like fate.

[series masterlist] [bnha masterlist]

taglist: @shigarakislaughter @dance-with-me-in-hell @minniessskii @vaval3ntin @ykyouluvme

@dummi666 @lotus-flower420 @nonominchan @softnfuzzy @mysticalhills

@reireitaka @crwavee @baby-pink-flowers @drlucichen @frieren-imposter

@lou-the-naga-queen @multifandomidk @love-for-yoosung-kim @kitkat13001 @kennys-partner

@amira-44820 @its-evee16 @itsameyermaw

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tankerfishthesimp · 6 months ago

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here we go again gut wrenching stomach aches galore

#was thinking it hadn’t appeared in a while #welcome back fucking stomachaches #felt amazing in your absence #cory's thoughts #cory's rants

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manicali · 4 months ago

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Occasionally I wonder if people are right about me. That I’m not particularly that bad.

Nope, still right!

#I think I kinda just bury my hatred bitterness and overall apathy for people so deep that even I can believe it’s not there.#And having chastised myself for so long for not caring and for doing things wrong to try and convince a sense of guilt to myself #But every once and a while I realize that A I am incredibly self centred #And B I barely care about most people #I support causes that appear morally good because peace brings me less anxiety #:/#Idk I just sometimes realize that I’m not a good person.#Not morally at least #I’m less a bad person than just. neutral #I don’t really have any feelings about this #it’s just something I’ve slowly learned while trying to differentiate myself as a person and not an object or tool #please don’t tell me otherwise it’s not something im beating myself up over much #I lack both guilt and most morals #I can feel something akin to regret almost? It’s not guilt #But more ‘i wish I hadn’t done that’#of course there’s people who are exceptions #As a general rule I’m polite to most #I don’t really have a reason why #the people who are exceptions only really see the version of me who I put work into crafting.#I think maybe once or twice honesty has poured out here #I wasn’t in my right mind I don’t think

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gojorgeous · 1 year ago

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"creature of myth."

pairing: vampire!gojo x fem!human!reader summary: when you receive an offer of marriage from a mysterious wealthy lord, it’s too good a deal for your family to turn down. but nothing could be so perfect... right? content: MDNI (18+ ONLY), dark content, nsfw, gets dubcon/noncon in some spots, yandere behavior from gojo, implied death/k*lling of a character (not reader or gojo), arranged marriage, victorian au, plot that ends with porn lmao, spooky dooky vibes, blood, blood sucking/eating, praise, biting, unprotected sex, creampie, virgin!reader, discussion of virginity, cherry popping, pain, pet names (princess/love), reader is highkey clueless about sex, discussion of masturbation, ideas of masturbation as “sinful”, very minor religious themes, fated “mates”, gojo is highkey insane, coercion and manipulation, like SO much neck kissing, ooc gojo??? (had to alter his character to match a victorian vampire lord LMAO). a/n: PLEASE READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS. THERE IS DARK CONTENT AHEAD. is this a gojo fic or a twilight fic?? Going back to my roots fr fr. straight down to the “SAY IT, SAY IT”. this fic is also way too long my apologies bbs. i hope you like a hefty side of plot with your porn. parts of this fic feel way too cheesy to me but sometimes i eat that up, yk?? this fic was inspired by this amazing work by @rice5x ! and, finally, thank you all for the support on my most recent fics. i'm just getting back into being active on this blog and it's been amazing reading each and every comment/reblog/ask. they genuinely fill me with so much joy. keep them coming hehe. anyway, i hope you enjoy and remember, ALL AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED. credits: dividers by @cafekitsune. banner art by @ndsoda on twitter. wc: 11.6k (sowwy)

You remember perfectly the way your mother’s jaw dropped when Satoru Gojo proposed to you. You’d never seen the man, and you still hadn’t. He’d asked to marry you via messenger, a simple letter delivered by hand with a list of all the things he’d be willing to pay for your hand. Offers of money, land, protection, connection- anything so long as he got you. You’d thought it was a joke. Your father nearly took a shovel to the head of the poor messenger, thinking the letter was some kind of cruel prank, some sort of targeted disrespect. You’d only started to believe when you really looked- saw the Gojo crest embroidered on the man’s suit, the fine leather of his boots. If it was a prank, somebody had spent a great deal of money and effort to pull it off.

You’d asked for proof nonetheless, and you’d gotten it. Documents signed and sealed with a well-known waxen crest, gifts that could only have been purchased by a wealthy lord. The one thing you never got was the lord himself. He refused to see you, to come down from his mysterious castle on the hill. It didn’t surprise you. He rarely deemed town worthy of his presence. He had a reputation as a recluse, as a man who only ever liked to see and never be seen. What little glimpses people got of him were usually through the dark window of his carriage. Still, his appearance preceded him. White hair, light eyes… “haunting” said those who had the luck to see him. Those who went to work for the lord tended to return… changed— if they returned at all.

You accepted, of course. How could you not? You were a peasant family with no status or wealth to your name. The promises Lord Gojo had made would make your parents into aristocrats all on their own. But that left you wondering… why did he want you? You offered him no benefit. If anything, you sullied his bloodline. The question scratched at the back of your mind. It came to you while you ate breakfast, while you washed your clothes, while you weeded in the garden. Some part of you told you that you needed the answer before you ever stepped foot in that castle. You needed that answer, but you’d never get it.

Your wedding wasn’t even a wedding- just a piece of paper that had already been signed and witnessed, once again delivered by a familiar messenger. You signed at your dining room table and… that was that. You were married.

Later that night the carriages arrive. Men flood your home, all dressed in blue velvet, the Gojo crest embroidered on their chests. They seem puzzled when you tell them you’ve packed all your belongings into a measly three bags.

You say a quick goodbye to your parents, drawing them into stiff embraces. You love them, and they love you, but you can’t bear to see their faces as they send you away to a man who couldn’t even show his face for your wedding.

The carriage ride is somehow longer than you’d thought it would be- apparently, the castle’s size makes it seem deceptively close. The trip is rocky and twisty and altogether unpleasant as you steadily make your way toward the castle gates. By the time you reach them you think you’ve probably dozed in and out of consciousness at least half a dozen times.

The castle is even more intimidating up close. Spires that swirl into the clouds, sculptures that stare, doors that look more suited to being locked than opened. It’s… terrifying.

When you finally roll to a stop, you move for the door. When you swing it open you get your fair share of strange looks from your attendants and remember that you should have waited for the footman. Your face heats as you climb out anyway, unwilling to subject yourself to the further humiliation of waiting for assistance.

Your feet hit gravel and all you can do is stare- up, up, up, to where the castle’s peaks disappear into the fog. When your eye flashes to a window on the east side of the manor you think you see a swaying curtain. You tuck your arms around yourself and shiver, but it’s not from the cold.

You nearly stumble over your feet on your first step inside. The entrance hall is larger than your former house, with ceilings that stretch so high you can hardly make out the figures on the frescoes that adorn it. Silver and blue drape everywhere, the Gojo family colors. You swallow when you see a chair that is most definitely worth more than your family’s annual income.

The floors are marble and when your worn heels clack against it, you only feel reminded that you don’t belong here. That question pricks in your mind again as you pass portraits of every Gojo heir to have lived in the last three hundred years. Why me? Why me? Why me?

