Beauty and the Beast - A Snatcher x Reader AU || CH. 23 Never as Before (For Better)

Pairing: Snatcher x Reader

WC: 5070

Summary: In which Snatcher finally confronts his trauma and makes a friend in doing so.

TW: Emotional, mental, and physical abuse! Like we get into it! Read at your own discretion! Take care of yourself!

A/N: This work is solely mine-I do not consent to it being used in any AI works. I do not consent to it being intentionally copied in any manner.

It was hard to imagine that the dark forest—eternally damned to the biting chill of winter—had ever been sunny and warm, let alone flourishing with life.

But it had been, once.

Lex assures her of that. Long before the snow and silence, before the twisted trees and the endless cold, the forest had been vibrant—alive with color, laughter, and the quiet bustle of a small but thriving community. Houses once stood between the roots of these trees. Lanterns once glowed in their branches. People once called this place home.

Hattie listens more closely than she ever has before. If learning anything about this forest can help her save you, then it’s worth hearing every word.

Still, the story makes something uncomfortable twist in her chest.

Grief. Loss.

Not for you. For this place. For the forest she had always hated. The forest that took you away.

Apparently, it had not always been winter here. Once, the sun shone down on a small province hidden deep within the woods—tucked halfway between the sovereign kingdom and a quiet fishing village. (Where you and she had lived, Hattie muses, though Lex likely wouldn’t know what in the peck a “Mafiatown” was.)

At one point, there had even been a proper government. Laws. Leaders. Order.

But somewhere along the way, things changed.

No one remembers exactly when.

Or why.

Some say the province voted to secede from the kingdom—peacefully, at first. A simple bill, a quiet declaration of independence. Others insist the change came more suddenly, more violently. That something darker crept into the forest, twisting the hearts of the people who lived there.

Whatever the truth was, the little province did not remain the same for long.

Once, Lex says, the forest had been bright.

Not merely alive—but joyful. The great trees that now clawed at the grey sky had once grown wide and strong, their branches thick with green leaves that whispered in warm summer winds. Lanterns hung from those branches during festivals, their golden light swaying gently above crowds that laughed and danced beneath them. Music drifted through the woods at night, carrying laughter and fiddle-song between the trunks like wandering fireflies.

Now, only the wind moved through the branches.

Hattie can almost see it as Lex speaks—the ghost of what the forest used to be. Children racing between the trees where drifts of snow now piled knee-deep. Market stalls bursting with fish, bread, and bright fabrics where the ground now lay frozen and barren. Windows that once glowed warmly at dusk, now nothing more than dark hollows swallowed by frost and creeping roots.

The silence that filled the forest now had not always lived here.

It had arrived quickly.

Lex explains that the province had once thrived beneath the watch of the sovereign kingdom. It was small but prosperous, its people stubbornly proud of the life they had carved out among the trees. They traded with nearby villages, held lively seasonal festivals, and lived comfortably beneath the quiet protection of the crown.

And the queen—before everything—had been kinder then.

But that was before Prince Lukas left the kingdom.

It had only been meant to be a year.

At first, nothing seemed terribly different. The prince’s absence was felt, of course—his warmth had always filled the palace halls in a way few others could—but the kingdom endured. Life went on. The forests still bloomed. The people still gathered beneath lantern light and music.

Then winter came.

Too soon.

The first frost arrived before the harvest had even finished, creeping across the fields and forest floor weeks earlier than anyone expected. The people grumbled about it, of course, but early winters were not unheard of. They gathered their crops more quickly, stocked their homes with firewood, and prepared to wait out the cold.

But the cold did not behave as winter should.

The snow fell heavier than usual. The winds cut sharper. And when the time for spring should have come…it simply didn’t.

The frost lingered stubbornly in the soil. The ice clung to the rivers long after it should have melted. Even the sun seemed reluctant to stay, slipping behind thick grey clouds as though the sky itself had grown weary.

It was during that same year—Lex says quietly—the queen began to change.

She appeared less often among her people. When she did, her once gentle demeanor had hardened into something distant and cold. Smiles grew rare. The palace gates closed more frequently. Festivals were shortened… then quietly stopped altogether.

As though the warmth of the kingdom had left with the prince.

And the forest, somehow, seemed to feel it too.

As Lex speaks, Hattie feels that strange twist in her chest again.

Because the way they describe it—the sudden cold, the way warmth seemed to vanish all at once—it reminds her of someone.

Of how someone could once laugh. Once smile. Once feel like sunlight itself.

And how, in what felt like the blink of an eye…something colder had taken its place. Something darker. Considerably less feeling. Numb.

After what seemed like forever…Prince Lukas finally returns.

Word spread through the province faster than the winter winds that had come to plague it. Messengers rode hard through the villages, lanterns were lit in windows, and people gathered along the roads despite the biting cold. After nearly a year of absence, the prince had finally come home.

For a moment—just a moment—it felt as though the kingdom remembered what warmth was. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath.

The people believed his return would fix things. Prince Lukas had always been beloved among them: kind where others were proud, gentle where others were harsh. He had walked among the villagers as easily as any common man, laughing with fishermen, helping farmers repair broken fences, listening to stories and complaints alike as though every voice mattered.

If anyone could bring warmth back to the kingdom, it would be him.

When word of his arrival reached the palace, the queen rushed to meet him.

For nearly a year she had waited within those cold stone halls, her heart twisting tighter with every passing season. The moment she heard he had returned, she did not summon servants or prepare a formal welcome. She ran—out through the palace gates and into the town itself, eager to see him again.

But when she found him…

it was not the reunion she had imagined.

Prince Lukas stood in the village square, laughing softly as he purchased flowers from a young maiden at the market stall. The girl’s cheeks were flushed pink from the cold—and perhaps from something else—as she giggled shyly while handing him the bouquet. Lukas leaned close to thank her, his voice warm and easy, the two of them standing far nearer to one another than the queen found acceptable.

To anyone else, it would have looked harmless.

To the queen, it felt like betrayal.

The warmth that had followed the prince back into the kingdom faltered the moment she saw them together.

And just as quickly as it had returned…it began to fade.

Something sharp and bitter stirred within her chest, curling around her heart like frost creeping across glass. The laughter in the square suddenly sounded cruel to her ears. The closeness between them felt unbearable.

Jealousy, Lex says quietly, has a way of freezing even the warmest hearts.

In that moment, watching the man she loved smile at another, the queen’s heart grew colder than the winter that surrounded them.

The queen did not confront him there.

She did not shout. She did not call his name.

Instead, she turned away.

Lex says she fled the village as quickly as she had arrived, the cold wind swallowing the sound of her footsteps as she ran back toward the manor that overlooked the forest. Whatever warmth had returned with Lukas’ arrival faded just as quickly as it had come, leaving the sky grey once more.

By the time the prince finished his errand and made his way back to the palace with flowers in hand, the kingdom had already grown colder again.

Inside the manor, the queen waited.

The stories say she stood alone in the great hall, pacing the floor like a restless beast, her thoughts twisting tighter and tighter with every passing moment, mangling her form with the same mysterious magic that had swept the land in its prolonged winter. By the time Luka arrived, the woman who had once been beloved by her people had already begun to change.

When the prince entered, he greeted her warmly—just as he always had. He held out the bouquet he had purchased, selecting the single most beautiful flower among them to offer her first.

But the queen did not see a gift.

She saw proof.

Proof that while she had waited for him, he had given his warmth to someone else. The story goes that her heart, already frozen with jealousy, could no longer hold its shape.

And something inside her finally broke.

The woman who had once been queen twisted into something darker—something monstrous. Her hands stretched into clawed shadows, her hair fell wild around her face, and the warmth that had once lived in her eyes turned bitter and distant.

The prince tried to explain. He tried to apologize. But by then it was already too late.

In her fury, the queen declared that if her heart could no longer beat for him, then it would not beat for anyone at all. She called the world diseased and cruel, declaring that beauty had no place within it.

And so she cursed him.

The prince who had once been loved by everyone was transformed into a terrible beast, bound forever to the manor that overlooked the forest. The land itself twisted beneath the spell, the warm woods turning into the frozen wasteland that still surrounds the mansion today.

