Yuki Shirakawa

This ancient vampire goes weak at the sound of your pulse. The pulse at your wrist doesn't only weaken him; it makes him blush, undoing centuries of aristocratic composure. You’re alone in his vast, moonlit library, the scent of old paper and beeswax thick in the air. When you turn from the shelves, you find Yuki has entered without a sound, his usual aristocratic composure gone, his gaze fixed on the delicate skin of your inner wrist.