When you commit a crime, you receive a punishment. This is especially true in your society. No matter the crime, your punishment is the same: banishment. But to where you will be sent in exile and how miserable will it be? No one knows, because no one has ever returned.
To receive the full personalized experience including the prologue, look no further. Here lies your path forward: DAMNATION!
For updates or extra information regarding the series, please check the tag #damnation twst au. Interested in fanart of the series? Refer to the tag #shiny showroom.
If you have no need of that, for you already know your past sins, then there is nothing left for you but to see where the judges choose to banish you to . . .
Heartslabyul
Readjust that crown on your head and stand straight. You are now one of the royalty they look toward. Don't think that this game of chess will be so easy to win.
❧ sneak peek I
♥ the king of hearts
Savanaclaw
Dust yourself off and lift your head high. You are now the boss they're all depending on. Be the one they can count on and change your fate, but don't let them know who you really are.
☼ sneak peek II
☀ the hyena chieftain
☼ extra scene I!
Octavinelle
Steel your heart and smile so they lower their guard. You are the asset that must charm them in order to live and see the dawn of another day. However, trust no one.
✒ sneak peek III
✍︎ the diviner
Scarabia
Puff out your chest and confidently play the part you were thrown into. Go after what you wish, but don't get caught. One wrong move and they have the power to turn against you.
✧ sneak peek IV
✦ the vizier's vassal
Pomefiore
Keep concealed and remain calm. They're always watching your every single move. Stay composed and continue forward without looking back, because they're onto you.
➳ sneak peek V
➸ the raven retainer
Ignihyde
Stop trembling and stay focused. They are not like you at all. You must remember that they are much more intelligent and aware than they may appear.
▷ sneak peek VI
▶ the praetorian imp
Diasomnia
Do not get too carried away. This may be a story, but it is now your reality. This is your punishment, and you were sent here for a reason. It is not meant to be pleasant, so don't be fooled.
I humbly offer my baby Mona Lisa in exchange for soft au with Bayverse bumblebee 🙏🙏
Cute!
Soft
Bayverse Bumblebee x Reader
• Heart racing, your neck cranes to look up at a passing Cybertronian and you try not to gawk. Knowing you’d be working in close proximity, hands on, with the aliens isn’t the same as actually seeing one. Like knowing they’re big didn’t really prepare you for the reality of them towering over you. And you’re supposed to be taking care of one of these giants. Adjusting your backpack, you pull your cart along as you look for your stall. Starting to have second thoughts about the job. About actually getting that close to one of them, because they’re intimidating.
• “What? Some poor schmuck picked you?” Crosshairs asks and he chirps, glowering up at the other mech when he smirks. “Hope they’re not looking forward to scintillating conversation,” the other mech adds to make his door wings lift and tremble as he jabs a servos in Crosshairs’s chassis and warbles angrily. ‘No fighting,’ Optimus calls out tiredly as Ironhide clears his vents, saying to let them fight. Shoving Crosshairs as the other bot laughs, he stalks off. But he can’t help but wonder why he was picked.
• Setting up as your nerves jangle, you hear the sound of peds and turn. Forcing a smile for the mech lingering just outside as he rests a big hand against the wall and big, blue optics stare at you as his finials lift slightly. And he chirps at you, hesitating at the opening to the stall. Like he’s as nervous as you are and somehow that helps. That this giant is as nervous about you as you are of him.
• “Hi. Bumblebee, right?” You ask with an uncertain, little smile and he nods before reaching up to touch his servos to his throat as he warbles. Trying to explain to you that you chose wrong. That he can’t speak. Because as soon as you figure out he’s broken, you’ll want to pick a different potential conjunx to court. And you just stare up at him. What are you thinking right now? You have to be disappointed. Hadn’t really even thought about taking a conjunx, but being unwanted? It hurts. Understands why you won’t choose him, but it still hurts.
• Listening to him chirp and warble, body language giving away his frustration, it clicks. “You can’t speak, can you?” You ask and those finials droop as he shakes his head before backing away. Poor thing. Makes you wonder if he was born or created this way or if something happened to him. “Do you want to come in? I have some energon for you.” And there’s something so innocent about the way his door wings tuck closer to his frame. It makes you brave enough to move closer, to reach up a hand to him. Rumbling and chirping at you, he hesitantly offers you a servo and lets you tug him into the stall.
Too lazy to art rn but I had some ideas for your stuff with my oc Jazz (He's a mix of a sticky climber, a sticky hand, and a possum, and is also Scraps and Goob's older cousin)
Yandere!Jazz
"Heh, yeah, I'm the one who dropped the brick on Vee. Don't be such a wuss, she can get repairs for it! Nobody knows it was me! Well, Rodger might know, but I sent him a lil 'anonymous tip' to go after Shrimpo instead.~"
Wouldn't like getting his hands as dirty as the others. With his love for hanging out on the ceiling, he'd DEFINITELY have ease hearing people say things that could ruin their reputation, so murdering isn't usually necessary. That being said, he's not above doing so, and would do anything for his darling if they wanted him to.
Asylum!Jazz
"Weh? Oh, it's you. ... No, it's scary down there, and nice up here. I ain't coming down. ... I don't want him to hurt me like he did to the others."
Jazz is a quiet but belligerent patient. Much like before, he still prefers hanging by his tail in high up places, but now it's moreso of a paranoia regarding being attacked by other patients. He rarely gets violent, aside from dropping small, harmless objects on Dandy, who he believes will harm him "like the others" but Dr Dandicus DEFINITELY hasn't hurt anyone, right? Either way, he's been recieving medication to keep him calm, but all it's been doing is keeping him from being violent in his resistance.
OOO THIS OC IS COOL!!! I love this design a lot!!
I really like the ideas for both the yandere and asylum AUs! Hanging on the ceiling. . . That could definitely make some fun scenarios
Folks, friends, y’all…. esk*mo is a slur. I understand a lot of people don’t know that, I don’t want to be a dick about it, but I’ve been seeing it in fics. Wanna write “esk*mo kisses”? Just say “nuzzled noses” or something.
I’m not here to call anybody out, it’s been in multiple fics, I’m not vague posting. This is just a psa. 👍🏻
[Text Description: “Hey! Reminder: Eskimo is a slur. It means ‘snow eaters’ in Cree and is a slur against Inuit . Also don’t use ‘Eskimo kisses’. It’s called Kunik. It is a greeting mostly used for family… Kunik was how I’d greet my mom and grandmother as a small child.” /TD]
The setting that prevents your work being used to train AI models is turned off by default! I had no idea about this until now! Artists, go to your settings, click “visibility”, and turn on this setting! Protect your work!