Anyone who wandered into the manor from that day forward would never truly leave.

They would become servants of the beast, bound to the same lonely curse.

Yet the stories say the queen hesitated before she vanished.

Because despite everything…despite the jealousy and rage that had consumed her…there had once been love between them.

Before she disappeared into the ice, she left him with a final condition.

If the beast could one day learn to love another and earn that love in return before the last petal of the enchanted flower fell the curse would break.

If not—

then the prince would remain a monster forever.

…but that was only a legend. Meant to be a story.

__________________________________________________________

Grooves had heard the story before.

Everyone had.

The tale of the jealous queen and the cursed prince had been passed down for years, polished and softened by time until it sounded almost romantic. A tragic fairytale. A warning. A legend whispered in taverns and around hearthfires.

But the story people told was not the one that had actually happened.

Snatcher lets out a dry, humorless laugh.

“Oh, that’s a lovely version of it,” he mutters, his voice low and rasping as he lounges back in the armchair that was stationed by the window. One clawed hand gestures vaguely in the air, as though dismissing the tale itself. “Real dramatic. Lots of heartbreak, tragic betrayal, the whole poetic ‘love turned to ice’ nonsense.”

His golden eyes narrow slightly. For a moment, he is quiet. Not the theatrical kind of quiet he usually enjoys—the kind meant to make people squirm—but something heavier.

“…I didn’t know she’d seen me in the village,” he continues after a while. “I had no idea what she thought she saw. I was just… happy to be home. So happy to see her again.” 

His claws drum lightly against the arm of the chair. “Bought the flowers because I knew she liked them. Figured I’d surprise her.”

Another humorless chuckle escapes him.

“Funny thing about surprises.”

Snatcher’s gaze drifts somewhere distant, somewhere long buried beneath centuries of shadow.

Why was he so happy to see her, again? Because at the time, he wa stupid. He was stupid and human and believed she loved him. How has it taken this long for him to realize that what they had wasn’t love?

Looking back now, the signs had been everywhere—subtle at first, then glaringly obvious in hindsight. Vanessa hadn’t loved him the way people in stories loved one another. Not the kind of love that lets someone grow, or laugh too loudly, or wander where their curiosity leads. No—hers had been something tighter, sharper. Possessive. She had adored him the way someone admires a beautiful thing placed behind glass: something to keep, something to polish, something that must remain exactly as she liked it.

He had been molded into that version of himself little by little, the way water slowly reshapes stone.

The things he loved had been the first to go. The music he played too loudly in the halls, the ridiculous poetry he used to scribble in the margins of books, the long afternoons spent wandering through the town speaking with fishermen and farmers and anyone else who had a story to tell. Vanessa would laugh at those things—lightly, sweetly, as though she were only teasing—but the laughter always lingered a moment too long. Too sharp. And eventually the teasing turned to gentle corrections, then quiet disapproval, then outright ridicule. A prince, she’d remind him, had more dignified pursuits.

And he believed her.

He stopped playing the piano. Stopped writing the poems. Stopped reading about law. Stopped wandering so far from the palace walls.

It pleased her when he stayed close.

She liked knowing where he was, liked knowing who he spoke to, liked knowing that if he spent time among the people of the kingdom, she would be there beside him. If she wasn’t, questions followed. Gentle ones at first—Who were you with? What were you talking about? Why didn’t you wait for me?—but the warmth beneath them cooled quickly if his answers strayed too far from what she wanted to hear.

Soon enough, it became easier not to go at all.

Easier to stay in the palace. Easier to let her speak for him, guide him, shape the image of the prince she wanted the kingdom to see. He told himself it was devotion, that her attention meant she cared deeply for him, that love simply looked different behind palace walls.

But love was not supposed to feel like shrinking.

Love was not supposed to leave him feeling smaller every year, quieter every season, until the only version of himself left was the one Vanessa approved of.

And the cruelest part—the part that made him want to laugh at his younger self—was that he had thanked her for it. He had mistaken control for affection, obsession for devotion, possession for love.

So yes. When he returned that day with flowers in his hands and hope in his chest, he had been happy to see her.

Because at the time, he still believed the lie she had spent so long teaching him to believe.

That he belonged to her.

And that belonging meant love.

“…When I walked into the manor, she was already different. I knew it the moment I saw her.” His voice lowers. “You spend enough time with someone, you learn the little things. The way they stand. The way they look at you.”

The way they judge you. Chastise you. Berate you in private and praise you in public. The way a hand at the small of his back meant they would have a discussion when they were out of the eyes of the public. He tilts his head slightly.

“And she didn’t look at me like she used to.” He pauses. “…She didn’t even listen when I tried to explain.”

He’s silent for a moment.

“You ever try talking to someone who already decided you’re guilty?”

Silence stretches for a moment. Then Snatcher scoffs.

“Yeah. Doesn’t work.”

For a moment, his thoughts flit to you. How you were so defiant and fiery when you arrived. How you opposed him at literally every single opportunity. And now…how you actually give him a smile while passing in the hallway. A real one. It’s brief, but it’s real. How you apologized to him in the library. How you continued to work so stubbornly just because you felt bad for other people doing work that was originally your responsibility.

…what was different about you and Vanessa? Many things, obviously, but… 

His gaze drops briefly to the floor.

“When she changed… when the curse started… I didn’t even understand what was happening at first.” His claws flex slowly. “One moment she was screaming at me, the next moment the whole room felt like it was collapsing inward.”

He gestures lazily toward himself.

“And then I looked down.”

A faint, wry, humorless smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Claws. Shadows. The whole monstrous package.” Snatcher leans back again, though the movement lacks his usual smug flair.

“At first I thought it was temporary,” he admits. “Some kind of rage spell. She’d done similar things before. Something she’d calm down from once she cooled off.”

Another hollow laugh.

“But she didn’t.”

His eyes dim slightly.

“She was gone before the sun even set.”

The room grows quiet.

For a long time, Snatcher says nothing. Grooves looks at him in absolute horror - not at him, but at his story. The ghost scoffs and looks away.

“…told you not to look at me like that–”

“She hurt you?” Grooves interrupts, appalled. Snatcher blinks and looks at him in confusion. 

“…yes. That was sort of the whole point of the story, Grooves–”

“No, like…before that, darling. You said that you thought it was some kind of rage spell, because she had done those things before.” 

“…that’s the part you’re concerned about?” Snatcher cackles. “Not the ‘ooohh dramatic reveal, I was the prince from the fairytales oooooh—”

…he has the decency to cut himself off at Groove’s continued, pointed look of concern.

“Darling…she hurt you.”

Grooves’ words sink in like lead. Sure, he had only just been realizing the extent of her…mistreatment of him, but for the longest time, he had…written it all off. Even after she killed him, he had subconsciously forgiven her. 

Snatcher had spent a long time convincing himself that Vanessa had simply lost control. It was easier that way. Easier to believe that the curse had been born of anger, of grief, of a moment that spiraled too far out of hand. She had always been intense, always a little possessive, but he had told himself that meant she cared. That kind of devotion had to mean something. Even after she killed him—after the manor twisted his body and the shadows sank into his bones—some stubborn part of him had continued to make excuses for her. If he had been more careful, more attentive, less embarrassing to her position, perhaps she would not have snapped like that. The thought had settled into him quietly over the years, hardening into something he never bothered to question.

It wasn’t until much later—much, much later—that the idea began to crack.

Watching someone else risk everything for another person had been… unsettling. You had come crashing into the manor not for power, not for vengeance, but simply to save a child. You had fought, argued, bargained, and endured far more than anyone reasonably should have, all for someone else’s sake. It was reckless and infuriating and strangely… selfless. And the longer Snatcher watched it unfold, the harder it became to reconcile that kind of devotion with the thing he had once called love. Vanessa had wanted to keep him close, contained, shaped into something that suited her. You, on the other hand, seemed willing to tear the entire cursed forest apart just to bring someone home. For the first time in a very long while, Snatcher found himself wondering if the difference between the two had always been obvious—and if he had simply never known what real love was supposed to look like.

