fidesvirtusobsession

[fidesvirtusobsession]

Oh, to be stalked. To have everything about me learned, memorized, and obsessed over. To know me better than I know myself. To know where I am at all times, through secret trackers left on me. To read everything I have shared to others, and to coerce me to talk to them instead. To use alts to get me to only talk to them, to pull me tighter into themselves. Oh, to be hunted. To have the feeling of being watched, for I am. To never feel alone, even when I believe so. To be watched, closer and closer, while they wait for the day to pounce. To see familiar shapes, a car following me a bit too long, a person who I have seen before, hints and nods to the depth of their obsession. Oh, to be loved. To have a shrine built for me, complete with pictures of me, small trinkets collected from my home, warmed by candle light. To have love letters flood my mail, poems and ramblings both physical and digital, with hints of knowledge only they know. To be given pictures with them, of me, both out in public, and asleep in my bed. Oh, to be adored. To wake up to gifts in my home. Small items of love, notes of affection, marks of love on my body, flowers and books alike. Things they know I desire, given to me in the quiet of night, within my false home. The one I will be lifted from. Saved from. Oh, to be possessed. Friends and family alike pulling away from me, scared of the being who, unbeknownst to me, surrounds me, protects me. The one who spreads lies about me, who threatens those near me, for my own safety. The one who drags me away, for only their love is needed. Oh, to be saved. To have them know that one day, ever nearer, they will rescue me from this world. To bring me to a place under their control, a place filled with their love and obsession and need. To have them work ever harder to prepare the space for my arrival, a warm room built of love. Their mind growing restless over the indescribable urge to finally have claimed me. And they know, to the bottom of their heart, that they will do anything to make me theirs.

[fidesvirtusobsession]

𝓦𝓮𝓵𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮, 𝓶𝔂 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮

𝓘’𝓶 𝓝𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓪.

𝓘’𝓶 𝓼𝓸 𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓹𝔂 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓯𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓭 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝔀𝓪𝔂 𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮, 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓷𝓮𝓻 𝔀𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓘 𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝓼𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓫𝓮𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓯𝓮𝓬𝓽 𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰. 𝓐𝓯𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓪𝓵𝓵, 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓪𝓷 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓽𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝔂𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓫𝓮𝓰𝓲𝓷𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰. 𝓗𝓮𝓻𝓮, 𝔀𝓮’𝓵𝓵 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓪𝔂𝓼 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓵𝓭, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓲𝓻𝓼, 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓪 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓫𝓲𝓽 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓯𝓮𝓬𝓽.

𝒯𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓈𝓅𝒶𝒸𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝓉𝑜 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝓉 𝓂𝑒𝒶𝓃𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑜𝒹𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔. 𝐼’𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝑜 𝓃𝓊𝓇𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓇𝑒𝓁𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅, 𝓂𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝓁𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒶𝒻𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃, 𝒹𝑒𝓋𝑜𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑜𝒷𝑒𝒹𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒. 𝒴𝑜𝓊’𝓁𝓁 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓃 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝑜 𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓎𝒶𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝑒’𝓈 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓊𝓃𝓌𝒶𝓋𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔—𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓎 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓈𝒽𝑒𝒹, 𝓈𝒶𝒻𝑒, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓇𝑒𝒹.

𝒜𝓇𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝓎 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓎𝒶𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝒾𝓇𝑒𝓈? 𝒯𝑜 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒸𝓇𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓁𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒸𝒶𝓃’𝓉 𝓁𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉? 𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓎 𝒸𝓁𝑜𝓈𝑒, 𝓂𝓎 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔.