Your footman deposits you in your room, a place more lavish than you’ve ever seen. You have a four poster bed with a canopy of blue velvet, a window that overlooks a sprawling estate, and more square footage than you’ve ever dreamed of.

“Pull this if you need any sort of assistance, ma’am.”

You turn to see your footman referencing a silver cord at your bedside. You assume it’s one of those contraptions that rings a bell in the servants’ quarters. You try to hide your amazement- you’ve never seen one in real life before.

You clear your throat and give your most ladylike nod. “Thank you, um-” you pause, your brow furrowing. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I asked your name.”

Your footman appears stunned to silence, like he’d never expected you to care about his existence, much less his name. He recovers quickly, though, and forces a small smile. “Thomas, ma’am.”

You smile and it’s genuine. “Thank you, Thomas.”He bows and makes a beeline for the door, but you have one more question. “Oh, um, Thomas-” He freezes, turning slowly on his heel to face you.

“Yes, my lady?”

You cringe at the title. The sound of it creeps across your skin, foreign and… wrong. Why me? Why me? Why me?

You clear your throat again. “Do you know, um, well-” You shift, trying to word your question properly. “Do you know when I might see the Lord?”

There is a pause, a moment of tension and silence, and then an answer. “No, my lady.”

Thomas does not stick around for more questioning. The door clicks shut behind him and then you're left with only the sound of retreating footsteps.

You’re stunned to say the least, mouth still halfway open, more questions on the tip of your tongue. Should you seek him out? Was that proper? Would he come to you? Would he meet you for dinner, perhaps? Surely he would come to your room tonight to… consummate. Would that be the first time you lay eyes on him? When he’s over you?

You sigh. There’s nothing much to be done about it now. You find your way to the bed and sit down hesitantly. It feels like a crime to rumple such primped and polished cotton. You do it anyway- it’s going to happen sometime, right? You fall back against the mattress and don’t fail to notice how utterly comfortable it is. The silvery patterns on your canopy swirl and bend together. You’re tired. You didn’t sleep much last night, anxious for the morning… and it’s only mid-afternoon now. You had time for a nap, right? Your eyes are closing before you can convince yourself it’s a bad idea and then you’re swept away into a world of warm darkness.

You wake with a start. Your first thought is that it’s dark now. Your room is pitch black except for the stream of moonlight passing through your stupidly large window. Your mouth feels dry and your skin is cold, like you’ve just woken from a nightmare. If you have, you don’t remember it. Perhaps that’s a blessing.

You sit up, combing a finger through your hair and laughing pitifully when you realize that you left your shoes on as you slept. You hope Thomas didn’t walk in to find you in yet another unladylike position. A glance at the foot of the bed reveals he might have. Your bags have arrived- all three of them. You eye them with a combination of longing and contempt. They don't match this place. They’re worn and used- everything here is shiny and new. Still, they’re all you have, and all you have left of your life before. All you have left of home.

You stretch your arms above your head, nearly groaning at the burn in your muscles. The carriage ride did your body no favors and you suspect you’ll be sore for many days to come.

You rise, no longer content to lie in bed. You’ve had your rest and, from the state of darkness outside, you suspect your new husband might be joining you soon. The thought twists a certain tightness into your gut, but you push it aside. If that was the price you paid for all he gave your family… then you’d pay it gladly.

You start with candles, finding a box of matches at your bedside. You light every candelabra you can find. The room, the castle, seems so perpetually… black- like it soaks up every ray of light it touches. Even when you’ve finished it doesn’t feel like enough. You make a note to ask Thomas for more in the morning.

You find a meal, carefully prepared and preserved, on a table near your dresser. Judging by the fact that it’s still warm, you conclude that it can’t be much past mid-evening. You originally intend to pick at the food as you unpack, but one bite has your mouth watering. It is the most delicious thing to ever touch your lips, complete with dessert waiting on the side. You clean your plate before moving onto your bags.

You lay your clothes out on the bed. A few dresses, riding pants, undergarments, an assortment of ribbons and bows. At one time these items had been the finest things you owned- now you owned a castle.

You find an armoire that looks like a master sculptor carved its edges and grab a dress, intending to hang it. Instead, your dress hits the floor when you part the doors to find the hangers already full. Your lips part. Luxury dresses of silk and satin line the rack, fading into some that appear more casual outfits of cotton and linen. You stretch a hand out, curious and utterly… amazed. To think your new husband had gone to all the effort… Your hand brushes purple silk and-

“Do you like them?”

You screech, jumping to face the voice at your back. It takes a moment for your eyes to find him, leaning casually against one post of your bed. Your breath is stolen for a second time. Snow white hair, piercingly blue eyes, pale soft skin… you know who he is even without looking at his dress, at the air of authority he claims. He’s your husband… and he is the most devastatingly beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

He laughs, then, and it’s a warmer sound than you’d thought it would be- rich and full. A sound that seeps into your bones and settles in your soul.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, but the twinkle in his eyes makes you think that perhaps that’s a lie.

Your heart pounds and your eyes flash to the door. It’s shut. You didn’t hear it open, nor did you hear it close behind him. You also didn’t hear footsteps, didn’t hear breaths, didn’t hear him.

He follows your gaze and laughs again, though it sounds a bit… strained?

“I have a habit of being unintentionally lightfooted. I apologize.”

Your heart is still pounding but you find it in yourself to have some decorum. You snap your jaw shut and bow your head slightly in respect. “You must be Lord Gojo. Forgive me for my insolence.”

There’s a beat, and then footsteps– ones you actually hear this time. You clench your jaw when he stops before you and then nearly gasp when he takes your hand and brings it to his lips.

“Satoru, please,” he winks and you think you might stop breathing. “I am your husband after all.”

You force yourself to nod, to swallow, to act normal. But how can you in the presence of a man that looks like… that? There’s something too unreal about him, too perfect. It’s almost… unsettling.

“Of course… Satoru.”

He straightens and shows you a close-lipped smile that digs a dimple into his left cheek. You have to look away to avoid stumbling over your own feet.

“So, do you like them?” Your brows furrow- “The dresses,” he clarifies.

“O-oh.” Your features relax into an easy smile. You turn back to your armoire, running a hand along another gown. You don’t think you’ve ever touched something so… finely made. “I like them very much. I don’t know how to thank you.”

There’s a little chuckle as you turn to face him again and you have to steel yourself before you meet his eyes. He’s mesmerizing, too mesmerizing. You think you could probably lose yourself in those eyes forever…

“No need to thank me. If they don’t fit, we’ll call for the seamstress in the morning.”

You nod softly, still lost to the situation. There’s a beat of silence in which your husband does nothing but… look at you. His eyes roam freely and the hair on your arms stands under his gaze. He traces the lines of your nose and jaw and lingers on your pulse. Can he see just how fast your heart is pounding?

“Did you… get dinner?” It’s a stupid question, you know, but you don’t think you can bear another second of that look he’s giving you. “I fell asleep and found a plate. I hope I didn’t prevent a proper meal…” You trail off. Perhaps you shouldn’t have pointed out your own shortcoming?

He gives you another smile and you swear he inches just a little closer. “You did no such thing. I’m… perfectly satisfied.”