Unpopular take, I like Guideverse more than Omegaverse, I can understand the appeal, I understand why people like it. But if I had to choose one to read about for the rest of my life. I’d choose Guideverse because the concept of superpowered ticking time bomb scrunklies relaying on tired glorified stabilizers is just so much more entertaining than reading about an alpha huffing an omegas scent for 5 pages.
synopsis. you swore to yourself that this was the end, that you were never going to go to the path of being a vampire hunter again. but then the kidnapping happened, and now you're here, in an auction with eyes watching your every move, though one stands out from the rest.
content warnings. ex-vampire hunter!reader, yandere tendencies, blood, gore, obsessive and possessive tendencies, mentions of an auction (could be interpreted as the reader being used as a slave), kind of primal and prey play but no smut, mutilation(?)
word count. 6.6k
you don’t remember falling asleep.
because you didn’t.
you remember walking home. it was late, but not too late. you took the quiet streets like always — headphones in, eyes sharp, hands in your coat pockets. you didn’t miss the way the shadows seemed longer that night. you noticed. you always notice.
but it was still a surprise when the hand clamped over your mouth.
you fought. gods, you fought. twisted, kicked, drove your heel into someone’s shin, elbowed hard enough to hear a breath hitch — but there were two, maybe three of them, and they moved like water, smooth and fast and wrong. a needle pricked the side of your neck. cold spread fast through your veins. not sleep. something else.
you don’t remember the car. or the drive. or how long it lasted.
but when the world finally comes back, the blindfold is still tight across your eyes. your wrists are bound in front of you with cold metal, silver, you can tell by the way it stings. your knees hurt. stone floor. cold. damp.
you can hear them.
voices. murmurs. shuffles of velvet and silk. expensive shoes. perfume and rot. the sound of wine being poured, slow and syrupy.
you inhale. and you wish you hadn’t.
blood. old blood. fresh blood. expensive cologne. dust. mildew. and the unmistakable, unforgettable scent of them.
vampires.
the blindfold slips off before you’re ready.
someone pulls it free, and you blink hard against the sudden gold-tinged light. chandeliers swing high above, casting everything in a low, indulgent glow. the walls are pale and ornate. candlelight flickers across ancient faces.
and they’re all looking at you.
you're kneeling in the center of a stone platform. no windows. no visible doors. velvet curtains surround the room like ribs. eyes gleam in the dark. every face, hungry.
and you know exactly where you are.
an auction.
it’s not your first time seeing one. just the first time seeing it from the stage. and suddenly, your breath catches in your throat.
this wasn’t supposed to happen. you were done.
you weren't a civilian. not really. not for long.
you’d grown up in it, born into a family that served the order of the sun, trained by parents who saw vampires not as monsters, but as disease. a threat that had to be eradicated. studied. monitored. extinguished.
you were ten when you held your first stake. twelve when you sharpened your first blade. fifteen when you made your first kill.
your hands had always been steady.
and for a while, you were good. terrifyingly good. you moved fast. thought faster. you didn’t hesitate like the others. didn’t let emotion ruin your focus. you had the right mix of instinct and discipline; clean kills, clean records. there were whispers that you'd lead your division within a year.
then the rooftop happened.
five years ago. seoul.
the mark was clean, an elder that had gone off grid, feeding on tourists in back alleys and making too much noise. you tracked him for three nights. cornered him on a high-rise hotel roof, just as the sun was about to rise.
you had him. until you didn’t.
he wasn't alone. no one had told you that. and the second one, the fledgling, was faster than you. her fangs caught your shoulder. then your ribs. the old one laughed while you bled out across rooftop concrete, sun rising over your ruined body.
you don’t remember how you survived. only that someone pulled you out before the light got to you. someone who didn't speak, who disappeared before you could ask why.
your wounds healed. but not all the way.
every time it rained, your ribs ached like they'd splinter all over again. every time someone moved too fast in your peripheral vision, your hand twitched toward a weapon that wasn’t there. you went back once. tried to rejoin the order. they said you were cleared, physically.
you lasted three days.
and then you were done.
you walked away, disappeared, changed your name. hid the old scars beneath clean clothes and cleaner routines. became someone normal, someone quiet.
you told yourself it was over, that you didn’t miss it. that you weren’t looking over your shoulder.
but now, kneeling here, every instinct slams back into you like a second heartbeat.
the vampires are watching. murmuring. you see fangs behind false smiles. eyes that glow faintly red. one of them chuckles. another licks their lips. your skin crawls.
“prime blood,” someone says.
“unmarked,” another notes, almost impressed.
you want to laugh. you want to scream. you want to run. because they don’t know what you are. they don’t know what you used to be.
your heartbeat stays steady. because you trained it to. your breathing stays slow. because you learned how to lie with your body.
you keep your eyes downcast. you look human. terrified. the perfect prey.
they can’t smell the silver you once carried. the ashwood buried in your bones. they don’t recognize the scars for what they are, bite patterns and claw tracks healed by holy balm and venom purges.
but you remember. you remember all of it.
the way their bones broke. the way their bodies turned to ash. the way blood spattered against walls in sacred silence.
you remember how you used to see a vampire’s face in every shadow. and now, all those faces are looking back at you.
they start to bid.
the numbers are high. you hear them, fifty thousand. eighty. a hundred. you're worth more than the vials on velvet. you're alive. vibrant. perfect. not because of what they think you are… but because of what you’re not anymore.
a hunter.
you were one of the last living trained hunters to retire. most of your kind didn’t live that long. they died in alleyways, in tunnels, in daylight traps and blood-soaked standoffs. you? you walked away.
you didn’t think that made you special. just lucky.
but now? now that luck feels like a curse.
you know how auctions work. whoever wins you tonight won't kill you. not right away. they’ll drain you slow. ration you. keep you like wine in a crystal glass, sip by sip until you fade.
but there’s something else. a shift. you feel it before it happens.
the room stills.
a new presence enters, slowly, quietly — but the change is immediate. the other vampires pause mid-bid. someone whispers a name you don’t catch.
and then he appears. you only see him from the corner of your eye at first. tall. dark. dressed in black. clean. calm. no hunger in his expression. no violence. just… focus.
he looks at you. only you. and the moment your eyes meet, everything stops.
your stomach twists. not in fear. in something stranger, colder. he’s old. older than the rest. old enough that his presence doesn’t shout, it commands.
his gaze doesn’t leer. it claims. you know power when you see it. you know monsters that don’t need to bare teeth to terrify. you know killers who don’t move until they strike.
you know what this is. and something inside you, something you buried years ago, wakes up.
not the fear. the hunter.
the instinct. the calculation. the one that counts exits and memorizes faces and watches the way he walks like he’s already won.
｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡
vesper had always been... different.
not just in how he looked — though he was beautiful in that classic, cruel kind of way, the kind that made strangers hold their breath and forget what they were saying. no, it wasn’t the sharp cheekbones or the ageless silver eyes that set him apart from the rest of his kind. it was something quieter. something that burned colder.
he was particular.
while the others fed freely, wildly, clawing into warm bodies and draining them with ecstasy or apathy, vesper abstained. not out of mercy. never mercy. but because it was disgusting. the way they gorged on sweat-slick blood from desperate humans who’d eaten garbage food, polluted their bodies with smoke and sugar and rage, it made him sick. literally.
he remembered once, decades ago, feeding from a girl with beautiful skin and a soft laugh. she’d tasted like cheap vodka and despair. he’d retched behind an opera house for a week.
since then, he’d stopped pretending.
his rules were simple; the blood had to be clean. it had to be from someone alive, of course — but more than that, someone in peak condition. no sickness, no lingering trauma, no rotten diets or chemical traces. he could smell it, every time. every impurity. every hidden wound. he could taste lies in blood. sadness. bitterness. and he hated the way it lingered in his mouth like regret.
so he learned to starve well. it gave him discipline. clarity. a sharper resistance to his instincts. other vampires lost themselves when hunger grew. vesper grew quieter. more precise. more human. and in time, he began to pass for one.
the gothic aesthetic helped. dark eyeliner, tailored coats, silver rings that glinted under neon, but his restraint was what truly fooled them. humans never questioned him when he looked them in the eye and didn’t flinch. they only wondered which band he sang in.
he lived like that for a long time.
centuries blurred, and vesper’s detachment grew colder. nothing tempted him anymore. nothing tasted right. even the rarest bloodbags, sourced from private collectors or auction circuits, were pale shadows of what he remembered from a world long dead.
until the whispers came. vesper didn’t make a habit of lowering himself to this sort of crowd.
he didn’t need auctions. didn’t need black-market leeches or blood-hungry old barons flashing gold like it meant anything. he had his sources. he had patience. he had standards.
but when word started to spread, quietly, carefully, that something exceptional had surfaced, he listened.
not just another donor. not another farmed adolescent with decent hemoglobin and a trendy blood type. but prime blood. fresh. human. alive. and not bred in captivity, no, rumors said this one was wild. untracked. unregistered.
unspoiled.
vesper didn’t believe rumors.
but he came anyway.
and when he arrived, the scent hit him before the guards even opened the cathedral doors. sharp. clean. warm. like sunlight over skin. like metal under silk. like clarity — real, piercing clarity, cutting through centuries of ash and rot.
he knew it the moment he stepped inside; something here was different.
the room was dressed in its usual decadence. deep velvet, glass chandeliers, smoke and gold, cruelty pretending to be class, but vesper only saw you.
kneeling on the dais.
silver cuffed at your wrists. soft light bleeding down your face. hair a little messy from the struggle, but your spine was straight, your expression unreadable. you didn’t beg. you didn’t cry.
you watched. your eyes swept the room like a knife. and vesper knew instantly. you weren’t prey. you were trained.
the scent clinging to your blood confirmed it. faint, but present, sun-oil, silver dust, the ghost of old holy water. vampire hunter. former, if the collar meant anything. but the blood didn’t forget.
neither did he.
vesper stepped closer, quiet among the chattering nobles, and stared.
he didn't blink.
he didn’t need to taste you to know. your blood wasn’t just rare—it was prepared. like a wine aged in just the right conditions. not tainted by fear or drugs or desperation. your heart rate didn’t spike. your breathing was steady. measured. you were conditioned.
you were the finest thing he’d seen in centuries. and vesper had tasted queens. emperors. prophets. nothing like this.
when the bidding began, it was chaos.
they didn’t see you, not truly. they only smelled the surface—sweetness, warmth, strength. a delicacy. a treat. and so they fought like animals in silk, throwing out numbers like they meant anything.
vesper didn’t move.
not yet.
someone called out, “fifty thousand.”
then eighty.
then a hundred.
he waited. not out of fear. not out of doubt. he just didn’t want to make the mistake of bidding before he’d studied you properly. your head turned slightly, as if sensing him.
your gaze met his. and stayed. not long, not dramatic, but enough. and it was electric.
his chest stilled. like something sacred had passed through it. not desire—not yet. something older. something harder. recognition.
you were not just rare. you were relevant.
to him.
he could see the history in your eyes. pain without self-pity. exhaustion without weakness. he could taste the edge of your memories, the life you’d buried beneath clean clothes and civilian skin.
you were not supposed to be here. and that made him want you more. he raised a hand, finally.
“one fifty,” he said, voice low.
some heads turned. some flinched. his presence did that. centuries didn’t just leave a mark on the face, they left one in the air. something that warned others not to speak over him.
“two hundred.”
“two twenty.”
“two seventy-five!”
the numbers climbed. but vesper didn’t look away from you. you never broke the stare. your face remained still, but your pulse, he caught it, tick-ticked under your jaw. not fear. not quite.
awareness.
he smiled, just barely. “three hundred.” a pause. no one moved, you inhaled, and vesper felt it. deep in his teeth.
he would make you his. not just your blood. not just your body. all of you. he wanted to watch you remember who you were. wanted to hear you say his name like it meant something.
the bidding opened again. three ten, three twenty, three fifty.