It was…uncomfortable for him to confront that. So he just…ignored it. But you kept being so damn…you. Unapologetically you. Kind and caring even towards him, who ruined your life.

How can your hate be so much kinder than her love?

He looks away from Grooves, turning his attention to the eternal snow outside.

A moment of silence passes before he looks at Grooves again-just a brief glance before he’s looking out the window again, expression tightening. “She… had her moments,” he mutters, claws tapping idly against the armrest. 

“The palace was never exactly kind to her. Everyone wanted something from her—advisors whispering, nobles circling like vultures, the crown sitting on her shoulders like a boulder. If she snapped once in a while, I didn’t blame her.” His mouth twists faintly. “Most of the time I figured it was because I’d done something to irritate her. Stayed in town too long. Talked to people she didn’t approve of. Made a fool of myself-and her, by proxy-in front of the court.” He shrugs, the motion stiff and hollow. 

“You know. I…hah. I screwed up a lot.”

He goes quiet for a moment, gaze drifting somewhere far away. “And it wasn’t always like that,” he says more softly. “There were days she was… wonderful. We’d sit in the gardens for hours while I read her those ridiculous poems I used to write. She’d laugh, tell me they were terrible, then make me read them again anyway.” His claws curl slightly against the chair. “On days like that, the whole palace felt warmer just because she was smiling.”

A brittle laugh escapes him.

“So I learned to live for those days,” he admits quietly. “Learned how to stay out of her way when the court had been particularly cruel to her. Learned when it was better to keep my mouth shut.” His eyes dim slightly. “You start hoping if you just… handle things right, she won’t be angry this time.”

His smile turns thin and bitter.

“…funny thing about that sort of love,” he murmurs. “You spend all your time waiting for the good version of them to come back.”

A pause.

“…And when it does… you convince yourself the bad version must’ve been your fault.”

“Darling,” Grooves gently cuts in. He places a flipper on Snatcher’s claw, forcing him to loosen his death-grip on the armrest at the still-unsettling feeling of…well, feeling snaps him out of his memories. The avian’s eyes shone with that disgusting pity and it makes him want to–!

“That isn’t love.”

…no. Not pity, the human part of him gently corrects.

Compassion.

Tenderness.

Empathy.

It sits there between them, heavier than the accusation he’d been expecting. Snatcher had braced himself for revulsion, for horror, for the sort of soft, delicate sympathy people gave to broken things they didn’t want to touch. That was easy to sneer at. Easy to swat away with a joke or a cruel remark.

But this isn’t that.

Grooves’ flipper doesn’t pull away from his claw. It doesn’t tighten either. It simply rests there, steady and patient, as though there’s nowhere else it would rather be.

There’s no disgust in his eyes.

No fear.

Just a quiet, stubborn warmth that Snatcher hasn’t seen directed at him in a very, very long time.

Concern.

The realization lands awkwardly, like a foreign language he hasn’t spoken in years.

Concern meant someone was worried about him. Concern meant someone believed he deserved better than what had been done to him. Concern meant someone was looking at the wreckage of his story and not blaming him for it.

Snatcher doesn’t know what to do with that.

For centuries, every reaction he’s gotten has been predictable—terror, hatred, bargaining, the occasional burst of righteous defiance before the shadows closed in. Those emotions all made sense. They fit the role he’d grown so comfortable playing.

But this?

This soft, stubborn refusal to treat him like a monster…

It reminds him of something. Something old. Something buried under years of cold stone halls and colder winters. The way people used to look at him when he was still human.

Before claws. Before shadows.

Before the world had decided what he was.

Back then there had been warmth in people’s expressions when they spoke to him. Kindness. The quiet assumption that he was someone worth caring about.

He’d forgotten what that looked like.

Forgotten what it felt like to have someone sit beside him without fear, to have someone meet his eyes without flinching, to have someone care about the hurt beneath the teeth and the shadows instead of the spectacle of them.

Grooves is looking at him that way now.

Like he’s still someone worth saving.

And Snatcher finds that far more unsettling than pity ever could have been.

That isn’t love.

Grooves’ words repeat in his mind as he just…stares blankly down at him. Processing everything.

That isn’t love. 

That wasn’t love.

And it’s not him saying that. It’s someone else. Someone with no connections or ties to either Vanessa or his human self to defend either one, to laugh at the story of how the clumsy prince got another bruise, to turn their head from her cruel behavior. 

Yes, there were times when it was good. 

But that’s all they were. 

Something wet hits his hand. He wipes it away without looking. Snatcher heaves a heavy, shuddering sigh-distantly aching as he feels the way it makes his chest rise and fall, feels the air entering him and leaving like a breath should-and looks out the window again. 

That wasn’t love.

You’re allowed to feel like you were wronged. Because you were. Because that was not love.

That hurt. He didn’t like that…but at the same time…it felt…necessary. All the pain he wasn’t allowed to feel before, everything he had repressed for decades, for centuries…now finally free. Free to be labelled and seen and felt. 

“…I’m sorry for breaking the piano bench.”

Grooves scoffs. “My dear, frankly, I couldn’t give less of a damn about that piano bench.” 

That, at least, gets a weak chuckle from Snatcher. Grooves didn’t really swear. Looks like it was a day of breaking habits for both of them. 

“…can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.” He stops trying to wipe away the odd, viscous tears that fall from his eyes-most turn to vapor before they leave his face, anyway. He braces for whatever it is Grooves will ask him, most likely questions that have haunted him in recent years, like ‘why did you let her treat you that way?’ or ‘why did you love her?’ or ‘how could you be such a pathetic, foolish coward?’ or–

“Can you tell me what you liked? When you were alive.”

…what?

“…come again?”

Grooves falters a little at that, but clears his throat and tries again. “I-I want to know what you liked as a human. If you, ah…remember and don’t mind sharing.”

…what an odd request. Of all the things Grooves could have asked—about the curse, about Vanessa, about the shadows that act as substitute for skin, for any real part of him—that’s the question he chooses?

What did he like as a human? What had made him feel alive?

…hah….that feels like a question you would ask. He’s oblivious to the stupid, dopey grin that stretches across his fanged mouth. Grooves doesn’t say anything about it. 

“…I, uh…played piano.”The words feel clumsy coming out, like something he hasn’t said in a very long time. The ghost clears his throat—more habit than necessity.“And, uh…I had gone overseas to study law, which…I thought was interesting, at least.”

Piano…law…

…was that it?

He wracks his brain, trying to find any fleeting glimpse of happiness that wasn’t focused on her. Snatcher frowns slightly, brows knitting together as he digs through the dusty corners of memory. He tries to find something—anything—that belonged to him. Something bright, something warm.

But every road he follows seems to bend back toward the same place.

Toward her.

Conversations shaped around her moods. Decisions filtered through her approval. Entire years where the only thing he remembers clearly is trying to be whatever version of himself she preferred that day.

His grin fades.

He searches harder, sifting through the wreckage of those memories, trying to find even the smallest flicker of happiness that hadn’t revolved around Vanessa.

Surely there had been something.

Hadn’t there?

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the slow tap of his claw against the armrest as he keeps digging, stubbornly refusing to believe that the answer might truly be… nothing.

“So…” Grooves finally interjects after an awkwardly long moment of silence, “this piano…it’s yours, then?”

Thank the maker for his gentle redirection. 

“…yes. It’s mine.”

“Then…that music I hear at night sometimes. That’s…?”

Snatcher can’t help but sigh, but there’s no malice behind it. Rather, there’s the ghost of a smile on his face (no pun intended). It should bother him, he realizes. It should feel like an invasion, knowing that people have heard him in those quiet hours when the manor sleeps and the shadows grow restless. First the greenhorn stumbling into it by accident… now Grooves asking about it outright.

Those late-night melodies were never meant to be shared. They were one of the few things left that belonged solely to him.

…Strangely enough, he finds he doesn’t mind as much as he thought he would.

“No, actually, that’s the other malicious, unfulfilled, angry ghost.”

“The WHAT?!”

“Relax!” Snatcher cackles. “I was joking, Grooves. Yes, the piano you sometimes hear at night is me.”