You nod, glad that he doesn’t seem upset at the very least. Your lips press together, unsure of what to do or say. You’ve never had a husband before. Wasn’t he supposed to just sort of… put you on the bed and… do it?

Your eyes flit to said bed and your husband must see because he hurries to continue.

“Well, I’ll see you in the morning then, hm?” His eyes flit to your armoire and back again. “Wear the blue dress with the lace to breakfast, yeah? Been dying to see it on you.” He chuckles like he’s just told some sort of amusing joke.

Your brows furrow. That was… not the topic you’d been expecting. “You’re not…” You feel your cheeks heat and tighten your jaw. “Not staying the night?”

His lashes lower a fraction and those eyes pierce you again. You don’t think you could move even if you wanted to, even with him prowling closer, each step eating up the space between you. He doesn’t stop until you’re nose to nose and you can feel his breath fanning over your cheeks. It’s cold somehow, chilling, and you shiver. He smirks.

“Not tonight.”

His head dips and for a moment you think he’s going to kiss you, but then he’s bypassing your mouth altogether and- his lips connect to your pulse. His mouth is cool, just like his breath, and you shiver uncontrollably under his touch.

His touch is just a fleeting moment, just a wrinkle in time, and then he’s gone. His footsteps are quiet brushes on the hardwood and the creak of the door even seems tamed in his presence.

“Goodnight,” is all he says, and then he’s gone.

You climb into your bed an hour later wondering what in the world just happened.

You do wear the blue dress to breakfast and you can only gape in the mirror when you realize that it fits perfectly. It has you second-guessing yourself. Had you sent your measurements in advance and forgotten about it? No, you’d only sent a handful of pieces of information to the Lord prior to your marriage and you remembered all of them very clearly. Everything had gone through a messenger, everything had been clear and direct– you would have remembered sending your measurements– you didn’t. So had he just… guessed?

That seemed impossible with how everything fit you like a glove, but it was the only explanation you had. The only one that made sense.

When you join Satoru for breakfast it’s in a sitting room as lavishly decorated as the rest of the castle, but perhaps organized to be a bit more… liveable. He has no plate in front of him, only a tin cup that hides the contents of whatever he’s drinking. You assume coffee or juice. Perhaps he’s just not a breakfast person.

“It fits!” he says. His hands clasp together in front of him and he smiles again, dimples and all.

You nod and fight the heat that bubbles beneath your cheeks as you take your seat. “Yes, perfectly.”

A plate is set before you and a glance up reveals it’s Thomas serving your breakfast. You smile, hoping for some acknowledgement from him, for a small piece of comfort. Instead, you get his averted gaze and quick retreat. Your brows furrow, but before you can say anything, Satoru is back to speaking.

“I hope Thomas treated you well yesterday?”

You glance up, but Satoru’s eyes aren’t on you, they’re on your footman. His smile is bright, but it’s anything but friendly. You fight a shiver.

You glance at Thomas. He’s perfectly still, perfectly straight, but you think you see a muscle clench in his jaw. You clear your throat. “Y-Yes. Thomas was very helpful.” When Satoru keeps staring the boy down you add, “-and very respectful.”

That seems to satisfy. Satoru breaks his stare and some of the tension in the air instantly eases. He shoots you another dimpled smile, this one with a little more warmth. “Perfect.”

There’s a beat and then he’s standing, draining whatever he has in his cup and then straightening his jacket. “Well, I have some work to do. I’ll see you for dinner?” He’s grinning again, like it’s so normal for a man to abandon his bride on their wedding night and then again the morning after. All you can do is nod. He chuckles. “See you then, princess.” And then he’s gone.

If this is to be your life you don't know how you will survive it. You spend the day milling about. Through the gardens, through the castle, through the stables. Thomas is never far behind, but any attempt at conversation is nipped in the bud by hit shortness. It’s like he fears coming too close. He’s never closer than a couple paces except when he has to bring you something, only to retreat again as soon as possible. The other servants barely pay you any mind apart from giving you a respectful greeting and then immediately averting their eyes. There is no work to be done, no guests to be had, no parties to plan… and no Satoru. You don’t see your husband once on tour around the grounds. You ask Thomas where his office is only for him to vaguely point out a window in the east tower. You don’t see so much as a ripple in the curtains.

Dinner comes around at the pace of a snail. When it’s finally time to get dressed a lady’s maid whose name you don’t even catch arrives to help you lace your dress. As soon as your corset is deemed tight enough she’s back out the door with a curtsy. Thomas leads you to the dining room and your eyes roam the whole way. Even after having spent the whole day exploring, there are halls and corridors that you’ve yet to step foot in.

The dining room is just as gorgeous as the rest of the place– filled with singular items that could feed entire families for years. Somehow, you think you’ve already grown accustomed to such things, since the only thing you truly care to look at is your husband. Satoru’s already seated, but he stands when you enter, looping around the table to pull a chair out for you.

You give him your most genuine smile, accepting a kiss to your knuckles in greeting before you settle. “How was your day?” you ask as he takes his seat again.

He chuckles. “Perfectly fine. And how was yours, princess?” Your nose crinkles. That’s the second time he’s called you that. Something about it feels wrong. You’re still getting used to being a lady. Princess feels even worse.

“It was… good.”

You watch a perfect white brow arch in the candlelight. “Oh? Just good?” You don’t miss the way his eyes flicker to the corner– to Thomas.

You hurry to elaborate. “Well, I just– I can’t help but feel as if there’s not much… use for me.” Servants flood in, some carrying wine, others carrying trays that hold more food than the both of you could ever possibly consume.

That brow arches impossibly higher. “Use?” His lips crack into that smile again, but it’s tight this time. Too tight. “You have no use. You only enjoy yourself. Surely Thomas has told you that.”

A plate of steaming food plops in front of you. Even its heavenly smell can’t quell the sudden dread in your gut. “Of course! Of course he did.” Your stomach twists and you decide that perhaps now is not the time to press the subject. “I’ll just… I’ll try riding tomorrow.” You hate riding, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

Satoru’s smile thaws into something less menacing. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.”

You nod eagerly. “I’m sure I will.”

You grab your fork, eager for a new subject. From what you can tell, dinner is roast chicken and vegetables, though it’s the luxury version as everything seems to be. The spices are intoxicating and the green beans are even arranged in a pretty little pattern that makes them look too good to eat. You do anyway. The first bite nearly makes you moan, but you chew slowly, delicately, trying not to let your upbringing show.

It’s not until several bites later that you realize you’re the only one eating. A quick glance reveals your husband has no platter, no chicken or green beans. He’s only… watching you. You clear your throat, dabbing at your lips with a napkin.

“You’re not… eating?”

That permanent smile grows a little wider and you can’t help but feel as if there’s something… menacing about it. “Ate before I came.”

Your brows furrow. “Oh. Were you on the road?”

You think you see something wild flash in his eyes. “No.”

The rest of dinner passes slowly, almost painfully. Satoru doesn’t eat a bite, doesn’t even look enticed. You wonder how that’s possible when it smells like a spice bomb went off in the dining room.

By the time you’ve cleared your plate you’ve discussed everything from the number of horses in the stables to kinds of crops grown on the estate. It’s comforting to know a little more about your new home, but it’s not enough.