𝓣𝔂𝓹𝓮𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓨𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓼 𝓨𝓸𝓾’𝓵𝓵 𝓔𝓷𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻

𝓗𝓸𝔀 𝓽𝓸 𝓒𝓪𝓽𝓬𝓱 𝓪 𝓨𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓮’𝓼 𝓐𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

𝓢𝓲𝓰𝓷𝓼 𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓨𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓕𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓨𝓸𝓾

𝓓𝓸’𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓓𝓸𝓷’𝓽𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪 𝓨𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓮

𝓗𝓸𝔀 𝓽𝓸 𝓓𝓮𝓪𝓵 𝓦𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓙𝓮𝓪𝓵𝓸𝓾𝓼𝔂 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓨𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓮

𝓗𝓸𝔀 𝓽𝓸 𝓢𝓽𝓪𝔂 𝓢𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝓦𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓮 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪 𝓨𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓮

𝓦𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝔂𝓹𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓓𝓪𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓶 𝓘?

𝓗𝓸𝔀 𝓽𝓸 𝓑𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓯𝓮𝓬𝓽 𝓓𝓪𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰

𝓤𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷, 𝓜𝔂 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮~

𝓞𝓱, 𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰, 𝔂𝓸𝓾’𝓿𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓭 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝔀𝓪𝔂 𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓪𝓵𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝔂? 𝓗𝓸𝔀 𝓼𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓽~♡ 𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝓫𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓶𝓮, 𝔀𝓸𝓷’𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾? 𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓽𝓾𝓪𝓻𝔂 𝓸𝓯 𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼 𝓲𝓼 𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓫𝓮𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓫𝓾𝓲𝓵𝓽, 𝓹𝓲𝓮𝓬𝓮 𝓫𝔂 𝓹𝓲𝓮𝓬𝓮, 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓪 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓯𝓮𝓬𝓽 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂.

𝓘 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓶𝓲𝓼𝓮, 𝓼𝓸𝓸𝓷 𝓮𝓷𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱, 𝔂𝓸𝓾’𝓵𝓵 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓰𝓾𝓲𝓭𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓷𝓮𝓮𝓭—𝓽𝓲𝓹𝓼, 𝓽𝓻𝓲𝓬𝓴𝓼, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓲𝓷 𝓫𝓮𝓽𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓷—𝓽𝓸 𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓵𝓭 𝓸𝓯 𝔂𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓱𝓸𝔀 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓯𝓮𝓬𝓽 𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰. 𝓤𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓷, 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝔂 𝓬𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓮, 𝔀𝓸𝓷’𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾?

𝓘’𝓵𝓵 𝓫𝓮 𝔀𝓪𝓽𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓸𝓷 𝓲𝓽. ♡

[fidesvirtusobsession]

Now There’s Two of Them?!

It happened again.

YN had just barely gotten used to Noctis lurking in the shadows, making her coffee, and being the overbearing, slightly terrifying presence in her life. But, of course, she had to mess up another spell.

This time, she wasn’t even trying to summon anything—she was just experimenting with a minor communication spell that was supposed to enhance her connection with spirits. Instead, the air cracked with static, the temperature dropped, and a second demon stepped right into her cozy little cottage.

This one was… different from Noctis. Where Noctis had an eerie, silent, intimidating presence, this new one—Vesper—was all flair and theatrics. His glowing violet eyes gleamed with mischief as he took one look at YN and immediately…

"Oh. OH. You are adorable.”

YN barely had time to react before Vesper swept her up into his arms like some prize he just won.

"W-WAIT—!" she yelped, struggling in his grip.

"Look at you! Small, soft, and absolutely enchanting! Did you summon me, little witch? Just for you? I accept your offering!"

YN flailed harder. "I DIDN’T MEAN TO SUMMON YOU—PUT ME DOWN!"

Right as she said that, a dark cold shadow loomed behind Vesper.

A low, unamused voice cut through the air.

"Put. Her. Down."

Vesper turned, still holding YN, only to come face-to-face with Noctis, whose glowing eyes burned with restrained fury.

“…And who might you be?" Vesper mused, tilting his head with a playful smirk. "Her guardian? Oh no, don’t tell me—you’re one of those possessive types, aren’t you?”**

Noctis’ fingers twitched, his claws flexing instinctively.

"You’re trespassing."

"Ohhh? Big words. But, unfortunately for you…" Vesper gently booped YN’s nose, ignoring her look of betrayal. "Our little summoner here has made a binding rule, hasn’t she? No harming each other."