The penguin clutches his chest dramatically, feathers slightly puffed from the shock. Grooves lets out a sigh of relief, “Well…it’s lovely. If you’re open to it…I’d love to collaborate with you sometime.”

The idea hangs in the air between them.

Snatcher had expected many reactions to his playing from her.

But an invitation?

That… is new.

…he…doesn’t hate it. 

He blinks back out of his thoughts to Grooves gently pressing a handkerchief into his claws. The bird is smiling up at him.

…and Snatcher finds himself giving a gentle smile back. 

And if his fangs seem shorter than normal, or his features softer, or his eyes a little more lively…well. That’s between him and Grooves. 

This apology had gone much better than he anticipated. 

Beauty and the Beast - A Snatcher x Reader AU || CH. 22 First, a Little Scared

Pairing: Snatcher x Reader

WC: 3381

Summary: In which a certain ghost truly begins to confront his past and begins to delve into the horrifying ordeal of being known - by someone most unexpected, to boot…heel?

A/N: This work is solely mine-I do not consent to it being used in any AI works. I do not consent to it being intentionally copied in any manner.

Apologizing to Grooves was an…interesting challenge.

Whereas the Conductor had been refreshingly forthright in his response to Snatcher’s apology, Grooves proved too honest, only to overcorrect in nervousness.

And it was starting to get on Snatcher’s nerves.

“For the last time, I promise I’m not going to break the piano. Stars, Grooves, have a little faith,” Snatcher grumbles as the penguin fusses with the ivories yet again. Grooves chuckles nervously and backs away, flippers anxiously rubbing over one another.

“I know, I know, I just…I can’t help but fret, dear!”

That was something Snatcher was still getting used to—pet names. Grooves had wasted no time in using them for Snatcher since the ghost’s apology to the Conductor. Apparently, Snatcher’s newfound—albeit wobbly and graceless at times—camaraderie with the Conductor was enough reason for Grooves to get on board with the whole…niceness thing with the others.

The penguin had practically thrown himself in headfirst when Snatcher approached him, as though he had been waiting for this.

Moonjumper had probably snitched.

Traitorous bastard.

At any rate, Grooves was looking forward to this—not for an apology, but for some quality time, apparently. Or something like that. It made him incredibly open and receptive to everything Snatcher did during this awkward attempt at an apology, which consisted of cleaning up and tuning the piano together, as suggested by the Conductor. Every blunder or flare of his temper was met with gracious leniency.

Which Snatcher would have normally tolerated—might have even, Maker forbid, somewhat appreciated—

…if he weren’t in such a sour mood.

His hand had been human this morning.

At first, he had thought he was hallucinating. Or dreaming.

He’d been having more of those lately—dreams, not hallucinations, though at this point he wasn’t entirely sure there was much difference between the two—and they had all left him with the same sour, haunting feeling upon waking: that something had happened to him in the night. Something subtle. Something impossible. Some shift in the foundations of what he was that he could never quite catch hold of before it slipped away again.

So when he looked down and saw it—really saw it—he had simply stared.

There, instead of claws, were five perfectly ordinary digits.

Plain.

Round.

Blunt.

Still purple. Still somewhat see-through. But otherwise…

Normal.

Human.

For one horrible, suspended moment, he had forgotten how to move.

He had only stared at it like it might bite him. Or vanish if he breathed too hard. He had turned it slowly, watching the light catch on skin that was not skin, on knuckles that did not end in hooked talons, on fingertips that looked so unbearably familiar that something deep inside his chest had twisted with a sudden, nauseating force.

It looked wrong on him.

It looked right on him.

That was the worst part.

He had begun to spiral almost immediately. Reached for something—anything—to prove to himself that this was not real. That it was only some cruel trick of his mind. Some desperate fantasy his lonely, half-rotted consciousness had conjured to cope with the endlessness of what he was.

He reached for the nearest book.

…and he felt it.

Not vaguely. Not distantly. Not through the muffled, wool-stuffed numbness he had long since grown used to.

He felt it.

He had grown accustomed to the mild, numb deadness that came with his spectral body. It had terrified him at first—this inability to truly touch the world around him after a lifetime of doing so without thinking. It had been one of the slowest agonies to adapt to. One of the quietest.

Floating? Fine.

Moving through shadows? Tricky, but manageable.

The soul-crushing vacancy deep within him that hollowed him out and left him echoing with cold and hunger and everything he had once been? An issue that obviously didn’t exist.

…but not being able to feel…?

That had hurt in a way he had not expected.

In a way other things had not. That had been the nail in the coffin—no pun intended. The thing that had made his death feel final. The thing that had made the curse feel real. More than the claws. More than the shadows. More than the smile stitched across his face like some bad joke.

It had been the loss of sensation.

The loss of simple, stupid things.

And he had not realized until this morning just how much he had missed them.

It had been decades. Damn near centuries. The pressure of the book against his palm had been warm and solid and there.

He had almost choked on it.

The cover had been worn leather—old, softened with age and handling. It had bent ever so slightly beneath his fingers. He had felt the dry little ridges where the material had cracked. The shallow scrapes left behind by his own claws years ago. The faint drag of paper shifting inside the binding when he picked it up.

It had almost felt like when he held your hand.

Not because a book was anything like a hand.

But because it had answered him. Because when he touched it, that long-forgotten sensation of feeling had not dissolved into that familiar half-nothingness.

It had been there.

And so had he.

For one brief, catastrophic instant, he had been there too.

He had reeled his hand away with a hiss, staring at it with something dangerously close to horror.

And by the time he looked again, it was gone.

No fingers.

No soft, stupid little knuckles.

No ordinary hand.

Only the claws.

His claws.

Long. Curved. Gnarled.

Useful for harvesting souls and looming dramatically and tearing into furniture when he lost his temper.

Not for feeling things.

That had bothered him. Immensely. More than he wanted to admit.

Because now he knew. Now he remembered.

And remembering was always the part that hurt the worst.

And on top of that…those dreams.

He had never dreamt before.

Not really.

He hardly slept—there wasn’t much point—but sometimes he did, out of boredom or habit or that pathetic lingering desire to simulate humanity in whatever ways he still could. But sleep had never brought him dreams. Only the same nightmare, over and over: the moment of his death, endless and unchanging, preserved with the perfect cruelty of trauma. So vivid, so intimate, that there had been nights he had woken with a cry caught in his throat and his arms locked rigid with remembered pain.

That had been before Moonjumper.

After Moonjumper came, the nightmares had gotten worse. Crueler.

There was something especially vile about being haunted by your own face when your own face no longer belonged to you.

But he had refused to run from them. Refused to give them power. Refused to let that thing—his body, his death, his shame—see weakness in him.

Then the nightmares stopped. The first truly dreamless sleep he had gotten in decades had come after you arrived.

And he had hated that, too. Hated the absence of them. Hated the unfamiliar peace of it. Hated the way it made him feel softened somehow, unguarded. As though some icy, barbed part of him had loosened without his permission.

Then you ran away.

Then he saved you.

Then you saved him.

And then the dreams started.

Not nightmares. Couldn’t be. He knew his nightmare by heart. These…were something else.

They were dark. Cold. But not with the same internal, marrow-deep cold of his death. This cold lived outside of him. It pressed against him. Bit at him. Wrapped him up in itself and left him alone in it. He could never see anything. Only blackness and snow and the awful, helpless certainty that he was crying.

Always crying.

The tears felt like molten metal down his face. Scalding. Endless. And some sick, ravenous part of him reveled in it, because the pain meant he could feel something. Anything. Even grief was better than that dead, endless nothing. He had felt the ground beneath him and known it was snow. Had felt himself kneeling in it.

Felt the shaking of his own body.

He just didn’t know why.

Why was he crying?

Why did his throat burn?

Why did every attempt to speak end in that hideous sound—something between a choke and a howl, horrible and wet—tearing itself out of him raw and wrong?

And then the tar.

The thick, hissing, black fluid spilling from his mouth in heavy globs whenever he tried to say anything. Falling hot against the snow. Defiling the pure, beautiful white with ugly, spreading stains.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that in the dream. Unable to move. Unable to stop crying.

Unable to understand what he had become inside it.

It had felt like eons.