“Is there a library?” you ask. You’re on dessert now. It’s the best chocolate cake you’ve ever had and it takes everything in you to hold back a moan each time it touches your tongue.

“Of course.” Your husband’s eyes flicker to Thomas again and you’re honestly starting to fear for the poor footman’s life. Everytime you ask a question it’s like Satoru is angry it hasn’t already been answered. “It’s yours to use as you please.”

You smile lightly. “Perfect. Thank you.”

He softens a bit at that. “Is there anything specific you wanted to read about?”

You shrug. “The estate, I suppose. I should know my home’s history, no?”

His eyes get that wild look again, that sparkle that you know speaks to nothing good. “Oh, absolutely. I have some personal favorites to recommend. I’ll leave them aside for you?”

You swallow and give him a shallow nod. “That would be perfect. Thank you.”

He chuckles. “My pleasure.”

When dessert is finally over, you stand slowly. Satoru’s not far behind you, saying he’ll walk you to your room. Your heart leaps at his words. Will he stay with you tonight?

He offers you his arm in the hall and your mouth runs dry when you feel the corded muscle beneath his jacket. By the time you reach your room, you’re thinking of tugging him in behind you. His denial to stay with you last night was not only confusing, but… off putting. Nearly offensive. Did he not like how you looked? Did he think something was wrong with you?

You muster all the courage you possess and force your lips apart. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

His eyes spark again and you hold your breath. He presses closer. This is it, you think. His lips hover over yours, eyes glimmering in the candlelight. And then he dips his head, his mouth pressing to your pulse.

“Not tonight,” he whispers– and then he’s gone.

You wake suddenly. It’s the middle of the night, you gather. The light streaming through the window is weak enough to only be that of the moon.

Your heart is pounding and your skin is slick with sweat despite the chill in your bones. A nightmare, you think. It must have been a nightmare.

As you settle back into your sheets you swear you see a ripple in the darkness. You close your eyes. If your nightmare is real, you’d rather not see it coming.

The library is huge. It’s sprawling and smells of paper and leather and everytime Thomas lights a candle you flinch at the idea that one misplaced spark could end thousands of years of knowledge.

The books Satoru left you are… perfect. Just what you were looking for. They’re all comprehensive volumes of the history of the estate, many of which reference each other. You’re stunned to see that several are written by very well-known authors of both the past and the present. You knew the Gojo family’s influence reached far, but not that far. You peruse the titles. The Gojos: A History, A History of the Gojo Crest, History of the Gojo Castle, Revisiting the Gojo Family: A Comprehensive History. Altogether you have well over a few thousand pages of information– but there’s one book that doesn’t fit with the rest. It’s relatively unassuming. A black cover with some sort of gold rune etched onto its front. When you flip to the title page it reads “Creatures of Myth and Where To Find Them”. Your brows furrow. You slide it to the side– must have gotten mixed in with the others, you think.

You ask Thomas to bring the books to your room. He does. Very respectfully. He sets them on your bedside table and then retreats like a kicked puppy with only a polite goodbye. You sigh. His behavior has only gotten stranger in the past few days. You think the servants’ coldness must have something to do with Satoru, but you can’t figure out why. Had he ordered them to stay away? Why would he?

You decide it’s a question for another day and dive into your books. You spend hours, days, reading every chapter, page, and word. The pure amount of information is dizzying. Apparently this specific estate had been in the hands of the Gojo family since the eighth century (with several razings and consequential rebuilds). You also learn that Satoru was not only the most wealthy lord on the continent, but the most wealthy man. Even wealthier than the king apparently, though that fact was kept fairly under wraps to protect the crown’s ego. The estimates of your husband’s net worth made your head spin.

Satoru joins you for breakfast and dinner every day. You never see him eat a morsel. It’s… unsettling to say the least. It’s always just that tin cup, filled with something you could never quite see. You develop a pattern of waking in the night, too, with the overwhelming sense that something is watching you. Sometimes you could swear you feel the bed shift as you jerk awake. Each time you simply close your eyes and try your best to slow your heart, convinced your mind is playing tricks on you.

Your days feel a little more productive with a book in your hands, but you’ve read them all three times over by the time a fortnight has passed. You find yourself packing them up to return to Thomas when a certain black cover catches your attention. You grab it from the pile and settle back into your seat. You’ve nothing better to do, right?

You flip back the cover, revealing a familiar title. “Creatures of Myth and Where to Find Them”. You don’t recognize the author’s name. A quick scroll through the table of contents reveals nothing particularly interesting, but you pick a random chapter on ghouls and decide to start there.

It’s fascinating. Nothing about the style is boring and the words fly by. Your silly little myth book is a page turner. By the time you notice the light has started dying you’ve read about ghosts, fairies, werewolves, and goblins– all of which have been a delightful little read. A glance at the clock reveals you have a half hour before dinner. One more chapter, you think. Your eyes skim the title. “Vampires [Vampyr]”.

You skim the first paragraphs until your eyes settle on a line that catches your eye.

“Contrary to popular belief, vampires are not always crazed blood-hungry monsters. Many live among humans quite comfortably and are able to avoid detection with a little well-placed effort.”

You purse your lips. What a… terrifying thought. You skim a little further.

“A vampire’s key characteristic is, of course, their desire and need to drink human blood as sustenance. However, a vampire can be spotted sooner if one is able to recognize their subtler traits. Vampires often have skin lacking any sort of flush. The lack of blood in their veins results in a sickly pallor, even after the most rigorous exercise. Their skin is also noticeably cold to the touch. At best, a vampire’s body will reach room temperature. Vampires can also be noted for their preternatural beauty. They will stand out as the most attractive person in any crowd. Finally, a vampire will have fangs. If one wishes to identify a vampire, one only needs a good look at their teeth”.

A chill settles over your skin. You flip ahead a few pages.

“Vampires are unable to consume typical human food. Should they attempt to, their bodies will immediately reject any and all foreign substances.”

Your stomach drops. You don’t want to think about why. You skip the rest of the paragraph.

“Vampires possess several supernatural abilities that set them apart as a human’s predator rather than their equal. Vampires are known to move unnaturally fast and are notably light footed. If a vampire does not wish to be heard, they will not be. A vampire’s strength is inhuman, well over ten times that of the average man. They also have a penchant for darkness, an ability to hide away in the shadows that cannot be explained. Oftentimes they will seem to appear from thin air.”

You skip ahead again.

“Vampires have been known to take mates. Mates usually come in the form of another vampire, but in some cases a human has been chosen. Vampires are fiercely protective of their mates, bordering on obsession. Any person deemed a threat to their bond or their mate’s safety is usually disposed of quickly. Oftentimes, vampires make these decisions with haste, with little regard for whether or not the threat was real. A vampire will do everything in their power to please their mate, but have been known to forcibly restrain their mates in situations of unrequited feelings. Above all else, vampires wish to possess their mates. Two bonded vampires will sometimes spiral into gloriously destructive fits in their endless desire to protect and possess one another. A vampire bonded to a human will show an increasingly protective nature, often isolating their mate from others.”