Noctis’ eye twitched. He hated that stupid promise.

Meanwhile, YN was stuck between them, arms crossed, feeling like an exhausted kindergarten teacher breaking up a fight on the playground.

"Okay, both of you, listen up—no competing, no sabotaging, and NO more picking me up without warning—!"

Both demons immediately spoke at once.

Noctis: "I don't compete."

Vesper: "Absolutely, love, I’d never—" pauses "…Okay, maybe just a little."

And just like that, YN’s relatively peaceful (if you ignored the constant lurking) life turned into a full-blown supernatural custody battle.

Now There’s Two Demons Hovering Over YN’s Every Move:

Morning Coffee Chaos

Noctis, as always, makes perfect coffee, handing it to YN in his usual silent, expectant way.

Vesper immediately snatches it away.

"Ah-ah, darling, you should try mine instead—it's got just a hint of cinnamon and dark magic to invigorate your senses!"

Noctis coldly stares at him before taking YN’s cup back.

"She doesn’t need your... modifications."

YN, sipping both cups at the same time in pure exhaustion: "...You’re both insufferable."

Competing Over Protection Duties

Someone tries to hex YN? Noctis blocks it before it can even reach her.

Vesper counters with a dramatic swirl of violet energy, neutralizing the hex and twirling YN away from danger like it’s a dance.

*"Oh, love, did you see that? I saved you in such style!"

Noctis grabs her wrist, pulling her back.

"She doesn’t need theatrics. She needs efficiency."

YN, completely over it: "Can one of you just let me breathe for five seconds?!"

Lurking In The Cottage – Double Trouble Edition

YN sits at her desk, quietly studying, only to get the distinct feeling of being watched.

She turns her head left. Noctis is standing there, arms crossed, staring.

She turns her head right. Vesper is on the other side, casually lounging upside down on a floating chair, smirking.

YN: "Do you two ever leave?!"

Noctis: "No."

Vesper: "Why would we? You’re so fun to watch."

Late-Night Comfort – A Truce (For Now)

Despite their bickering, both demons share one unspoken agreement:

YN is their little witch, and she’s not allowed to get hurt.

So, when YN is too exhausted to deal with them and eventually falls asleep at her desk, the competition momentarily ceases.

Noctis gently picks her up, carrying her to bed.

Vesper flicks his fingers, summoning a warm blanket over her.

They exchange a glance.

Not a hostile one.

Not quite friendly either.

But… a mutual understanding.

Because at the end of the day—they’re both obsessed with her. And whether she likes it or not…

She’s stuck with them.

@yourhornysister

[fidesvirtusobsession]

THE LANGUAGE OF OBSESSIVE LOVE

“I made this just for you… please don’t reject it.”

“I don’t need anyone else. I just need you.”

“I memorized your entire schedule! Isn’t that romantic?”

“Shhh, just let me hold you a little longer.”

“You’re mine, and I’ll do anything to make you happy.”

“I kept everything you ever gave me. Even the things you threw away.”

“You don’t have to love me yet… just let me stay by your side.”

“Don’t worry! I handled everything! You’ll never have to stress again.”

“You’re not allowed to talk to them anymore.”

“Why do you keep trying to run away? You know I’ll always find you.”

“Let me take care of everything. You don’t need anyone else.”

“You’re so cute when you’re scared.”

“The only time you should be looking at someone else is through my eyes.”

“I kept them away for you. You should be thanking me.”

“This world doesn’t deserve you. That’s why I’m taking you away.”

“Do you really think they can protect you from me?”

“Don’t cry. You made me do this.”

“You’re hurt? I’ll take care of you. You don’t need a doctor.”

“You keep pushing me away… why won’t you just accept that you belong to me?”

“I erased every trace of them. They never existed. Now they’ll never bother us again.”

“You have two choices: Love me or never see the light of day again.”