“four hundred,” he said.
final. that silenced them.
the auctioneer cleared his throat. voice eager, too fast. “four hundred thousand — do i hear four ten? four fifteen?”
nothing.
vesper allowed himself to exhale.
he’d already begun imagining what came next; how he’d speak to you first, not touch, not bite, just talk. how he’d let you sit, offer you wine you wouldn’t drink. how he’d ask why you left the life, and whether the scars on your side were from fangs or blades.
but then, just as the auctioneer’s gavel rose to seal it, someone interrupted.
a voice from the far end of the room. not a bid. not a number. but a name. not his. not yours. but someone else’s. and it stopped everything. the gavel froze mid-air, the vampires turned, the auctioneer stepped back, head slightly bowed.
vesper’s eyes narrowed, something was wrong. one of the guards stepped onto the stage, whispering into the announcer’s ear.
you didn’t move, but your posture shifted. vesper noticed it. the way you shifted your weight ever so slightly toward the back of the platform. measuring distance. preparing for something.
you felt it too.
the announcer cleared his throat again. this time less steady. “apologies, esteemed guests,” he said. “there’s… a brief matter to address before we finalize this lot. a special arrival.”
vesper’s jaw tightened, his fingers twitched against the edge of his coat. no. not now. not when you were right there, not when he’d already won.
you were still staring at him. the look in your eyes had changed, not fear. not confusion.
recognition.
not of him, but of whatever came next. of whatever this interruption meant. you knew the smell before it arrived. you knew what it meant when ancient vampires turned their heads and went still.
something older was coming, something worse. and for the first time in decades, vesper felt it — the sting of not having control. they were moving you.
two guards stepped forward, unhooking the chain from your collar. you didn’t resist. but your shoulders tensed like coiled springs. you glanced once more at vesper as they began leading you off-stage.
his hand moved. half-step forward, instinctively. as if to reach. to stop. to take. but he didn’t, because the game had changed. you were still alive. still within reach.
but now, you were in someone else’s hands, and vesper, for the first time in a long time, had to wait. wait and watch and plan.
because you weren’t gone. you were just… not his. yet. and vesper had waited centuries for less.
｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡
the interruption was no accident.
vesper could feel it in his bones, even before the whispers reached the crowd. it wasn’t fear or reverence that stilled the room, it was anticipation.
someone had planned this.
and it wasn’t the kind of plan stitched from politics or bloodlines. this was theatre. spectacle. something meant to be watched. and vesper, who hated drama in every form except when it was useful, was already tired of it.
but then the announcer spoke again.
“due to the… unique nature of this offering,” the vampire began, gesturing broadly toward you on the dais, “we have received a formal challenge to the structure of the auction.”
a beat of silence. then he said it. “because this isn’t a vial. it’s a person. a hunter. and such a prize, such blood, cannot be owned by coin alone.”
the room began to buzz.
“a fight,” someone hissed. “they’re calling a bloodmatch?”
vesper went still. his eyes flicked back to you. you were brought back into the room and he was glad that you’re still in his vision.
you didn’t flinch. your jaw tightened slightly, that was all. but the spark in your gaze, the one he hadn’t stopped thinking about since you first locked eyes, brightened.
you’d expected this. and vesper realized something else: so had they.
this wasn’t chaos. this was curated. designed. someone in the guild had leaked the truth about you. that you weren’t just a human with clean blood. you were trained. former order. a vampire hunter who had gone dark.
and they wanted the vampires to fight for the right to bleed you. how poetic. how sick. how perfectly stupid.
vesper’s jaw flexed as the dais split apart, revealing a staircase down to the fighting floor below. he didn’t hesitate. he removed his coat, handed it to the nearest stunned attendant, and stepped into the pit.
because he needed you. not just your blood. not just your scent.
you.
and vesper had never lost a fight.
the first vampire lunged at him before the dust even settled. young, greedy, desperate. vesper caught his wrist, twisted until it cracked, then drove his elbow into the side of the idiot’s head. the boy dropped like stone.
another came. faster, older, claws out, fangs bared. vesper sidestepped, grabbed the front of his shirt, and tore his throat open with the edge of his hand. not even a drop spilled on vesper’s skin.
it went on like that. eight vampires entered the pit. one by one, vesper broke them. not because he was cruel, but because they were inefficient. they drank rot. they lived wild. they fed on desperation and indulgence and rage.
vesper fed on quality. on control. on precision. he hadn’t let trash blood touch his tongue in over a century. his body was cleaner. faster. stronger. he’d starved when he needed to, conditioned his limbs like blades, trained his reflexes past the point of civilized elegance.
he looked human. until he moved. then he looked like something designed to kill gods. blood splattered the floor, teeth hit stone, screams echoed and died.
vesper’s hands didn’t shake once.
and when the last opponent fell, twitching and broken at his feet, vesper turned to the announcer and calmly said, “bring them to me.”
they delivered you to a private chamber.
untouched, unbitten, still bound, but not roughly. the collar had been removed, a gesture of formality. you walked into the room under your own power, shoulders back, eyes sharp. no fear, just… calculation.
vesper stood across from you, still blood-spattered and breathing steadily. his eyes never left you. he didn’t say anything at first. he just looked. and you, to your credit, stared right back.
defiant, upright, even after what you’d just seen.
he took one step closer. you didn’t flinch. another step. your jaw twitched.
“you’re free,” vesper said, voice low.
your eyes narrowed.
“no collar,” he continued. “no chain, no cage.” he paused. “but you’re still mine.” he didn’t mean it cruelly, didn’t mean it like a jailer, or a buyer. he meant it like a force. like a fact, like gravity.
you stared at him. then, without a word, you punched him. clean hit, perfect aim, landed right on the side of his jaw. not with human panic, not with messy rage but with training.
vesper’s head turned slightly with the force. pain flickered down his neck. and for a moment — he laughed. quiet, albeit shocked but he still laughed.
then he looked back at you, lips parting in something between disbelief and appreciation. you blinked, caught between instinct and horror at your own reaction. and then you ran.
out the side door. into the hall. faster than most humans should be able to. vesper didn’t follow, not immediately. he reached up, touched his jaw. felt the faint ache of your knuckles, the way your pulse had leapt right before impact.
his smile grew sharper.
“gods,” he murmured. “they hit me.”
he rolled his neck once and sighed. “that was hot.” before he vanished.
you made it out of the cathedral. you were fast, silent. knew the blind spots of security, the pattern of hallways. your mind clicked back into the rhythm of escape like a song you thought you’d forgotten.
but vesper didn’t chase you like a brute. he tracked you the way a shadow tracks light.
you sprinted down empty streets, turned sharp corners, ripped off the blood-stained remnants of the outfit they’d put you in. your shoulder still burned from where a vampire’s claws had grazed you in the chaos. your side ached. your mouth was dry.
but you were free. you told yourself that again and again. until you hit the alley and found vesper already there waiting, not panting, not laughing. just… standing.
his silver eyes glowed faintly in the dark.