Your heart pounds. A bead of sweat rolls down your back. You flip the pages, desperate– desperate for a piece of information that will save you from the thoughts spilling in your mind, from the thoughts you will do anything not to believe. You reach the “Where to Find Them” subsection and nearly gasp with relief. Surely, vampires do not pose as wealthy lords of Europe?

“Vampires can be found everywhere. They do not exist in only one country or continent, but all over the world. Odds are that you have faced at least one vampire in your life, unknowingly or not. Some vampires choose to live solitary lives, surviving in the wilderness where human society will not attempt to tame their wild nature. Others choose to live among humans, some even existing in positions of very high authority.”

No, no, no. This can’t be happening to you. It can’t be real. You’re dreaming, you’re having one of those nightmares again. You’re going to wake up any second.

“One tale recounts a razing of the Gojo estate in the 12th century.”

You’re panting, hyperventilating. This isn’t happening.

“Soldiers of the enemy force recounted a singular man, the son and heir of the then Lord Gojo, taking out a minimum of 800 men. He was described as having his family’s characteristic white hair as well as blue eyes. Eyewitness accounts depict the Gojo heir as covered in blood and killing savagely and with inhuman strength.”

No, no, no.

“(See next page for only existing portrait)”

Your fingers tremble but you can’t stop them. There’s no way. It’s not possible.

You flip the page and Satoru stares back at you.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

You nearly scream. Your door rattles angrily, but you’re not sure you can answer it, not with the knowledge flooding your mind. The knocking continues. You run your hand over your face and smooth down your hair. You feel frazzled, dirty, despite not having moved from your chair all day. Another knock prompts you to set your book aside and stand. You do your best to compose yourself, to put on a straight face. You fail instantly when you pull back the door not to reveal your faithful attendant, not Thomas, but Satoru.

You bite back a shriek and instead force a smile. You’re suddenly very aware of the blood pounding in you veins and of the fact that he most likely knows.

“Hello,” he says, but his voice is lower than usually, more intense.

You force a breath into your lungs. “Hello,” you answer, but it sounds more like a squeak than a greeting.

Something flashes in his eyes, something familiar, something that is no longer interesting but rather terrifying. “Are you alright? You seem a little… flushed.” The concern on his face feels anything but genuine.

“I’m fine,” you answer, but even you can tell that reply too quickly, too eagerly. You rush to cover it up. “Is it time for dinner? Where’s Thomas?”

His lip twitches and you see a muscle in his jaw flex. “Thomas has… left us.”

No. This wasn’t happening to you. There was no way this was happening to you.

“He… what?” There’s an unmistakable wobble in your voice that only causes Satoru’s face to fall further.

“It’s no matter. He’s gone. Now it’s just you and me, hm?” He chuckles and the sound rattles your bones. “In fact, I was thinking I’d cut down on the number of servants we have entirely…”

You mind races with the memory of knowledge you wish you didn’t have. “Vampires are fiercely protective of their mates, bordering on obsession. Any person deemed a threat to their bond or their mate’s safety is usually disposed of quickly.”

You nearly stumble, but lean against the doorframe just in time. Your husband had disposed of a man, all because he brought you meals and books?

“What have you been up to today, princess?” The question breaks your trance just in time for you to see your husband’s eyes flicker behind you.

You wet your lips. “Just some reading.” You plead that he doesn’t ask anything further. He does.

“About the estate?” he asks.

You nod and try to swallow the lump in your throat. “Yes.”

His smile returns and this time it’s not forced. “You got my books, then?”

You try smiling back, but you’re fairly sure it looks more like a grimace. “Yes.”

“Anything interesting?” he presses.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. Does he know? Does he know that you know? “Yes, of course. Lots.”

He pauses and you see the debate and then the decision in his eyes. You think it’s the first time you’ve felt true terror when he meets your gaze again. “I think we should skip dinner tonight. It seems we have so much to discuss.”

You don’t even have the wherewithal to scream when he steps into you, forcing you back until he’s shutting your door behind him. He doesn’t stop there, though. He keeps pressing, keeps pushing until your knees hit the bed and you’re falling to the mattress. He crawls right after you.

“Who knew my little wife was such a reader? All those books in such a short time… You must be simply spilling with information.”

You retreat across the mattress, squeaking when your back hits the headboard and his arms cage your waist. You’re trapped.

His hands find your hips and you’re all too aware of how cool his touch is. Even more so when he pulls you right into his lap.

“Satoru-” your voice is pitiful, breathless, and you’re ashamed to say it’s not just from the fear in your gut. He’s never been this close before, never touched you, held you like this. “Thomas-”

“Don’t speak his name.” His face pulls into the first scowl you’ve ever seen and the sight is enough to root you to the spot. Never have you seen anything more frightening. A creature so beautiful, so perfectly angelic, filled with an insurmountable rage. It’s wrong. “He’s gone. He’ll never bother you again.” He’s closer now, his breath skating over your skin. It’s cool and now you know the reason why.

You shake and tremble and you know– Thomas is dead. Your husband killed him– killed him for getting too close when all he did was stay at a distance. Satoru killed him. Killed him.

He buries himself in your neck, his voice a near whine. “Thought I could put up with it, just so you’d have someone to take care of you…” He groans. “I was so wrong, princess. Couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the way you smelled more like him than me…”

You feel him melt against you then, relief washing over his body in a wave. “But he’s gone. And now it’s just you and me, hm? Just you and me…” He hums, like remembering that fact is all he’s ever needed.

He’s kissing your pulse again, now, and your heart is racing faster than ever. Your fingers curl into his shoulders. You should push him away, away, away. He’s a killer, of thousands no doubt. You’ve never felt at home here, never felt like you belonged. This is why. You’re not even the same species. He’s something else, something your hands were never meant to touch.

Your mind screams at you to do go, to shove and kick at him and leave this place behind. Go, go, go your gut says… but you don’t. You can’t. It’s too… good. The feeling of his cool lips against your skin, of what you’re sure is his tongue prodding at your pulse… it’s intoxicating. He is intoxicating. How could anyone blame you for wanting more of someone, something, so divine?

“Have you figured it out yet, love?” Your breath hitches and he chuckles, licking a long stripe up your neck, before he settles back at your pulse. Always your pulse. “I can feel those little gears turning. Tell me, what have they discovered?”

He knows you know. But he’s going to make you say it. You swallow and feel his grip on you tighten. “You’re…” Your breaths come faster. You can’t. Not aloud. Aloud makes it too… real.

“Yessss?” he prods. He’s licking at you again, all the way across your throat to find your other pulse-point.

“You’re not…” Something sharps nicks at your skin and you bite your lip to hold back a whimper.

“Go on, princess.” You think he’s just smelling you now, just burying his face as close to you as possible and taking you in.

You close your eyes tightly, holding back tears. “Not human,” you breathe. A piece of you breaks with the admission.

He huffs a little laugh against your skin and pulls back to look you in the eye. “That’s good,” he purrs. “But I think you can be a little more specific, no?” His lips press to your chin, then the corner of your mouth, then down to your jaw… “Tell me.”

Your lips wobble, muscles clenching tighter with each passing moment. You don’t want to say it, don’t want to speak it into existence, but you also don’t dare to disobey him.

“You’re a…” You shake and tremble. He draws a line up your neck with the tip of his nose.

“Mhm?”