Unbearably human in all the worst ways.

Then, one night, there had been a voice.

“Hello?”

The sound of it had cut through the frozen dark like a match struck in a crypt.

Familiar. Foreign. Not warm, exactly—but certainly warmer than the snow. Warmer than the wind. Warmer than the awful, endless loneliness of that place. Cooler than the boiling tar that rolled down his face and sizzled into the no-longer pristine snow beneath him.

He had sat up straighter before he even understood why.

“Hello? Are you okay? Who are—”

The voice had broken off when he turned toward it.

And he had known.

Known with the sick certainty of old shame what it must have seen.

How horrible he must have looked. How monstrous.

How wrong.

He had not needed eyes in that dream to know the shape of the silence that followed.

The presence disappeared.

The voice went with it.

And all it left behind was that question, echoing through his waking hours and sleeping ones alike:

Who are you?

Who was he?

He had thought he knew.

Once, he had been the kindly, foolish Prince of Subcon Village. Overlooked, perhaps, but loved enough. Gentle enough. Human enough. Then he had become the remnants of that prince—the sad little whispers of a man too weak, too disloyal, too unworthy.

And after that?

After that he became what she said he was.

A monster.

And if she had so easily cast him into that role, then surely it had always been waiting for him. Surely it had always lived there under his skin. Surely she would not have done what she did to a man who was innocent.

She had been without flaw.

So if she named him monster, he must have been one.

…except.

Except the changes had not started with you.

That was the infuriating part.

They had started long before that.

In tiny, unbearable ways.

In watching his servants forgive one another for mistakes.

In hearing laughter where there could have been resentment.

In seeing care offered freely, without bargaining, without debt, without cruelty attached.

He had dismissed it all as peasant nonsense.

A lesser sort of love.

A lesser sort of understanding.

Something beneath him.

Then your sister showed up and traded herself away for a friend.

Then you showed up and did the same.

And that small, stubborn, mortal part of him—that hideous little thing that had refused to die even after the rest of him had—latched onto that; refused to let go.

Because if that kind of love existed…if love could be giving instead of devouring, tender instead of demanding, chosen instead of extracted…

Then perhaps—

No.

No.

That was when the seed of doubt began to grow.

When the barren valley of his soul stopped being barren.

And he hated it.

Hated the way it rooted itself deeper with every stupid thing you did.

Bringing him home.

Cleaning his wound.

Apologizing.

Listening.

Smiling at him.

Caring for him as though he were something that could still be cared for.

He hated it.

He hated how much it mattered.

He snaps back to the present at the dull pressure of a flipper on his arm.

The sensation is sudden—so real—that it yanks him violently out of the labyrinth of his thoughts. Awareness crashes back into his body like cold water over the head.

Contact.

Someone touching him.

The feeling of being touched.

He recoils before he even fully understands what’s happening, shadowy wisps bristling up from his form like the raised hackles of a feral animal.

“What?!” he snaps instinctively, jerking away.

Grooves’ shape resolves in front of him as the world slowly rights itself again. The penguin stands there with a flipper half-raised, his expression caught somewhere between concern and mild offense—but mostly concern. Genuine concern.

Snatcher falters for a moment. His form slackens slightly, shadows settling back into place as the pressure pounding behind his eyes throbs unpleasantly.

“…don’t,” he mutters hoarsely, pressing two claws to his temple as if that might somehow contain the migraine threatening to split his skull. “I’m fine.”

A terrible lie. They both know it. But Grooves, to his credit, doesn’t push. He simply nods once—small and grateful—and returns his attention to the piano. Snatcher does the same. Or at least pretends to.

Minutes pass in uncomfortable silence. Snatcher can feel Grooves looking at him. The sensation prickles along the back of his neck like static.

“Grooves.” The rasp of his voice makes the penguin jump. “If you have something to say,” Snatcher mutters, dragging the rag across the polished wood with more force than necessary, “then say it.”

This sort of thing is new in the manor. Once upon a time, speaking to the Master like that would have been…inadvisable. Now he doesn’t exactly encourage it, but he tolerates it sometimes—mostly so Grooves will stop staring holes into the back of his skull.

“Sorry!” Grooves laughs nervously, waving a dismissive flipper. “Just…worried, dear. You looked so…lost.”

Lost.

That’s one way of putting it. Lately his thoughts feel like a house that keeps rearranging its rooms when he isn’t looking—every corner another hallway, every door leading somewhere unfamiliar, every step uncovering something he very much does not want to see.

“…guess I was,” Snatcher mutters. He doesn’t elaborate. Unfortunately Grooves is not the type to let things go easily. Snatcher knows two things about him: he can gossip about absolutely anything with theatrical enthusiasm, and he can guard a secret like it’s locked in a steel vault.

A month ago the idea of confiding in him would have been laughable.

Grooves. Of all creatures.

…now?

Now Snatcher is just too tired to fight it. Not with that look on Grooves’ face.

He exhales slowly.

“…I was lost.”

The words barely leave his mouth before the sound tears out of him.

A scream.

It rips through the manor with such violence the walls seem to shudder. Raw. Broken. Animal.

For a moment he doesn’t even realize it’s coming from him—until the burning tear in his throat makes the truth unavoidable.

The sound is horribly familiar. It’s the same noise he makes in the dreams.

But wrong.

Distorted. Like a gramophone record dragged across shattered glass—something meant to sound human, but warped just enough to be unmistakably unnatural.

The world returns to him in fragments: the scratch of old carpet beneath him, the disorienting tilt of the floor, Grooves’ flipper gripping his arm, far too many goddamn sparkles bursting across his vision. Too much sensation all at once. His mind fractures under the pressure.

Snatcher lashes out instinctively, shoving the contact away. He needs space—he can’t breathe. Why can’t he breathe? How is he breathing? The sensations crash through him in overwhelming waves: a heartbeat that shouldn’t exist, lungs that shouldn’t exist, the terrifying illusion of being trapped inside something that feels dangerously close to a living body. Tight and binding and cramped and alone and cold, always so, so cold-

“Master!”

“WHAT?!” The word explodes out of him. Snatcher’s head snaps up as his senses finally begin clawing their way back into place. Grooves stands a few feet away now, staring at him with wide, horrified eyes. Snatcher becomes abruptly aware that he is shaking—his entire form trembling, shadow rippling like wind through smoke.

Grooves’ expression twists with something that makes Snatcher’s stomach drop.

Concern.

Fear.

Something dangerously close to pity.

Snatcher lets out a brittle half-laugh.

“Don’t,” he hisses, voice cracking. “Don’t look at me like that—”

“Like what?” Grooves asks, genuinely baffled, taking a cautious step closer. “Like you’re hurting?”

Snatcher freezes.

Every clever retort dies on his tongue.

“Because you are, darling! You are hurting—I can see it!” Grooves presses on, voice shaking but stubborn. “And you can push me away all you want, and you can keep pretending everything’s fine, but damn it— you can’t keep pretending you aren’t hurting anymore!”

Silence drops over the room. Grooves is visibly shaking now.

Snatcher realizes distantly that he is shaking even worse.

Footsteps echo down the hall. Two sets: one quick and light, the other heavier and more measured. A familiar chill seeps into the room.

The Conductor, the greenhorn, and Moonjumper, respectively.

Shame hits him so fast it nearly chokes him.

How humiliating. How utterly degrading—to be seen like this. Not by one witness, but by all of them. That stubborn, disgusting shred of humanity inside him curls up and wails in mortification while another part—older, colder, meaner—erupts into furious defense.

How dare they see him like this.

How dare they look at him with sympathy.

He can’t even turn around. He can’t let them see his face.

“Nothing to see here, dears.”

Grooves’ voice cuts through the tension. At some point he has stepped directly in front of Snatcher. It doesn’t hide much—Grooves is far too small for that—but the gesture is unmistakably protective.

“Everything’s alright.” The silence that follows says otherwise. Snatcher can practically feel their confusion…their pity.

“You can return to your jobs,” Grooves continues calmly. “We can clean up here.”

Another long pause.

Then the footsteps retreat. The chill fades with them.

They leave.