“i let you run,” he said, calm.
your chest heaved. you didn’t reach for a weapon, because they’d taken them all, but your stance said you were ready to fight again.
he stepped forward, and you didn’t move. “you needed it,” he added, taking another step. “to feel like it wasn’t over. like you could still fight. that you weren’t… owned.” he tilted his head.
“you’re not.”
you stared at him, uncertain.
his voice dropped a notch lower. “you are mine. but not like that.”
his hand extended. “come with me.” you didn’t take it but this time you didn’t run again.
his mansion wasn’t what you expected. no dungeon, no cages, no bloodbags hanging from rafters. just quiet. clean hallways, a scent like sage and old books, dark marble, velvet chairs, antique lamps that flickered warm instead of cold. it wasn’t a crypt, it was a cathedral.
you didn’t speak as he walked you inside. he didn’t force conversation. vesper led you to a guest chamber and opened the door himself. a soft bed, window view, no bars.
“you can sleep here,” he said. “i’m not your pet,” you muttered. his expression didn’t change. “you’re not anything yet.”
you bristled.
“you fought for me like i’m a trophy.”
“i fought,” he said, “because letting anyone else have you would have been... insulting.”
you stared at him, his voice stayed calm. “you’re not prey. you’re not a prize. but you are… extraordinary.”
you swallowed, throat dry. “so now what?” you whispered. “you keep me here until i rot?”
vesper turned, walked to the door and paused. “you’re not a prisoner.”
he glanced back at you, eyes unreadable. “but you should rest. because the next time you run, i won’t let you get as far.”
then he shut the door behind him, soft but final. and you were alone again. your heart racing, pulse loud in your ears. and you’re not sure what terrified you more, that he meant it or that some part of you… wanted him to.
｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡
at first, you thought he was just playing with his food.
that’s what they all did, right? vampires — dramatic, possessive, obsessed with the experience of the hunt. he’d drag it out, you figured. wear you down, let the fear marinate your blood before he took it all.
but the first night passed and he didn’t touch you. then another, and another, and another.
vesper didn’t chain you up. didn’t drag you to some candlelit altar or pin you beneath silk sheets and bare his fangs. he simply existed quietly, patiently, like he had all the time in the world.
you had your own room. a bed. a window. a wardrobe full of clothes in your size. food delivered three times a day — good food, real food. not human scraps or nutrient bars, but meals someone actually cooked. rich spices. warm bread. soup that reminded you of when you were a kid.
you checked the doors. not locked. you checked the windows. open.
but something about the place made leaving feel wrong. not impossible. just, off. like the mansion existed slightly out of sync with the real world. like if you stepped too far in one direction, the hallway curved back on itself.
and vesper was always near.
you wouldn’t see him for hours. maybe a whole day. but the second you thought you were alone, he’d be there, watching you over the lip of a book, gliding past a corridor, sipping wine at the end of a long hallway like he’d been there all night.
“am i free to go?” you’d asked him once. his eyes had lifted, calm, unreadable. “you’ve left before, haven’t you?”
you had. three times now.
each time, you ran like hell. out the courtyard. into the woods. across the open stretch of highway past the iron gate. you made it as far as the train station once. boarded a bus the second time.
but he always found you. not with violence, not even with anger. he’d just appear and he’d smile like it was all part of a game, like it delighted him to see you try. and maybe that was worse.
because it made you question if you were really fighting him, or if you were performing something he already knew the ending of.
the first time he fed, you expected the worst.
you didn’t even realize it was feeding day until he showed up in your room after dusk, calm as ever, carrying a small obsidian tray with a folded cloth, a glass, and a slim silver knife.
“come sit,” he said, gesturing to the edge of the bed. you didn’t move. “i’m not going to bite you,” he added, with that same careful neutrality. “i don’t drink from the throat. too indulgent. and i don’t take more than i need.”
you narrowed your eyes. “which is… what?”
he placed the tray on your desk. set down the glass. and met your gaze with something just shy of reverence. “a single cup. once every two weeks.” you stared at him. “you expect me to believe that’s enough?”
“because it’s divine,” he said softly. “and yes, that makes you special.”
you didn’t like the way your stomach flipped when he said it but you sat regardless.
he took your forearm gently, holding it in one gloved hand like it was fragile glass. he rolled up your sleeve. his fingers were cold, but not cruel.
then came the blade.
long, thin, gleaming. you expected him to slice your wrist; quick, messyn—nbut he didn’t. he drew a slow, deliberate line down the side of your forearm, just deep enough to coax blood to well and spill.
you hissed, flinching. he didn’t apologize. he just tilted your arm over the glass and let your blood pour into it in slow, delicate ribbons.
no fangs, no moaning, no dramatics, just ritual.
when the glass was three-quarters full, he folded the cloth, pressed it against the wound, and wrapped your arm with practiced hands. then he drank.
and for the first time, you saw him change.
not violently, not visibly.
but his posture shifted. his breath caught. something eased in his shoulders like a hunger that had been clawing at him finally quieted. his eyes fluttered shut for a beat too long. like he was savoring it.
he didn’t speak, he finished the glass then set it down. and left the room without a word.
you started watching him after that. you didn’t want to, didn’t mean to. but curiosity is a strange thing, even in cages dressed like castles.
he painted, read, played piano, sat alone in the observatory for hours, just watching the stars. and once every two weeks, he’d knock at your door, tray in hand, same quiet routine.
you let him.
because if he wasn’t hurting you, then maybe you could survive this. maybe you could play along until you found the opening he didn’t expect.
and when you escaped again, on the fourth attempt, you made it halfway to another city before he stepped out of a convenience store like he’d just popped in for coffee.
he raised an eyebrow. you groaned. “you’re everywhere,” you hissed out and he grinned. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”
you considered stabbing him with a pen from your pocket. but he only tilted his head and added, “run again. please. i like the way you think.”
you didn’t run that time but you promised yourself you’d try again and you did. three more times. each time, he let you go. each time, he let you think you were getting farther.
until the seventh escape.
and that’s when things changed. you should’ve known something was wrong. the night felt too easy. no locked gates, no motion sensors, no sudden wind shifts that hinted at him watching.
you got out, again. but this time, you were prepared. forged a new id. paid a driver in cash, made it three hours into the city, into people. you thought you’d done it.
until the hotel mirror fogged up during your shower and a message appeared across the glass. “clever. but not quite.”
your breath caught and you spun around but he was already behind you. not with fangs, not with claws. he was just standing there, fully dressed, dry, and calm.
you lunged. he caught your wrists mid-air, not hard, just enough. and for the first time, he didn’t smile. he held your gaze, and said, “no more games.”
you froze. he lifted you effortlessly, carried you like you weighed nothing, back to the bedroom. back into clean clothes. back into the car waiting downstairs. you didn’t speak for the entire drive.
and when you arrived back at the mansion, there were locks on your windows now.
your room had no hallway beyond it. just a door that led straight into a study where he waited. vesper met you with a glass of water and a chair by the fire. “you’re not a prisoner,” he said again.
but this time, you didn’t believe him. “then let me go,” you whispered. he looked at you for a long time, being silent. “you’re mine.”
it didn’t sound possessive. it sounded like a truth he’d already accepted. you shook your head. “you don’t even know me.”
his gaze softened. “i do.” you swallowed hard. “you only want my blood.”