You open your eyes, thinking this might be the last time you see. “Vampire.”

He chuckles and you feel his teeth press to the skin of your neck. “That’s right, princess. So smart.”

He smiles and you suddenly realize you’ve never seen his teeth before. Everytime he smiles at you it’s close-lipped and dimpled. But this… this is the smile of a predator– all white and pointy and fitted with a set of menacingly long fangs. You sob at the sight.

“Shhhhh,” he coos. He has your chin in his hand, forcing you to truly look at him, to see him for what he is. “I won’t hurt you, love.” You want to believe him so badly it burns, but his laugh washes away any fire and turns it to ice. “Not unless you want me to.” He wiggles a brow like it’s just a little joke, like he’s not an actual fucking vampire that had his fangs over your neck just moments ago.

“Satoru,” you beg. You’re not sure what you’re begging for. Release maybe? But, no, that’s not right. You don’t want him to let you go, not when you finally have him close after all this time. “Why did you pick me?”

The question slips out. You hadn’t even been thinking about it, hadn’t even noticed it scratching at the walls of your mind, but it made its way out nonetheless.

His brow creases, but not in confusion. Moreso in… thoughtfulness. “Do you think about that a lot, princess?”

You nod and you suddenly want him closer, want him to touch you everywhere, hold you like his life depends on it. You want him, no matter how horrible it might be.

He nods and hums, kissing the tip of your nose lightly. “Well…” he says. His thumb swipes over your lips when he leans in to whisper in your ear. “At first I wanted you for this.” His head dips to your neck again and you feel the familiar brush of his lips against your throat. “You smell…” he chuckles. “Like heaven. Which is a place I’ll never get to on my own, so I had to bring my own little slice home, no?” He laughs again, a little louder this time, genuinely amused. “Went into town one day and caught your scent on the street. At first I thought I must be walking past the bakery, but, lo and behold, there was no baker in sight.” He’s still kissing at your pulse, worshiping it. “Went crazy, princess. Didn’t think I was going to be able to contain myself when I found you. Thought it might be quite the scene.” He huffs a laugh and you shiver, somehow both terrified and intoxicated. “But then I saw you–” he groans and something clenches deep at your center. “And I knew I needed more than just your blood. Needed you.” He’s rocking into you now, and your breath catches when you feel something firm against your backside. “Went to you in that little room you slept in every night. Watched you. Couldn’t stay away. Knew I had to have you.” You feel him smile against your skin. “After a week I couldn’t take it anymore. Sent you that letter, married you. Made you mine.” He groans again. “Then I met you and you were so pretty, princess. Already knew it, but hearin’ you talk to me, look at me.” Teeth graze your pulse. “Needed you more than ever. Almost took you right on the fucking floor in here while you were lookin’ at those dresses.” You whine when his hips roll into you again. “Oh, but I knew I couldn’t. You’re so fragile, love. Had to wait, had to make you feel safe, yeah? Spent all this time forcing myself to stay away, ‘fraid of what I might too if I was in your presence too long. Had to control myself. Had to make you realize you could trust me.” He panting, like he’s so pent up he can hardly sit still. “Do you trust me, princess?”

Your brows scrunch. Say no, say no, say no a part of you screams. Run, run, run. You can’t. “Yes,” you breathe.

You feel him smile again, feel the pleasure of submission. “Good girl.”

You’re on your back. It happens so fast your eyes don’t even have time to gasp. You don’t see Satoru, but you feel him. Everywhere. His hands are roaming your body softly, sliding under buttons and laces and popping them off. Your dress loosens with every passing moment until Satoru reappears above you, diving straight for your neck again. “So good, princess. Let’s get you out of this dress, yeah?”

You nod wordlessly, entranced. He finds your mouth as he rids you of your clothes. His tongue presses in and you flail against him, unsure of what to do, of how to handle the intrusion. The kiss is heavy, too heavy, but Satoru can’t seem to stop. He devours you as he gives up on laces and buttons and simply shreds your dress down the back. You tremble when the cold air hits your skin, when his cool fingers dust your collarbone.

“I always forget how many damn layers they make you ladies wear,” he chuckles. His hands run beneath your shift, up across your bare thigh. You gasp at the touch. No one has even been so close to you before. You feel the threads of your corset snapping away, feel your breaths growing deeper. You tremble when he pulls your sleeve down past your shoulder and runs his mouth along the newly exposed skin.

“Satoru,” you gasp, and your hand pulls at his flowing white shirt.

He chuckles, pulling back just enough to see your face. “You wanna see me too?” You nod, lips parted and eyes glassy, and he laughs again. He lips dust over the corner of your mouth. “Alright.”

His hands shift from you to himself, working at the laces on his chest. His movements are speedy, practiced, like he’s been lacing and unlacing shirts for hundreds of years. Your throat tightens when you realize that he has.

You gasp when he reveals himself, when his shirt slides away to reveal an expanse of pale skin and carved muscle. You’ve never seen a man like this and seeing one this close up for the first time is nearly blinding. He’s art, you think- nothing less.

“Touch me, princess,” he says. You can’t. You shouldn’t. He’s too beautiful, too perfect to be beneath your insignificant hands. “Need a little help?” he asks, and there’s a lilt in his voice that makes you sure he’s grinning.

His hands find yours and bring them to his chest, running your palms over his collarbones, his pecs, down, down, down across his abs that you can feel each and every one… You whimper, watching your own fingers grope his skin. He pulls you lower, lower, lower, and you gasp when your fingertips brush the waistband of his pants. But then he’s laughing again and he’s throwing your arms over his shoulders and pulling you closer, kissing your neck like it pained him to be parted from your pulse for so long.

“Not so fast,” he says, like he wasn’t the one nearly stuffing your hands down his pants. His hands are on your corset again. You can feel it dangling onto you by a thread, literally. All he needs is a couple more pulls and you’ll be bare. By the look he gives you, you can tell he’s

thinking the same thing. “You touch me, now I touch you, yeah?” There’s a tug and a tear and then so much… cold. You’ve never realized how cold this castle is, not until you’re exposed to its elements fully. You’re naked.

Satoru sits back on his knees and just watches. His gaze is searing, burning, despite the iciness of his being. It’s too much. Your hands move to cover yourself, to maintain some modicum of your dignity-

“No.” Strong hands find your wrists and pry them apart. “Let me see you,” he says. His tongue darts out to lick his lips.

Your jaw clenches and your frame shakes, but you do as he asks, letting your hands fall limply at your sides. There’s silence for many more moments and it seems to go on so long that you can only squeeze your eyes shut under his gaze. Surely he will turn you away now, get up and leave, tell you this was a mistake, tell you that you’re–

“Beautiful,” he breathes. Your eyes snap open to find him already staring at you. “Beautiful,” he says again, and then he’s on you, lips at your pulse, hands on your skin. His touch is cool and you squeak at the chill that runs up your spine. You’re not sure it’s entirely from his temperature.

His mouth seeks yours and he devours you. You feel as if he’s sucking your soul out through your lips. “Tell me you’ve never done this before,” he begs. “Tell me I’m the first to touch you.”

You whine against his mouth, both aching for more and overwhelmed by what he’s already giving you. “Y-You’re the first,” you whisper.