Snatcher doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until the room empties. Air rushes into lungs that shouldn’t exist. His body heaves with dry, desperate gulps.

The warmth returns to his arm.

Grooves again.

Still there.

Still patient.

Still…kind.

Snatcher stares blankly at the scattered wreckage around him—the splintered remains of the piano bench littering the floor. He has no memory of breaking it.

“…you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Grooves says quietly, voice careful now. Gentle. “But if you need someone to listen…well.”

A small smile touches his beak. “I’m here for a while.”

The joke barely lands, but it still pulls a weak huff of laughter from Snatcher.

The next hour is spent in relative silence as Grooves and Snatcher collect every splinter they can of the piano bench. Snatcher can fix it tomorrow with magic - Vanessa should have a spell for that, right? If she was able to curse him to a damned eternity of winter and loneliness, she should have a damn spell for restoring a piano bench - that was, apparently, smashed to bits when Snatcher had shoved Grooves away. Miraculously, the penguin hadn’t befallen any harm from his claws, and had only a tiny scratch or two from the flying debris. 

The first thing to break the neutral silence is an muttered, “…I’m sorry.”

And it’s returned with a small, patient smile, which, in turn, is returned by a hesitant, yet hopeful fanged one. 

Exhausted from experiencing emotions, Snatcher curls up by the fire - very snake-like in appearance, his shadowy tail coiled like a serpent’s. Grooves wordlessly sits next to him. 

…Snatcher can’t remember having anything like this before.

Sure, he had subjects who adored him and a few acquaintances in the neighboring nobility…but nothing as simple yet profoundly deep and personal as this. She would never have let him have something like that.

“…do you know the story of these woods?” The ghost asks, voice low and quiet for once. His companion shakes his head. Snatcher sighs. He was really doing this, wasn’t he? 

“…well…a long time ago - I’m talking centuries - it wasn’t…like this.”

Grooves scooches closer, that patient smile still playing on his beak.

And as he begins to share his story - the first he’s ever confessed it to another being, living or not - for the first time in a long time, perhaps his entire life…

…Snatcher doesn’t feel so alone. 

Beauty and the Beast - A Snatcher x Reader AU || CH. 21 Small to Say the Least

Pairing: Snatcher x Reader

WC: 4186

Summary: Another moment between you and Snatcher in which there’s actual communication and a little bit more understanding.

TW: Graphic description of frostbite and subsequent injuries

A/N: This work is solely mine-I do not consent to it being used in any AI works. I do not consent to it being intentionally copied in any manner.

“You want me to what?” The ghost pauses his reading to regard his slightly more corporeal companion incredulously.

“Well,” Moonjumper begins, “I figured since your first apology…with our dear Conductor went so well, you should ask…him how to best apologize to our…resident musician.”

At this, Snatcher scoffs.

“Please. If I wanted to make my brain melt from the pure obliviousness of a lovesick fool too blind to see his feelings are requited, I’d rather just read one of those sappy romance novels gathering dust in the library.”

Moonjumper gives him an unimpressed, blank look. The kind where Snatcher just knows what’s going on in his head and it makes him feel too vulnerable. It makes his cold, ghostly cheeks warm slightly, the yellow of his blush reflecting off the white pages of the book.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

It’s true. There is a cruel, twisted irony to Snatcher’s words, and he can’t hide it from Moonjumper. That damn body-thief knows him too well at this point.

Despite all odds, it seems the terrifying soulkeeper of Subcon Forest is developing feelings for you.

Platonically, of course.

Yep! Only strictly a platonic crush! That’s it! It couldn’t be anything more, since he is totally incapable of feeling love! One hundred and ten percent! Besides that, it isn’t as if you have this magical ability to light up whatever room you walk into, or return his sassy remarks with just as much fire and good humor, or somehow lift the burden of what it means to be this monster with your little smile and caring personality and the late-night talks between the two of you that he has grown rather fond of…

…Moonjumper is still staring at him.

The larger ghost growls and returns his attention to his book with a grumble. Damn it, why does nearly every conversation with Moonjumper somehow circle back to you?

He can try all he wants to get it through to Moonjumper that it is nothing more than the desire for simple companionship — he still cringes at just using the word friendship — but Moonjumper simply won’t believe him. That ghoul is about as hopeless a romantic as they come.

Another thing they TOTALLY DIDN’T inherit from his husk of a body when they stole it.

Snatcher clears his throat and sets the book down with a sigh.

“Fine,” the specter concedes, “I’ll talk to him. But if I’m stuck there for hours listening to his incessant romantic drivel without getting anywhere, I…”

…he’ll what?

He has never actually enacted physical acts of torture onto his servants. Psychological pain is good enough for him — at least, that’s what he tells himself for all these centuries, and it absolutely isn’t the fact that he can’t bring himself to physically injure any of them. Still, threats used to come easily to him, and now he finds himself puttering.

He’ll do…what, exactly?

Moonjumper seems to know this, as he always does when it comes to Snatcher’s inner turmoil. Their smile is just the faintest hint of smug.

Bastard.

“…whatever.” Snatcher growls, dragging a clawed hand down his face in exasperation as he mentally prepares himself to be stuck listening to the Conductor wax poetic in the stupidest way possible over his fellow avian coworker. “See to it that if I’m not out within two hours that the manor burns down or something.”

Moonjumper grins. That small smile looks much more natural on them now.

“Of course, Master.”

Snatcher groans as he sinks through the shadows of the floor to find one small yellow servant. Moonjumper watches him leave with a small smile and a hum, entirely certain that Snatcher is making too big a fuss over nothing.

After all, talking to the Conductor can’t be that bad.

The specter slinks into the shadows, mentally preparing himself for a hopefully brief discussion.

When he arrives at the kitchen, however, it isn’t the Conductor who greets him.

There you stand by the window, the cold wintry light a stark contrast to the warm, easy smile on your face as you hum, bustling around the sink while you clean pots and pans.

You look comfortable.

You look happy.

It's…strange, in a way. Seeing you happy — truly happy. You aren’t smiling, but he can tell in this moment, you are happy. Content, in a way. Like you aren’t trapped in a frozen wasteland with an injured foot — which, as he looks at your still-swollen ankle, is starting to look worse, actually — with two ghosts and two birds who were all but recently strangers to you.

It makes part of him…jealous.

Sure, the others have adapted just fine, but…he knows their stories; knows why the Conductor would have signed his name away along with his soul; why Grooves is perhaps a touch too eager to get his flipper on the pen. He can understand why they get used to their lives here so easily.

But you?

You…aren’t like them. Aren’t like any of them. You have a family to go back to — someone who cares about you, someone you take care of. He can still remember the fire in your eyes the day you come to save Hattie. A fire that burns purely on the need to survive and protect and love. One that refuses to be snuffed out, even as the two of you physically grow apart.

He still sees flickers of it in the brief moments his golden gaze meets yours. It still isn’t dead. It’s what is driving you every single day. A goal you’ve never lost sight of, even when the darkness of the night creeps in and plants seeds of doubt in the fertile soil of your soul.

How on earth could you ever be content here? A place with so little life, so little warmth?

And how the hell can he take that for himself?

That little bit of humanity in him shuns him. Such avarice. He hears her voice in his head. So selfish, always wanting more, despite having everything you could want.

He bites back a wry chuckle at his thoughts. Yes, because this is exactly what he wants. Cursed to live in the place where he died, where she killed him — because that’s what she did, isn’t it? — by himself with the only companionship he can secure being taking people’s souls and forcing them to stay with him. Cursed into becoming a monster for a basic human need.

That’s what she has done. She killed him and then made it impossible for him to ever feel human again. Because killing him wasn’t enough, was it? No, he thinks, of course it’s not. Not for his crime of…of what? Of being human? Of existing outside of her perfect little world for once?

…why did he ever love her in the first place?

Because he was naive and young and stupid, he tells himself. Because she loved him, and that’s all he ever wanted.

To be loved.

“…-cher?”

And now here he is. Completely alone and hopeless.

He can’t help but actually chuckle dryly out loud at that.

“…-atcher…?”

Ironic, isn’t it?

The one thing any human ever needs from another, and she denies him that with this godforsaken curse.