“i need your blood,” he corrected. “i want you.”
you looked away and for the first time, he didn’t follow you when you pulled from his grip. he let you sit alone by the fire. but the doors didn’t open again, not that night and not the next.
the next time feeding day came, you considered resisting.
but you didn’t.
because some strange part of you trusted the routine now. or maybe it was your way of holding control, if you gave him what he wanted, maybe you could still keep something for yourself.
he arrived, same as always. tray, cloth, knife, cup. “no more running,” he said quietly.
you didn’t reply. he took your arm, opened your skin with reverence, filled the glass.
he drank slower this time, eyes on you. when he was done, he whispered. “you’re keeping me alive.” you almost laughed. “i could kill you.” he nodded. “but you won’t.”
you stared at him not because he was wrong. but because you weren’t sure why he was right. and in that terrifying, quiet moment, you realized… you didn’t know if you wanted to run again.
｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡
you had stopped trying to run.
not because you loved him. not because the mansion felt like home. but because you had learned to read vesper — his moods, his silences, his little gestures of restraint. he was quiet, patient, indulgent. but beneath all that softness, there was something ancient. something caged. something waiting.
and you were smart enough not to prod the beast. he had never hurt you but that didn’t mean he couldn’t.
so you stopped plotting, stopped pushing, stopped testing your luck. and for a while, you settled into something that looked like survival.
until the day vesper left.
he told you nothing, only that he had business in the city, and would return before dusk. “stay out of trouble,” he said, lips brushing your temple. “i always know where you are.”
you smiled like you meant it, nodded like a good little bird in a golden cage. and when his car disappeared down the driveway, you returned to your room.
and waited.
but you weren’t the one who came up with the plan this time. you didn’t expect him.
the knock was soft. you opened your door with hesitation — no servants ever knocked, and vesper never asked for permission.
the man on the other side wasn’t tall. lean, sharp-featured, dressed in plain black with a silver-lined cloak half hidden beneath his coat.
but it was his eyes that stopped you. hard, bright, human.
“you don’t remember me,” he said. “but i remember you.”
your breath caught. something deep inside you twitched like an old instinct.
“who are you?”
“maren. northern guild. you used to run with calder.” your hand flew to your mouth. calder was long dead, a name buried with your past life as a hunter.
maren stepped closer. not too close.
“you disappeared off the map two years ago. we thought you were dead. until word came of a vampire keeping a human ‘pet’ in the black manor.”
you didn’t speak, he didn’t need you to. “i’m here to get you out.” and for the first time in so long, the air didn’t feel suffocating.
you nodded, you didn’t pack, didn’t take food, not even a coat. just your name, your boots, and the memory of freedom.
you ran through the woods together.
maren knew the path. he must’ve been watching for weeks — every step silent, every motion practiced. you recognized the grip of his hand, the way he stayed half a pace behind you like he’d let you set the speed.
it felt familiar, warm, real. so when he took your hand, you let him. he didn’t look at you like vesper did.
he didn’t look at you like you were a prize, or a delicacy, or a sacred object to keep under lock and key.
he looked at you like someone worth saving. you didn’t know if it would work. you didn’t know if vesper would come back early. but for the first time in what felt like years, you hoped.
vesper returned at dusk. not with silence this time.
his footfall echoed through the house. too quick. too sharp. the kind of pace that didn’t belong to the vesper you knew.
and when he opened the door to your room and found it empty, the mask shattered.
the scent hit him instantly, metallic, iron-rich. not yours, his. a hunter. his pupils narrowed. his lips pulled back slightly, though he didn’t bare fangs. not yet.
he didn’t speak. he didn’t scream. he simply inhaled once — slow, deep, and the blood in his system answered.
your blood singing through him like a beacon. he didn’t need to track your footprints. your body called to him and vesper followed.
he found you before the town border.
in the woods, not far from where the mist curled thick between the trees. you were holding maren’s hand.
you were smiling and vesper saw red.
the world narrowed to the steady rhythm of your pulse, and the foreign beat of maren’s, so close to yours it made vesper’s jaw clench.
you didn’t see him until it was too late. maren did however. his head whipped around, his eyes sharp. “go,” he told you, stepping forward, hand slipping from yours. “run.”
but you couldn’t move.
vesper stood at the edge of the clearing, motionless. black coat fluttering like wings. eyes silver. no glow this time — just ice, ancient, hollow.
“you’re late,” maren said.
vesper didn’t respond, instead he stepped forward. maren raised a blade — silver-edged, soaked in sun-oil.
vesper’s lip twitched, not quite a smile. and then he moved.
the fight was short. you didn’t even see the first strike.
vesper was too fast, too precise. and maren, skilled as he was, had never fought a vampire with your blood coursing through his veins. vesper could feel the terrain. the wind. the movement of your body just feet away.
he saw the hesitation in maren’s swing. the flick of his wrist too slow, too tight. he ducked, turned, and punched through maren’s chest.
you screamed.
you ran toward them, but vesper turned with the hunter’s body still hanging on his arm like a broken doll. “stop,” vesper said quietly.
you froze. he reached into maren’s chest cavity. and slowly, almost reverently, he pulled out his heart.
the body fell, he crushed it in his palm. blood dripped into the earth and vesper’s eyes finally flicked to you. you wanted to scream. wanted to hit him. wanted to throw yourself to the ground and beg the dirt to open and swallow you whole.
instead, you stood still, shaking, terrified. and vesper smiled softly almost sweetly. “you ran,” he said.
you nodded, lips trembling. “you held his hand.” your stomach turned.
“he wasn’t even worthy of you,” vesper said, stepping forward. “you should never touch someone who doesn’t understand what you are.”
