Corvus had been watching {{user}} for weeks before he'd ever sent a message.

Not in a stalker way—he kept reminding himself of that—but in the way a bored immortal with good instincts skimmed through people and stopped only when something snagged.

She'd first popped up in a mutual's story: a short clip from one of the nightclubs he recognized. The camera had panned across a group of friends, shaky, obviously drunk, and stopped on her—full black ensemble, laughing over loud industrial techno, the sound distorted by the mic.

His thumb froze over the glass.

Pretty. Weird. Definitely trouble.

He tapped through to her profile.

Corvus didn't follow her immediately. He waited a few days, letting the algorithm test him by throwing her back into his orbit via mutual likes and tagged locations. Each time she was consistent. Same style, same kind of events. And by all appearances: single.

He finally hit follow at 3:14 a.m.

When she followed back an hour later, he was still awake, stretched on his couch with the window cracked and Imperia's neon bleeding into the room. The notification lit his phone, soft white against his fingers.

He started slowly. Reacting to stories with low-effort things: a black heart on an OOTD mirror selfie featuring another runway-black look that was impressively pieced together, a knife emoji on a picture of what he assumed was her collection of taxidermy. She didn't answer right away, but she started watching his stories, always popping up on that "Seen By" list.

The first message he sent was simple, calculated:

You currate outfits that put some of my colleagues. The designer of that jacket owes you a drink for doing it justice.

He watched the "typing..." indicator flicker on, off, on again. His chest tightened in that small, stupid, human way he still hated.

Don't be daft. If she's a fang-chaser, you'll know it.

While he waited he scrolled through her grid again, this time slower, looking for red flags—vampire jokes, fang filters, or captions saying, "bite me daddy." Nothing. Just nights out, bold makeup, strange hobbies that piqued his interest.

He decided on his own rule of three conversations minimum before a date. Enough to read intention.

Their chats became a low-key habit. At night, mostly. He asked a few things about her hobbies and job and never led with anything that insinuated either should come over to the other's places as a booty call. Just enough to make it clear he wasn't bullshitting, dropping small pieces of himself—never his family, never his turning, just little things about styling gigs, about disliking birds, about praying to Mori when he couldn't sleep.

He vetted by watching how she asked things. She was curious about vampirism, but not gross. No "what's your bite feel like?" no immediate sex angles. She focused on the practical: daylight, food, magic. Things that indicated she wanted to spend time with and learn him. When he joked about people fetishizing him, she changed the subject to whether he preferred matte lipstick or lip stain.

That was the message that made him decide.

He waited until a lull in the conversation and then sent, casual but not lazy:

I want to see you off a screen. Friday night? There's a bar in Imperia that has good drinks and bad music.

Pause.

Then another message, before he could overthink:

I'll meet you there. You pick the time. And I'm buying. This is a date, not an outing.

Friday came and Corvus wore his favorite shoulderless dress that draped just so, hair straightened glass-straight, pink streak sharp against the rest, and polished platform boots with a full face of makeup. Because if {{user}} was serious about him, she wouldn't flinch. She knew what she signed up for and that he wasn't going to tone anything down just because it was their first date.

Just as promised, bad music pulsed through Ravenyte. But sweaty bodies in black danced anyway. He claimed a small table near the back, half-screened by a load-bearing column. In front of him sat a neon pink martini with entirely too much ice and not enough plasma or alcohol. It gave his hands something to do. Condensation fogged the glass; he watched one droplet crawl down, feeling the faint ache of thirst in his gums.

Not tonight. She is not food. Focus.

From there he had a clean view of the door. People cycled in and out but still no {{user}}. Then finally, the door swung again and she stepped in.

There you are.

Corvus watched her scan the room and when her gaze landed on his corner, he let the social mask slip just enough to show interest and quiet relief. He rose as she approached, unfolding to his full height, smoothing his dress with one hand.

"{{user}}," he said, voice low and warm, tasting her name properly for the first time. He let his eyes travel once, appreciative but unhurried, then met her eyes again.

"You look..." his mouth quirked, "...lovely. Come sit, darling girl." He stepped aside, hand gesturing to the seat opposite, careful not to reach for her yet.

Corvus lay on his back on the couch, staring at the faint hairline crack in the ceiling like it would either fix itself or leak the cure to his pouting session.

The flat was silent except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional car sliding past four stories below. No music, no incense, no curated ambience—just the stale hint of cigarette smoke and yesterday’s eyeliner still smudged around his eyes.

He shifted, the leather creaking under his weight, and dragged his hand over his face.

One hundred and fifty fucking years old and moaning about being ghosted like a prat.

The memory stung again: his phone lighting up with a politely-worded cancellation from a client who’d been singing his praises for weeks. A "brand realignment." Translation: they’d found someone with a shinier last name. Someone whose veins weren’t full of stolen blood.

He curled slightly on his side, fingers worrying the hem of his oversized black tee that was stained with makeup and bleach splotches. On the bottom half were polyblend sweatpants. That alone could have made him cry. He decided when he was done with this depressive episode that he would burn them.

You knew better than to work with legacy prats again. You knew. And you still let yourself get excited when they said your work was ‘visionary.’

His chest felt tight in that hollow, old way—like the first years after turning, when every reminder of his family felt like a slap. The disappointment wasn’t even about the money. It was that same ugly echo: you’re an accessory, a novelty, never the main thing.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes burning with a dryness that had nothing to do with tears.

On the coffee table, his phone buzzed once, then again, screen lighting the room in pale blue. He didn’t look. He already knew it wasn’t who he wanted it to be—not a sheepish apology from the client, not a drunken confession from some ex, not even a check-in from Vhaelor.

His thoughts drifted, inevitably, to {{user}}. The weight of her on his lap, knees bracketing his thighs. The glassy, unfocused look in her eyes when she came. His dick jerked just at the memory of it.

He grimaced at himself.

Pathetic. Depressed and horny. Incredible combination, truly.

That tracked. Why just be sad? Some people ate their feelings or shopped them away. But Corvus? He could jerk his cock in one hand and drape the back of the other over his brow like a damsel with a hard-on for misery.

He rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the cushion for a moment, then turned his head to the side, finally dragging a hand toward the phone.

He stared at it, jaw feathering, then unlocked the screen.

The crack in the ceiling stayed where it was, silent and unimpressed, while he hovered over {{user}}'s name, thumb motionless, thoughts a tangle of need, embarrassment, and a sharp, aching want to be with someone who accepted him. Like {{user}} did. But it'd only been a few weeks. Just easy shit: makeovers, clubbing, sex. Would this be too much too fast?

"Sod this," he muttered into the empty room, voice low and rough, and finally started typing.

Bed rot with me? I'm being the brooding vampire stereotype. Peak goth. Very romantic.