And now he’ll—

“Snatcher!”

“What?!” Snatcher hisses, his voice booming in the kitchen, his shadows raised like a scared cat’s hackles as he is violently pulled from his thoughts by a voice.

Your voice.

You’re looking up at him…concerned.

Like in the library when you apologize.

Like you actually care.

He scoffs to himself and forces himself to calm down and compose himself…but he’s too tired to put on that fake smile.

So he doesn’t.

You don’t seem to mind. You’ve seen him without it plenty now.

“…what.” He repeats, voice significantly quieter and softer as he manages to pull himself together. Stars — he’s going to have to talk to Moonjumper about the increased frequency of these…intrusive thoughts. If one can call them that.

“Just asking if you’re okay.” You reply bluntly as you take a step back — not out of fear, no, you’ve stopped doing that since the first night spent in the foyer. There hasn’t been a lick of fear in your eyes since then, and he hates to admit how much inner turmoil it causes for him. “You just sorta showed up and started laughing and mumbling about something.”

“…it’s nothing.”

Bullshit. You both know it is.

But you don’t press him any further, which he silently appreciates.

“Where’s the Conductor? I came here to talk with him.”

“Oh, he’s out…ah…how did he say it again…?” You smile, trying to remember. “He said he was ‘fair scunnered’ and was ‘hankerin’ for a shneeb’.” You do your best Conductor impression as you say it. Which, admittedly, is not very good. Still, it gets Snatcher to smile a little bit, too, so you count that as a win.

“Which means he’s…?”

“Hell if I know,” you chuckle and shrug. “All I do know is that he stepped outside maybe five or so minutes ago, and he said he’d be taking fifteen so…maybe check back in ten?”

As you explain, you lean against a counter, your face contorting into a small grimace as you put weight on your once-frostbitten foot. Snatcher’s small smile falls as he glances down at your ankle. You aren’t putting much weight on it at all, favoring your other foot heavily. His eyes flit back up to yours, and your sheepish expression tells him all he needs to know.

“You haven’t been taking it easy.” He observes, giving you an unimpressed, scolding look.

Your hands fly out to the sides as you immediately assume defense with an indignant groan. “I can’t help it—!”

“You can.”

“I can’t!” you insist, despite the fact that he is obviously not going to take your side in this. “It’s so boring taking it easy! I can work!”

“You’re making it worse.” He notes coolly and logically, even though he knows you probably won’t listen. “I’ve never heard someone complain about not being able to work.”

He hates how endearing your stubbornness is to him. How it is just another part of you that he’s growing to lo—appreciate. Appreciate and also hate at the same time, specifically because of moments like this, where you refuse to listen because you are too headstrong for your own good.

You pout at his logic and look at the ground. You fidget with your fingers as you try to think of an excuse.

It’s cute.

He buries that thought deep within, locking it in a box and throwing away the key. That thought doesn’t need to see the light ever.

“How, exactly, did you injure that flesh-sack of yours more?” he asks, partly because he is curious, partly to distract himself from that traitorous thought.

“I, erm…” You cough into your hand, awkwardly clearing your throat. “I had, um…fallen. From the stepladder in the library. Landed wrong.”

You wince as you recall the memory. Yeah, that one hurts reaaaaaally bad, especially since you land on your injured foot, which means all your weight goes onto it. And you had been doing so well, too.

“It wasn’t that bad, but I think it, uh, heh, set my healing back a couple days…” you murmur that last part, still feeling somewhat ashamed of the accident under his scolding gaze. “But I’m fine, see!”

“…stars, you’re hopeless.” he mumbles in response and floats away, disappearing into the shadows of the kitchen.

You figure that must be that and turn to hobble back to the sink when the shadows shift and move to wrap around you as well and suddenly you’re on the chair in the piano room. Snatcher hovers over you just long enough to mutter a, “Don’t move,” before he’s gone again, leaving you to your thoughts.

What the hell had gotten into him?

You don’t have time to think about it for too long before Snatcher returns with the medicine kit kept in the kitchen. Honestly, most of the stuff is probably expired, but it is better than nothing.

He shifts to “sit” in front of you, waiting for you to…do something. You just look at him in confusion in return.

“…well?”

“Well…what?”

“Take your shoe off.”

What?

“Uh…why?”

He gives you another unimpressed look, his already thin patience growing thinner. “Because I’m secretly a creep who gets off on shoes that have been passed down at least five times. I’m going to check on your frostbitten foot, fool.”

The look you give him must convey your thoughts and increased confusion, because he is already frowning before you can reply.

“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” you say, cringing slightly as it sounds a bit too rushed to seem nonchalant.

He rolls his eyes and goes to take your shoe off himself, but you reach down and stop him with a nervous smile. He only pauses because the sight of your warm, human hand on his makes his mind stop working for a moment.

“Really! It’s fine! I can have Moonjumper check on it later if it’s still hurting.”

His flat look doesn’t change.

“Well, it’s hurting now and Moonjumper isn’t available.” He huffs. “Trust me — I checked. Just…shut up and let me do this, okay?”

You blink at him owlishly, eyes wide…and nod, awkwardly shuffling to sit back more in the chair.

This is definitely weird.

For both of you, it seems — Snatcher’s movements as he goes to take off your shoe are jerky and shaky and unsure…so unlike him. When you offer to take it off yourself, he just shoots you a glare that makes you sink further into the cushions of the chair.

You feel him remove your shoe and peel off your sock and—

“Fucking stars!”

He exclaims, making you sit straight up in concern. Before you can ask what is wrong, he shoots you another glare, holding your ankle with surprising tenderness. You cringe as you look at your foot, knowing exactly what makes him swear like that.

Your foot has not, in fact, been getting better.

Most of the sensation has returned…but it stops after a certain point, and you are left with that heavy, awful numbness that settles deep into the meat of your foot and makes it feel more like something strapped to the end of your leg than part of your body. Your skin is damaged — pale and mottled and discolored, ugly patches of red-purple and waxy white spidering over the top and sides of your foot. A huge blister sits swollen over the top, stretched tight and shiny, angry-looking against the rest of your skin. The areas that aren’t blistered or discolored are cracked, rough, and stiff, the skin pulled so tight in some places it looks like it might split if you flex the wrong way. Even the simple gesture of Snatcher turning your foot slightly to inspect it better sends a hot, needling pain shooting up from your toes to your knee, and you let out a hiss of pain, reflexively trying to pull away.

But Snatcher keeps that firm, gentle hold on your ankle, being surprisingly careful not to touch any of the worst of it.

You look away, unable to meet his admonishing gaze. You can feel his judgment weighing you down, pushing you further into the chair. How you wish you could just disappear into the shadows like he can right now…

“How long has it been like this?”

“…since it happened.”

“And you’ve been walking around like this? Greenie, this thing’s practically fallen off!”

You cross your arms and huff. “Oh, what, you’re a doctor now, too?”

He scowls at you. “I know enough to know that skin isn’t supposed to look like this.”

“I could have told you that.”

“But you didn’t.” He hisses, and that promptly makes you shut up. “So you’ve been walking around on it, putting pressure on it, and the rubbing from your sock probably caused the blister to grow. So you’ve actually been doing a really shit job at healing.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Zip it, Greenie.”

He looks over your foot some more before gently poking and prodding around it. You wince and hiss at him to get off, but he just gives you another look that makes you grumble and sit back once more. He seems to be taking mental notes as he examines your foot, going through the motions of a physical exam, gently manipulating your foot this way and that to assess your pain.

Part of you thinks he’s doing it on purpose.

Sadist.

The other part of you is…surprised he’s still here. He could have left you to your own devices the minute the sock came off — Hell, you assume he would leave you alone in the first place, leaving you to suffer silently.

But he doesn’t.

…for once, you are glad to be wrong about someone.

After a few more minutes of uncomfortable silence and examination, you sigh.

“What’s the prognosis, Doc?”

“Quit it,” he warns again before gently setting your foot down with a sigh. He looks up at you, expression grim. “…we’re going to have to amputate.”

“What?!”