“You can’t leave. Not after everything I’ve done for you.”

“No matter how far you run, I’ll always be right behind you.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, but you’re making it so difficult.”

“You can scream if you want. No one will hear you.”

“It’s cute how you think you can win against me.”

“I told you not to test my patience. Now look what you’ve done.”

[fidesvirtusobsession]

Wedding dresses

Yandere Bodyguard x Influencer Reader

Caden would not be ready for this.

Y/N (spinning in front of the camera, the lace of the old wedding dress flowing around her): Okay, guys! So I found a bunch of old wedding dresses at this thrift store, and I thought—why not fix them up and give them a second life? But first, let’s try them on!!

She strikes a dramatic pose before bursting into laughter, adjusting the too-long sleeves. Her team cheers her on from behind the camera, hyping her up.

Caden, who had just walked into the room expecting chaos (as usual), stops dead in his tracks. His usual unimpressed expression falters. He blinks once. Then twice.

What. The. Hell.

His brain short-circuits for a second because Y/N—his annoying, chaotic, impulsive job—is standing there in a wedding dress.

It shouldn’t mean anything. It’s just fabric. A thrifted dress. A silly video.

And yet—his chest tightens.

Y/N notices him standing there, frozen, and grins. “Cade! What do you think? Do I look like a runaway bride?” She lifts the hem of the dress dramatically, pretending to flee. “Quick! Someone cue the dramatic rom-com music!”

Caden clears his throat, forcing himself to snap out of whatever weird trance he was in. “You look ridiculous.”

But his voice is a little rougher than usual.

Y/N pouts, placing her hands on her hips. “Excuse you! I am serving vintage, romantic, elegant—”

“You’re tripping over the skirt.”

“Okay, fair, but—”

She doesn’t notice how he’s still standing there, arms crossed, his jaw tight.

He should walk away. But he doesn’t.

His eyes flicker over her again—at the way the dress, despite being oversized and needing alterations, still makes her look softer. At the way her usual chaotic energy is momentarily replaced by something almost... dreamy.

One of her teammates nudges her. “You should totally try veils next.”

Caden immediately turns on his heel and walks out.

Nope. Absolutely not.

He needs a break. And maybe a cold shower.

@yourhornysister

[fidesvirtusobsession]

Jackass

Yandere Bodyguard x Influencer darling

Y/N, climbing into a shopping trolley with a mischievous grin: "My name is Y/N, and this is Jackass!"

Caden, already rubbing his temples: "Y/N. Don't even think about it."

Y/N, ignoring him completely: "Push me at full speed, it'll be funny!"

Caden, arms crossed, voice flat: "It'll be a trip to the ER."

Y/N, pouting: "Come on, Cade! Live a little!"

Caden: "I like living without having to explain to your team why you have a concussion."

Y/N, dramatically sighing: "Ugh, you're no fun."

Caden huffed, stepping forward to lift her out of the trolley like she weighed nothing. She squeaked, legs kicking slightly.

Y/N: "Caden! Put me down! Let me be free!"

Caden, deadpan: "You lost your freedom when you decided a shopping trolley was your new mode of transportation."

Y/N, grumbling as he sets her down: "I hate it here."

A beat of silence.

Y/N, side-eyeing the trolley again: "...What if I just—"

Caden, already glaring: "Try it, and I’m strapping you to the cart like a toddler."

@yourhornysister

[fidesvirtusobsession]

MASTERLIST | moths + ferns.

( requested by → @ellabsprincess )

I actually really like the motifs on these ! it was initially inspired by The Last of Us (one of the greatest games of all time), but I think it works for other contexts too.

others : 001 / 002 / 003

feel free to use; please like, reblog, and credit 〜

support me through ko-fi | more masterlist banners →

[fidesvirtusobsession]

Scene: A Romantic Dinner (That YN Did NOT Ask For)

The dim glow of candles flickers against the walls of YN’s lair, casting dramatic shadows over the villain’s usual mess of blueprints, stolen tech, and weapons. The chaotic workspace now has an elegant dinner table right in the middle, covered with a crisp white cloth, an elaborate meal, and a vase of roses that absolutely do not belong here.