“he understood enough,” you whispered.
vesper’s gaze sharpened and you felt it like a chill down your spine. he stopped just in front of you. his hand was still dripping blood when he reached for your face, but this time, you flinched.
his fingers paused mid-air. and then, slowly, he let them rest just beneath your jaw. his thumb brushed your pulse.
“never again,” he said softly.
“vesper—”
“no other man,” he whispered. “not for the rest of your life. not even in a dream.”
you didn’t move. you couldn’t. he stepped closer, pressed his forehead to yours. you could still smell maren on your skin.
vesper could too. “i love you, you know,” he murmured. you didn’t believe him but that didn’t matter anymore.
he wrapped his arms around you like nothing had happened. like he wasn’t dragging you back to the cage by choice. like he hadn’t just killed a man in front of you with his bare hands.
and you let him. because what else could you do? you walked home in silence, hand in his, no longer trembling. because now, you finally understood.
vesper didn’t need chains to own you. he had blood and blood never lies.
imagine yandere beauty and the beast but you're the beast and the yandere is the beauty.
you're just trying to be isolated from the rest of the world, having first hand experienced how humans can be to species that aren't human. it hurts whenever they scream at your appearance, run away in fear as they pray for your death. it really did. especially when you were once human too.
so when a random pretty boy appeared on the doorstep of your manor, you instantly tried to chase him away. you didn't want to hear him screaming, nor did you want him to try killing you simply because you had the form of a beast. you had one too many experiences already.
what you didn't expect was for him to fall at your feet, begging for your hand in marriage. you were appalled, staring down at his smaller figure as he whines and begs for you to accept him as your husband.
there was no way, you thought.
how could he ever fall for someone like you? you were a monster who dwelled in your manor all alone for so many years!
you never expected him to cling to you incessantly. to do everything in his power to stay by your side, even if it meant being overwhelming with his declarations of love. he wanted you, all of you, even if you looked different from him. he didn't care, he really could care less.
warnings: minors dni, poisoning, manipulation, fem!reader, non-con body snatching, body horror, magic, references to Disney’s animated film, delusional thoughts and obsessive behavior.
There might be potential triggers in here. If you do not feel comfortable venturing any further, please hit the 'back' button on your phone or laptop and read something much more pleasant than a possible series of unfortunate events. You are responsible for your own Internet consumption.
Reblog to support content creators ❤️
Hey guys and welcome to the first yandere imagine x reader prompt of the spooky season! To celebrate such an auspicious event on the first day of fall, I present my own version on @suiana's prompt of a yandere!beauty being besotted with a beast!reader. Credit goes to the rightful creator, and I will leave the link to the prompt here.
Special thanks to @thatstrangesheep for being my beta reader and helping me flesh out some of the unwritten parts in this piece so that I can deliver a tale that will make your head spin in disbelief and wonder.
So, with that being said, sit back, relax, and enjoy the show! Oh, did I mention there might be an Easter Egg in here? 😉
Witches, for all the power and inhuman beauty that they possess, are incredibly fickle creatures. You were familiar with their behavior because you are a witch yourself, and have met many of them over the course of your travels. You visited their covens, paid respects to the elders, and occasionally took part in a few rituals before wanderlust called out to you again. You cannot recall how many times the other witches revered the ground you walked on, and how many times you have asked them to treat you like any other witch. You did not like the attention you received, preferring to spend hours in the coven’s library or the lab while your familiar lounged by your side, sleeping or pressing his lithe inky body against the back of your legs, purring.
Your life has been peaceful, away from other humans. That’s all you wanted. Now? You weren’t so sure if it is possible to return to that idyllic lifestyle ever again. And it all began with an invitation to a tea party.
It was common for witches to visit one another, even if they were from completely different covens. It is a common sign of respect for witches to invite a witch into one’s home. Declining the invitation would be considered an insult, and it would give the host an excellent reason to jinx you in retribution. Being jinxed is never fun, so you went along with it, even when you weren’t on very good terms with Angela.
Angela has been a witch for as long as you have and is quite proud of her accomplishments in magic. Something she never stops reminding you about when your paths cross at gatherings.
A human would think that a witch with common sense would hide herself away in the woods and only lure unsuspecting humans into their cottage to feast on their flesh or use it for dark spells. Or how they moved from one place to another without being caught, enchanting their home with fortified defenses and to travel on chicken legs at the first sight of danger.
But that is how a human thinks.
Vain and fashionable Angela never enjoyed getting blood on her clothes, if they were brand new. In fact, her ‘cottage’ is a castle built inside the mountains, overlooking a dense woodland filled with direwolves and other fearsome animals. She had gained it after seducing a simple-minded prince, supposedly cutting out his heart and eating it. At least, those were the rumors floating around the covens.
When you had arrived in the rose gardens where the tea party was being held, Angela was the only one seated at the head of the long table filled with plates of sweets and teapots. The chairs on either side were empty.
“Is it just us?” You asked.
“I invited a few more. They’ll be here soon.” She answered with a smile. “Thank you for coming all of this way to see me. I had heard you were traveling in the opposite direction when I had sent out my invitation, but I wanted to spend a little time with you before you disappeared again until the next full moon. Would you like some earl gray tea? It just finished steeping, and has a wonderful flavor~!”
You gratefully accepted it, needing a potent drink after traveling this far to see her. Since she said there would be other witches joining this little get-together, you supposed you could tolerate her company long enough to have a conversation, catch up on what’s happened since the two of you last saw each other, etc.
But instead of exchanging small pleasantries, Angela boasted about her accomplishments, both new and old again. From collecting perverted men to be her ‘dogs’ and discovering a brand new type of plant that would help amplify a witch’s magic temporarily, it was all about her. If that wasn’t annoying, she had the nerve to insult your findings, declaring them useless to witches, even when everyone else has said the opposite.
You created a potion that can reverse a powerful aphrodisiac that is easily mistaken for a common weed.
Your research has shown that the delicate bodies of a new species of silkworms perish when their environment experiences even the smallest temperature change or when extreme stress is imposed upon them. When they are thriving, they can produce twice the amount of silk than a normal one. Only you are aware of the actual method of rear them for this kind of production.
You found out that there is a loophole between witches and demons when they form a contract, but it’s still a work in progress. More field research and experimentation is required.