His groan is deep, primal. It rattles through your chest and you whimper when his hands dig into your waist hard enough to bruise. “Yes,” he breathes, and you shiver again. “Lie back, princess.” Your eyes widen, with anticipation or fear you’re not sure. Probably both. He chuckles. “Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.”

You pray he means that. “Just relax, love. Here, hold my hand.” His fingers find yours, twining them together. When you swallow, his eyes follow the bob of your throat. He leans back again and your body twitches when his free hand skims the skin of your thighs. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he finds your knees and you gasp when he parts your legs, revealing you so completely to his gaze. The way he stares, like he’s committing you to memory, it’s nearly enough to make you snap your thighs shut, but a squeeze from his hand reminds you to relax, to trust.

His palm skates up your thigh and settles near your hip, his fingertips inching closer to where you can feel an embarrassing throb.

“Tell me, love. Have you ever touched yourself here?” His fingers dust low on your tummy- just low enough for you to catch his meaning, but not low enough to give you any relief. Your face heats and your teeth dig into the flesh of your cheek. You have, you have touched yourself there, but it’s the last thing you want to admit to your new husband. It’s shameful, it’s dirty, it’s- “Don’t think I’ll judge you, princess. Just wanna know.”

You gulp down a breath. You should come clean. “Y-yes,” you stutter, and the sound of your voice so weak and helpless only makes you flush further.

He chuckles and squeezes your hand again. “On the outside or the inside?”

Your eyes widen. I-inside? You’d never considered that… “J-just the outside,” you answer.

Your eyes grow even wider when his head rolls back and he moans straight up to the ceiling like your answer is heaven-sent. When he looks back to you his fangs are on full display. “Well, I think you and I are in for a little treat today, hm?”

Your brow furrows and your lips part to ask him what he means– his fingers travel those last few inches down your tummy and find your clit. You squeak and jolt so violently that he presses a hand to your hip, holding you to the mattress. “Somebody’s sensitive,” he chuckles. He holds you still for a moment and then lets your hips go free. “Try to stay still. I promise it’ll feel good.”

You nod hopelessly, but this time you’re prepared for when he touches you again. Your muscles clench at the first touch, at the foreign sensation of a touch down there that wasn’t your own. But then it’s more. It’s languid, slow circles around a spot that you’ve never been able to pinpoint so well on your own. It’s heat building in your tummy that seeps through every vein and into every pore. It’s relaxation that you’ve never known, that has you melting into the mattress despite the chill of the touch.

There’s a little huff of a laugh and then his voice. “Good girl. Feels nice, yeah?” You nod hesitantly and squeeze desperately at his hand, searching for an anchor. His head cocks to the side and you watch the smile slide across his lips. “It’s about to feel even nicer.”

By the time you realize what he’s doing it’s far too late to stop him. His mouth closes around your cunt and you yelp, trying to wiggle away from the overwhelming sensation- but he’s got his freehand on your hip again and his grip is bruising, punishing, as he holds you in place. He licks a stripe through your folds and you find yourself jolting again, uselessly so against the pressure of his palm on your hip. “Stop that, princess.” Your heart drops at the admonishment until you feel his guiding touch. “Rock into me like this.” His hand rocks your hips into his mouth and the pressure of his tongue against your clit is so delicious that you whimper. “Good girl,” he says and your heart rises right back up. “Keep doing that, now.” You don’t dare defy him. You rock like he showed you, a little jerkily at first, and then you find a rhythm that has you seeing stars. “That’s it, love,” he says, and the sound is muffled against your cunt. ��Here, put your hand in my hair.” He finds your wrist and guides you forward until your fingers are tangling in those snowy locks. They’re even softer than you’d imagined. “Good girl,” he whispers and suddenly he’s taking one last long lick and lifting his head to meet your eyes. “‘M gonna put my fingers in you now, princess.” Your chin wobbles. “It might hurt a little bit, but stay still, okay?” You can’t do anything but nod.

His eyes return to your cunt and you can feel him prodding at your entrance, circling the hole as you clench in anticipation. “Relaaaaaax, love,” he says and you nod. A deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth–

You feel the exact moment he pushes into you and a whine of pain rips from your throat. Your walls clamp down like a vice, angry at the intrusion– but it’s already too late. There’s a beat of silence, of anticipation, and then he’s– laughing?

Your brows furrow when you hear it, your head lifting to a sight that locks your limbs in shock. Satoru’s hand is lifted in front of his face, his pointer finger coated in– blood, you realize. Your blood. And he’s a fucking vampire.

“Oh princess,” he coos, and the manic look in his eyes makes you tremble. “You really are perfect.”

Things seem to slow as you watch him take his blood covered finger into his mouth. You’re sure you’ve never seen an expression more blissful, more lost to sensation. His eyes roll back and his body shivers, like he’s ascending to some higher plane. Maybe he is.

When he pulls his finger from his mouth it’s completely licked clean. You hold your breath. He’s going to go for your neck now, right? He’s had a taste and now he’ll want more of it, all of it?

“Fuck,” is all he says. His mouth is back on your cunt so fast you don’t even see him move.

Your mouth falls wide. It hurts, the way he is so desperately licking at you. You feel his finger again, pressing in, in, in, only to pull back and suddenly be joined by another. The stretch tears at you. You thrash and jolt, but Satoru doesn’t bother telling you to stop this time. His arm wraps over your hips, holding you in place. He seems immune to how hard your legs squeeze at his head or your hands pull at his hair. He’s lost. You can feel him licking, lapping, and prodding at you like you’re a fucking gold mine. He’s lost to desperation, to the need for more, more, more. Every so often he lifts his chin and you see his mouth smudged with a mixture of your wetness and your blood. He laps at his lips like an animal, dragging his thumb across his chin and sliding it into his mouth to make sure he gets every last drop.

You’re not quite sure when the ravenous pain turns to a ravenous pleasure, when it turns from terrifying to downright delicious. You don’t notice your moans filling the air until Satoru joins you, groaning and whining into your cunt and telling you to keep going, to keep making those sounds. The hand you have buried in his hair doesn’t fight to push him away any longer, only to pull him into those now practiced rocks of your hips. His fingers thrust deep, curling into a spot that makes you feel so good and his mouth has found your clit again. He sucks your nerves lightly between his lips, tongue swirling in little circles. Your thighs start to shake.

“Yes. Yes. Give it to me.”

“S-Satoru–” you breathe. Warmth and tightness pool in your tummy, and you recognize it as your approaching orgasm, though you know this one will be far different than any you’ve ever managed to give yourself. Your body shakes and your breaths tremble and then– you fall over the edge, rocking your hips senselessly, losing all form of rhythm. Warmth tingles in your spine and seeps all the way down to your toes. You think you cry out, cry for your husband, cry for more, cry for less, but if you do you don’t hear it. All you hear is the pounding of your pulse, of pleasure throbbing in your veins until the world slowly seeps back in through the corners of your vision.

Satoru is grinning. A speck of your blood clings to his chin and his fangs peek out from behind his lips. The sight makes your blood run a little colder. If any part of you doubted what he was before… well, there was no doubt any longer.

There’s a shift between your legs, his hips slotting between them, and you’re suddenly snapped back to reality. From the look in his eyes, you’re not done.