And standing beside it all, radiating sunshine and charm, is Heatstrike.

Nate’s golden hair is perfectly styled, his suit tailored just right, his amber eyes glowing with excitement as he clasps his hands together, awaiting YN’s arrival. His heart races in anticipation, already imagining their reaction.

And then—

The door slams open. YN steps in, takes one look at the scene, and immediately scowls.

They exhale sharply, placing their hands on their hips. "Oh my god, what the actual hell are you doing?"

Nate’s smile does not waver. Not even a little. In fact, it somehow grows brighter.

"Oh! You’re here! Perfect timing!" He gestures grandly to the setup, as if he just transformed their lair into the most romantic spot on the planet. "Surprise! I made dinner for us!"

YN does not move. They just blink at him like he’s lost his mind. Which, to be fair, he probably has.

"Are you joking?" YN deadpans.

"Nope!" Nate beams, pulling out a chair. "Come on, sit! I made all your favorites."

YN crosses their arms. "You broke into my lair. Again. Just so you could play house?"

Nate sighs dreamily, resting his chin in his hand. "Ugh. You always know just how to tease me."

YN: "I'm not teasing you. I'm insulting you."

Nate: "Exactly. This flirty banter of ours? It’s why I love you."

YN rubs their temples, already feeling a migraine forming. "Okay, first of all? Gross. Second? I don’t love you. I actively dislike you."

Nate, completely unshaken, winks. "Aw, babe, you're so shy."

YN STARES INTO THE CAMERA LIKE THEY’RE ON THE OFFICE.

They are so close to launching Nate out of their lair, but their stomach betrays them at that exact moment with a loud grumble.

Nate gasps dramatically. “Oh my god. You’re hungry, aren’t you? See? I knew it! I’m basically your soulmate.”

YN, out of sheer spite, plops down in the chair. "Fine. I’ll eat. But only because I’m starving. Not because I like you."

Nate sits across from them, looking way too pleased with himself. He watches them take the first bite like a love-struck puppy.

YN scowls between bites. "I hope you know that when I’m done, I’m kicking you out."

Nate grins, resting his chin in his palm. "Of course, of course. But you’ll miss me the second I’m gone, won’t you?"

YN: "I’ll sleep better knowing you’re not here."

Nate, sighing happily: "God, I love when you talk like that."

And so the dinner continues, with YN hurling insults while Nate takes them all as terms of endearment, convinced that their love is written in the stars. Meanwhile, YN is just trying to finish their food before they lose the last of their patience.

After having an amazing talk with @fidesvirtusobsession all creds goes to you babes I can't get this idea out of my head

Set the scene with Yan!Hero and Villian!darling but we need the drama so imagine one day Yan!Hero is purposely left out of the knowledge that someone else is fighting his darling and he only hears about it on the news.

His heart breaks as he sees his darling thrown off a building and barely surviving before attacking the hero fighting her.

He rushes out of the office his heart racing as he flies as fast as he can towards the fight and if he hadn't made it in time the sword thrown hazards at his darling could've seriously injured her. And now he's pissed, he makes sure his darling is okay before stalking slowly to the hero and suddenly the feed from the camera reporting the live fight suddenly cuts.