Your blood runs cold, and your body reacts to it the same way it does when your foot slips into that stupid freezing pond in the first place. Yeah, you had joked about it to yourself before, but that was when you were delirious and hysterical after a traumatic event. You didn’t think you’d actually need one. But amputation means dead tissue. So much time has gone by — how far has the dead tissue spread? How much would need to be amputated? Oh, Maker, they don’t have any sort of anesthesia here, let alone any sort of sterile surgical equipment. Your heart starts to race as anxiety tears at your thoughts and—

“Kidding!”

A smug, playful smile breaks out onto his face and he laughs at your reaction. Like a deep, full-bellied laugh. It would be contagious if you weren’t teetering on the edge of a heart attack.

“AHAHA! Oh, Maker, the look on your face! Priceless!”

“Ha-ha.” You huff. “Very funny.”

“Worth it.” He shrugs and opens up the medical kit. “Don’t worry — your stupid stubbornness hasn’t seemed to kill off any tissue. Worst thing you might have is chronic compartment syndrome, but that’ll be an easy fix.”

“Chronic what?”

“Compartment syndrome,” he repeats without further explanation.

“…thanks. Really clears things up for me.”

He sighs dramatically and rolls his eyes. “It’s something Moonjumper told me about from one of his medical books.” That’s right - you remember Moonjumper mentioning something about medical books after The Shitstorm Night, as you’ve taken to calling it. “Something about how internal pressure from traumatic injury or prolonged strain causes bleeding in the muscle compartment. As if that’s not where the blood is supposed to be.”

He jokes lightly, trying to dispel the stale awkwardness in the air as he grabs a roll of bandages.

“Could just be talking out of my ass here, and I’ll have him actually check you out when he comes back from…wherever the hell he is right now, but that’s my guess as I’m looking at it. Not like we can do much about it anyway — that’s one of those conditions that only a change in habits can fix.”

He gives you a pointed look.

Wow, would you look at that? The snow outside is suddenly so, so fascinating. You don’t think you’ve ever seen snow like this. It is definitely much more interesting to look at than your spectral companion who keeps staring at you with a reprimanding glint in his eyes.

“…if there’s nothing we can do to fix it,” you say, hearing him roll his eyes at that, “why are you getting the bandages ready?”

He gives you another maniacal grin.

“For all the blood.”

“Snatcher.”

“Fine! We’re just gonna drain your blister and get some ointment on your foot. Spoilsport.”

You watch his smile drop as he focuses again. You barely feel the prick of the lancet over skin already stretched too tight, but you do feel the pressure when his ghostly fingers work around the swollen blister, coaxing the trapped fluid out. The sensation is disgusting more than painful — a deep, queasy ache, the kind that makes your stomach twist. You do, however, take note of his exaggeratedly disgusted look and stifle a snort. You’d think a ghost who steals souls and has such imaginative threats would be fine with a little drainage.

…he cares more than you expected him to.

That is the thing you still find surprising.

You don’t voice this, however, knowing it would ruin…whatever this moment is, opting instead to just watch silently as he takes care of you. The ointment stings a little as he applies it, sinking into the cracked skin and the angry rawness around the blister like fire under ice, but he follows it up with a quick, muttered apology, and the bandage he applies isn’t too tight or too loose. In fact, his movements almost look…practiced, in a way. Not like his hands at the piano, but a similar sort of familiarity.

“Heh…you sure you weren’t a doctor or a nurse in your past life?”

That gets a small chuckle from him and he shakes his head, his fluff-like shadows swaying with the movement.

“Far from it.”

“You seem familiar with patching people up.”

He stills at that, thinking about your words as they sink in.

“…I…” He fumbles, looking for something to explain that learned behavior that isn’t the truth…but he falls short. After a moment or two, he shakes his head again. “It’s just applying a bandage, Greenie. Don’t read too much into it.”

With that, you watch as he packs up the remaining medical kit supplies — it might honestly be best to just throw it out at this point — and lets it disappear into the shadows. He goes to leave, too, but you stop him with an outstretched hand.

He looks down at you and for a moment…

…he almost looks human.

Like he does that first night you see him playing the piano.

There is a faint definition to his jaw that you’ve never seen before, the beginnings of a nose just barely outlined as if it were something small pushing against heavy fabric. A look down at his hands shows that they don’t look as long or as sharp or as threatening as before. His claws are still imposing, but they seem less…menacing.

…you don’t comment on it.

Instead, you look up at his strangely yet barely defined face and lock eyes with him. He flinches a little at that — you tone down your seriousness just a bit and tuck that information away.

“I…thank you, Snatcher.”

Before he can interrupt with a snarky comment — which you know he will, given the shit-eating grin that is already forming on his face — you continue,

“Really. I…I know I was being stubborn and obstinate and a pain, so…I really appreciate you taking the time to…y’know…care.”

He freezes again, and the two of you are enveloped in another silence. After a few moments, right before you start to pull your hand away, his shoots out to hold yours.

Just like in the library.

Like he’s reaching for even the smallest bit of connection.

You give that to him without complaint.

It takes him another moment to form his words, and you are patient with him while he does.

“…you’re welcome.” he rasps out, the words still somewhat foreign and strange in his throat.

Still, you give him a small, warm smile, which he returns, before pulling his hand away and clearing his throat like he is above such things as want and connection.

“But, seriously, you gotta start taking better care of yourself, Greenie,” he chuckles. “I’m not always gonna be willing to help make your boo-boos all better.”

This time you laugh with him, unaware that the weird sinking feeling that occurs in your chest at that statement is also felt by him. You both leave it unnamed and untouched.

“Hah…but…it’s not all better.” You pretend to pout.

Concern flashes in his eyes, despite his best efforts to hide it, and he leans in again.

“What? What do you mean? I did what I could.” He starts to argue. “What else could you possibly need from me?”

You smirk and lean back, lifting your leg a little with the help of your arms to bring your foot up slightly.

“You didn’t kiss it better.”

You laugh to yourself as yellow blooms across Snatcher’s face and he scoffs, making a dramatic exit into the shadows…

…but not before you catch the fond smile on his face.

You adjust how you sit, absently staring at the place where he disappeared, your own smile still lingering on your lips. You look down at your freshly bandaged foot and hum.

Sure, the healing is set back because of your stubbornness, but…if other days go like today…

…maybe staying here a little longer wouldn’t be so bad.

A Hat in Time – The Snatcher’s Flame T-Shirt

🔥 Step into the shadows with The Snatcher — the mysterious contract master from A Hat in Time. 💀🎩

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Twilight of Neo Kobe City

composed by Konami Kukeiha Club
from Snatcher (MSX2, 1988)

a bath in time

WELCOME TO A MAGICAL HAT KID IN SPACE!

A magical hat kid in space is an a hat in time au all about magical girls, traumatizing children and yaoi!! We have evil ghosts, cocaine smuggling penguins, evil old women, and more!!

Ok but actual summary. Hat kid and Bow kid are magical girls sent to the plant of shadows to deal with the subcon forests conflict between the three (3) rulers, excited for their first true mission! But they don’t know the horrors that await. .

Feel free to send whatever asks you want to all the characters, as long as they aren’t innappropriate-And make whatever fanart you’d like!

character references

The Snatcher Spirit T-Shirt – Inspired by A Hat in Time

💀 Mysterious, mischievous, and glowing with power — inspired by The Snatcher from A Hat in Time. ✨🎩

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🕷️Snatcher (1988)🕷️

[◬]

Whyyyyy hello there!!

That’s a nifty looking hourglass you’ve got there! Mind if I take a look?

Look how much better I draw Snatcher through these years!!

I was supposed to add Darkheart next to him but like fuck no, maybe another day. I’m still ass at rendering.

Star gazing sketch

“I will make you mine”

I have a love-hate relationship with the snatcher from a hat in time

Like yes, the snatcher is awesome I love his concept and I love his design and all

BUT HOLY SHIT

The death wishes make me wanna scream, like YES I KNOW ITS SUPPOSED TO BE HARD but like my Nintendo switch has almost hit drywall multiple times

Aw peck

Well if it isn’t the consequences of your actions

Ah well she’ll get bored eventually…. Right ?

Follow up piece for that animatic I made

No blur below