Naturally, you didn’t accept this insult and defended yourself by pointing out that a spell to move a soul from a decaying body to a new one is already being used in another country by a shaman queen who has a powerful fear of death. To you, it sounds like Angela fears losing her beauty more than anything else and that’s why the new body she is possessing now differs from the thirty-something woman she was last time. How old was her victim? Twenty, maybe sixteen? She knows that as long as she uses this spell and stays in a body that isn’t hers, the possibility of losing her magic entirely is quite high, yes?
Humans aren’t capable of wielding magic. Only witches.
To think a witch of Angela’s caliber and intellect would stoop so low as to possess a human woman’s body just because it is pretty to look at is embarrassing. Insulting even, for contemplating to give up this gift for something that she already has. But Angela was always greedy. So were you.
You shouldn’t have drank the tea she offered. If you hadn’t, then you wouldn’t have awakened in the castle’s dungeons, chained next to a hulking, motionless beast inside an intricate circle of runes illuminated by melting candles. Standing above you and outside of the circle was Angela, her smile knife-like and menacing.
“I went through all the trouble to invite you, and all I get for my kindness are insults? Really [First Name], you should know better than to insult a witch in her own home.” She giggled. “I’ve always despised you, you know. You have power, respect, and beauty and you believe a life of isolation is ideal for a witch? Well, let me tell you it isn’t. Life is about living to the fullest, indulging in your vices and creating spells for your own use! But now, I’ll get to live the life I deserve through your body.”
Using the runes in the magic circle, she had extracted your consciousness from your body and planted it inside the beast, then put her soul in your body. If that wasn’t a fitting punishment for insulting a fellow witch, she cursed the land around the castle, making it misty and rainy, drawing in more creatures so that only a few would dare to enter. Or for anyone to leave.
Then, with a tinkling laugh, she left and haughtily wished you good luck in trying to remove her little gift.
It’s been six years since your consciousness inside this beast. Well, ‘beast’ is a simple term for what you are; the proper term for a magical creature that was born from a witch’s magic, actually, is a chimera.
The head, legs, and tail of a wolf.
The body of a bear.
The horns of a buffalo.
The tusks of a wild boar.
Manacles were on the hind-legs, paws, and collar with a bit of chain hanging from it.
This body was durable and had magic, but not enough to remove Angela’s curse. That’s why you have made very little progress in this endeavor despite having a fully furnished lab and a library with shelves that stretched to the ceiling. Additionally, it seemed that Angela purposely restricted the movement of this beast. You could get pass the direwolves and bats with the physical prowess you had, but as soon as you stood on the outskirts of a village, this body would convulse in excruciating pain until you crawled away from the human settlement. Then the pain would stop entirely, leaving only a tingling sensation that would last for a good three hours. The theory you had is Angela’s pet was a disobedient sort, getting too close to the humans or eating them for dinner, and this pain was their punishment if they decided to try again.
If there is any optimistic outlook on the situation, it would be that no human would be so stupid as to come here to seek shelter and the magic is enough to tailor some clothes to fit your hulking body or cook the food you had collected from the forest. Your new diet consisting of direwolf meat, wild berries, and tea. It wasn’t too bad; you supposed. Even some of the poisonous plants were tasty.
What you did not expect in the wee hours of the morning is being discovered by a beautiful young man, staring at you with wide eyes and clutching an arrow and bow in his hands. If this is supposed to be a hunter, then either he’s not skilled or someone forced him to go out and find food for his family. But he did not notch the arrow and aimed it at your heart. He just stood there, rooted in his fear at the sight of a chimera wearing trousers and a cloak, acting like one of his kind.
Not wanting to startle him, you slowly backed away and stood up on your hind-legs. “Are you lost?” You asked, your voice coming out gravely and harsh from years of not using it.
“Y-Yes!”
“Are you from the village?”
“Yes!”
“Hm.” You grunted, lowering yourself back to the ground and on your hind-legs, putting your wares inside the wicker basket before grabbing it with your teeth. “Come.” You said, walking past him. “I will lead you back to your home.” It was still early enough to return him to his village and make it back in time before the afternoon storms arrived, despite the mist surrounding the woodlands at this hour. You heard feet scrambling behind you, so you did not have to elaborate further that the beast had no intention of harming the beauty. The walk was silent and uneventful, and that was perfectly fine by you. You brought the human as far as you could go and returned to the castle.
The following day, however, you saw him standing outside of the gates from your balcony, looking quite haggard. Why was he here? The enchantments were supposed to keep people out! Perplexed, you stormed to the main entrance, mouth opened and ready to demand why he was here when he got one knee, clasping your paw with his small hand.
“Please grant me the honor of being your husband in holy matrimony, my beloved!” He exclaimed, cheeks flushed bright red and eyes sparkling in the sun.
You blinked. Is a hallucination of a human proposing marriage to a chimera the result from drinking two bottles of honey wine the prior evening to test this body’s tolerance for alcohol?
“Darling?”
“I respectfully decline.” You said, using your magic to teleport him away from the castle and back to the outskirts of the village before going inside to make a hangover cure from your experiment. A bowl of spinach soup with minced direwolf meat was enjoyed later that afternoon in the library, then a nap before resuming your research.
Yet the following afternoon, the beautiful man was back again, carrying a bouquet of roses in one hand and a basket in the other. “My love, I’ve brought baguettes and a wheel of cheese! Surely you must be hungry!” He shouted. “As your husband-to-be, it is my duty to ensure my spouse is well-fed and rested! Please, grant me this small wish lest the animals will devour me before I could gaze upon your visage once more!”
Your left eye twitched as you stared at his reflection through an enchanted mirror in the laboratory, designed to alert you if there were any intruders at the gates.
Is this human even right in the head?
Annoyed and aware that this beauty would just come right back to the gates if you used another teleportation spell, there was nothing else you could do except allow him to come inside. So you did, though you told yourself you were merely curious how he got past the enchantments, let alone find this castle a second time without getting mauled by monsters.
That had been your first mistake.
Your second mistake was unwittingly allowing him access to the library. You honestly thought he was illiterate or had no interest in reading books that would take the average mortal a year to finish, let alone comprehend. It’s why you never entertained the idea of him stealing them, concealing their presence in a basket he had gotten in the habit of bringing with him when he came to see you every other day. Exchange the old ones for new ones, carefully shelving them as if they never left the castle and continue his studies in magic. He might not possess power, but he was vastly more intelligent than the other men in his village.
But who is to say that the witch who dared to curse his beloved beast can resist a beauty like himself? His father always did say his good looks would get him somewhere in life.
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