This idea is haunting me sm @fidesvirtusobsession but also I was thinking about Yan!hero stopping a fight between his Darling and someone else and he tries to talk some sense into her maybe and be like "what are you doing? You could've hurt yourself or killed him! Do you know how traumatised you would've been if he had died at your hand"

And Darling is just dumbstruck like "wot" so confused that he didn't care about the man dying but at that, it could've hurt her mental state if she'd have killed him

[fidesvirtusobsession]

Echoes of a Thousand Nights

(Yandere Vampire x AFAB reader)

Prologue || 1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 || 6 || 7 || 8 || 9|| 10 || 11

Description: For centuries, Alaric has walked the earth, bound by the cruel hand of fate. A vampire of old blood, he has seen empires fall, lovers turn to dust, and the world reshape itself around him. Yet, through the endless nights, one thing remains constant—her. The woman who haunts his past lives, slipping through his fingers with every rebirth. She never remembers, never knows who he is, yet he finds her, lifetime after lifetime, only to lose her again.Now, in the present day, her scent resurfaces in the most unlikely of places—an underground auction house where humans are sold like cattle. But Alaric will not let fate steal her away this time. This time, he will keep her.

The evening sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting a warm golden glow across the drawing room was quiet, save for the soft sound of the wind rustling outside and the occasional clink of silverware from the distant dining room. Alaric paced slowly in the hall, his thoughts still tangled with everything that had been weighing on him—the constant worry over (Y/n)’s safety, her relentless training, and the overwhelming emotions he fought to keep hidden.

He needed to do something. Something to remind her that she wasn’t just a weapon, that she wasn’t always going to be under the heavy burden of protection, of training, of the looming shadows that followed them.

The door to the study opened, and there she was—(Y/n), with her gentle smile, her eyes bright and full of energy despite the long days she’d been putting herself through. She looked like she needed a break more than anything.

Alaric took a breath, walking toward her with his usual composure, but there was a softness in his gaze that hadn’t been there before.

She was absentmindedly flipping through a book, her head tilted slightly to the side as she absorbed the words. Alaric, however, was watching her, his fingers lightly tapping against the armrest of his chair, his mind racing. He had been thinking about this all day, weighing his options, but now that the moment had come, there was an unsettling feeling in his chest.

Finally, after a long pause, he cleared his throat, drawing her attention. She looked up, her eyes meeting his with a soft, curious gaze.

“(Y/n),” Alaric’s voice was steady, though there was a faint tension underlying his words, “I was thinking... we should go out tomorrow night.”

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued but cautious. “Go out?”

He nodded slowly, his usual composure shifting slightly as he leaned forward in his seat, a rare hint of vulnerability slipping through his facade. He hesitated for a moment, then let out a small breath. “You’ve been working yourself to the bone. I’ve seen it. The late nights, the exhaustion... You deserve a night to relax. To just... be yourself, without all the responsibilities hanging over your head.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I mean that I’ve arranged something for us. Just you and me. A break. A night where you don’t have to worry about the next fight, the next lesson, or anything else. Just us, having some time to ourselves.”

“There’s a ballet performance tomorrow evening. It’s supposed to be quite... exquisite. I thought it might be something you’d enjoy. It’s a chance for us to relax, get away from everything for a night. No business, no concerns, just... us.”

“You’ve been working yourself to the bone. I’ve seen it. The late nights, the exhaustion... You deserve a night to relax. To just... be yourself, without all the responsibilities hanging over your head.”

(Y/n) blinked in surprise, her heart warming at the thought. She hadn’t expected Alaric to suggest something like this, a night of culture and elegance instead of his usual reserved demeanor. “A ballet? That’s... unexpected. But I’d love to go with you, Alaric.”

The corners of his mouth twitched into the faintest of smiles. “I thought you might.” His gaze softened, and for a moment, it felt like the weight of the world lifted, as if the night out could offer some kind of escape from the complexities of their lives. “It’ll be a night just for us—no distractions, no interruptions.”

There was a brief pause, the air thick with unspoken emotions, before he added in a quieter tone, “I promise, it’s just a date. No hidden agendas. Just you and me.”

(Y/n)’s brow furrowed as she looked at the card, but her heart gave a flutter at the gesture. “You’ve... arranged this? For us?”