Frantic hands find his pants and he undoes each button with a quickness that is almost inhuman. You wonder if he could go even faster, if he’s holding back so as not to scare you. If he is, it isn’t working very well. Fear surges in your veins right alongside anticipation.

“S-Satoru–”

“It’s alright, love.” His hand finds yours without his eyes ever looking up. His grip is just a little too firm, a little too cold. “Just stay still.”

You whimper, but you don’t think he’s paying attention to that, and soon enough, neither are you. His pants slide down just past his hips, just enough. You gasp.

You’ve never seen a man in the nude, never even dared to think about what it might look like, though it seemed you no longer had to guess. His hand wrapped around his shaft, giving one long and slow stroke that made his breath hiss through his fangs. The tip was flushed, angry, and leaking something that looked clear and sticky. You couldn’t help but notice it was a lot thicker than a finger, or even two. If his fingers had hurt…

He moves with that alarming quickness again, leaning down to hover over you, chests nearly pressed together. “Gonna take you now, princess. Gonna make you mine.” His eyes bore into yours, blue and shimmering with something wild. His hand presses into the mattress beside your head. “Stay still, now.”

It’s all the warning he gives you. You feel like you’re splitting– straight up the middle. You wail, hands flying out to claw at his back. It hurts. It hurts.

“Satoru, p-please! It’s–”

Lips catch yours– hungry, feral. The kiss is not gentle, not soothing. It shuts you up, it keeps you quiet, it keeps you still as you feel him sinking further, deeper into you. It’s too much, you try to say, but the poke of sharp teeth against your lips keeps you silent. Your hips jolt and wiggle trying desperately to escape the stretch but it’s no use. By the time he’s fully inside you, tears are streaking down your cheeks, fat and heavy. His lips break away and his eyes reappear. You shake when you see that none of the wildness has been tamed, that you’ve only just begun.

“Good girl,” he coos, and a cool finger traces a line across your jaw. “Took me so well.” You hold back a sob when his hips shift a little, testing, prodding. He must see the pinch of your eyes, the twist of your mouth, because he’s quick to comfort. “Just hold my hand, princess.” His hips rock in earnest this time and you whimper, squeezing down on his hand with all your might. You’re panting as he chuckles. “Breathe, love. Breathe. Soon you’ll be begging for more,” he laughs. It’s not long before he’s rocking into you sincerely, setting a pace that stretches you to the brink of breaking. At first it’s all you can do to grasp onto him, to bite your lips through the whimpers and hold his hand. And then it’s… more. It’s heat and warmth despite the coolness of his body on yours. It’s sensation and… pleasure. He laughs when the first moan slides past your lips, burying his face in your neck once again. You hear him at your ear, panting his hot breath across your skin.

“Feel good, princess?” You nod, letting your hips rock against his as he showed you before. It feels good– it feels right. He chuckles, but there’s nothing light about the sound. “Wanna feel even better?” Something sharp pokes at the skin of your neck, hard enough to make you squeak, to make you freeze at what you know he wants.

He pulls himself back, pressing his forehead to yours, searching your eyes with his. Something like a cruel smile dances on his mouth. “Just a taste, love. I promise it won’ hurt.” His tongue darts out and licks across your lips, his thrusts rocking just a bit faster. “You’ll feel s’ good an’ I’ll only take a little.” He laughs again and it sends a chill through your bones. “Promise.” He sounds breathless, like he’s struggling to restrain himself. The increase of his pace makes you whine and you squeeze his hand again. He buries himself back in your neck, panting. “Come on, love. Say yes. Say yes f’ me.” Your eyes glaze over. Your body justles with each new thrust. He’s desperate now, seeking a release that you don’t think is any kind you’re familiar with. “Yes, yes, yes,” he chants in your ear. You’re not sure when his words twist in your mind, when they settle on your tongue and push past your lips, but you know it feels so right when they do.

“Yes,” you whisper.

His fangs clamp around your pulse. You scream when the sting rips through you, violent and savage– but it only lasts a moment. Pain fades to… ecstasy. You feel his throat bobbing with each swallow, feel your blood seeping from your skin and onto his tongue. You’d thought it would feel slicing, draining, like the life was being sucked from you. It doesn’t. It feels wonderful. Heat spreads under your skin, emanating from your neck and down to your toes. It feels like breathing for the first time, like sugar being pumped into your veins. It feels like heaven. Your hand tangles in his hair, holding him close. You don’t want it to stop, not ever. You could die like this, have him suck every last drop of blood from your veins and thank him for it with your dying breath.

He’s moaning now, hands curling into your hips while he fucks into you relentlessly. The pace is grueling and brutal. You know it should hurt but only feels perfect. Anything less would not be enough. Anything else would leave you wanting. You feel it building, feel that familiar twinge at your core. The ecstasy flooding through your veins has it coming faster, has you teetering on the edge in moments.

“Satoru…” You hadn’t noticed how dizzy you felt until you tried to speak. You wonder why… “‘M gonna…”

He fucks you harder, something menacing and deep rumbling in his chest. The sound makes you shiver, makes you whine, makes you come.

Your body shakes and a cry rips from your throat, cunt clenching like a vice around him. Your eyes roll back, hands scraping trails down his back. Your thighs quake with the intensity, with the overwhelming senses of pleasure that erupt throughout your body. Every nerve is firing, every hair rising. It’s an unstoppable current, one that sweeps you away, helpless to its pull.

His thrusts grow sloppy and untimed. His grip on your hips tightens, holding you in place while he makes you his. His teeth break from your neck and when you look up through blurry eyes you see his head thrown back, your blood streaming down his chin in thick little globs. You feel it when he cums, feel the thick ropes of it seeping into your womb, feel the way he keeps fucking you, pushing it deeper and deeper inside. He’s moaning, chanting your name like a prayer at the heavens.

When the moment ends he slumps over you, eyes half lidded and tired. There’s a familiar grin on his lips, one that inspires both comfort and uneasiness in your gut. You can’t help but stare at him, at the blood that stains his chin and cheeks, that reddens his lips so beautifully. You want to reach out and touch him, touch his blood-soaked skin and see what it feels like, what it tastes like. What you taste like.

His eyes slide to the side, finding your pulse again. You groan. Yes, you think. Please, yes. More. You don’t think you’ll ever get enough of that. Of his teeth in your flesh, of the euphoria flooding your veins. More, more, more, your mind chants.

He chuckles lightly and shakes his head. “No, princess.” He raises a finger to trace the curve of your neck. “I took more than I should have…” His expression doesn’t tense with worry. His cheeks pull into a smile, those little dimples shining through. “But what can I say? You just taste so good.” Like he needs to emphasize his point, his tongue darts out to trace his lips, lapping up some of the remaining blood on his chin. “You taste like mine.”

You whine. More, more, more. It’s all you can think about. You lift an arm weakly. You want to pull him to your neck, to make him drink, to make him fill you with the heaven you had just moments ago.

He catches your wrist and brings it to his lips, inhaling deeply. His lips split into another grin and you see his eyes spark again with the wildness you crave.

“Not yet, princess.” he coos. “But soon.” His smile grows even wider, until those fangs are on full display, until you’re trembling again. “Forever,” he whispers.

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