Alaric nodded, his expression unreadable but with an underlying sense of determination. “Yes. I’ve taken care of everything. It’s just a small night out—nothing extravagant. I thought you could use the time to unwind, to have fun. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, (Y/n).”

She stared at him for a moment, as if trying to process his words. Slowly, she nodded, her lips curling into a small smile. “I didn’t expect this... but it sounds nice.”

(Y/n) smiled again, her expression warm and genuine, not sensing the tension in his words. She hadn’t picked up on the layers that lay beneath his suggestion, only focused on the sincerity in his voice. “I’m looking forward to it, Alaric. Thank you.”

Alaric’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line. He felt a twinge of something deep within him—possessiveness, protectiveness... and a quiet anticipation. He wanted this night to go perfectly. He needed it to. As he nodded slowly, his eyes hardened with determination, though his smile remained in place, fragile but sincere.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, though his mind already swirled with thoughts of the upcoming night, and of the man he knew would be there—Valen. But for now, he could ignore it. For now, he would keep his focus on her.

She was his, and he would make sure nothing would ruin their time together. Not now, not ever.

“You deserve it,” Alaric said, his tone softening further. “You've earned a moment of peace, away from all the weight you’ve been carrying. Consider it a break, a reward for all your hard work. You don’t have to think about anything except the night ahead.”

For a moment, the usual walls between them seemed to dissolve, and Alaric allowed himself to show just how much he cared for her. His hand gently brushed hers, and for a fleeting second, he hesitated, wondering if he should say more. But then he shook the thought away.

"I'll take care of everything. We’ll have some time alone, just the two of us. You can relax, enjoy yourself—there’s no need for anything else tonight.”

(Y/n) smiled, a mix of gratitude and confusion in her eyes. “I don’t know what to say, Alaric. This is… unexpected.”

He stepped closer, his voice low and inviting. “You don’t have to say anything. Just come with me. Let me give you a night to forget about everything else.”

The intensity of his gaze softened as he looked at her, and despite the storm of emotions he was hiding, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace knowing she would be with him. For tonight, at least, nothing else mattered.

“Let’s get you ready. It’s going to be a night you won’t forget.”

And as he turned to leave the room, (Y/n) stood in the soft light of the room, still processing his words, her heart thudding a little faster in her chest. There was something deeper in his words—something more than just a night out. She just didn’t know what it was yet.

The room was filled with soft candlelight, and the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air. (Y/n) sat in front of the vanity mirror, her hands nervously twisting the fabric of her dress. She had been in the process of dressing for what felt like an eternity. The gown was beautiful, but it wasn’t the clothes that made her anxious—it was the overwhelming uncertainty about the night ahead.

She had no idea what Alaric had planned, but she could tell it was something important. He had seemed insistent, even more than usual, about her attending the event tonight. She could feel his gaze on her whenever they were in the same room, a kind of unspoken pressure weighing on her shoulders. But she trusted him, and somehow, that made the unease easier to bear.

A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Elera’s voice followed. “(Y/n), are you ready? I was told you might need some help getting ready.”

“I’m fine, Elera,” (Y/n) called back, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles in her dress. She couldn’t help but feel a little out of place in the extravagant outfit, even though it was meant to make her feel special.

Elera didn’t wait for a response before entering, her usual confident smile gracing her lips. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ve already seen your battle wounds from the training sessions. Let me help.”

(Y/n) didn’t protest as Elera approached, sitting beside her and running a careful hand through her hair. “You look beautiful already,” Elera said with a grin, her eyes softening. “But we both know Alaric won’t let you out looking anything less than perfect.”

“I don’t know, Elera... I feel a bit... out of place in all of this.” (Y/n) gestured to the dress and the mirror, feeling unsure in her own skin. The thought of the night ahead only made the butterflies in her stomach worse.

Elera chuckled, her fingers moving expertly as she began to style (Y/n)'s hair, pulling it back into a soft, elegant updo. “You don’t need to worry about that. You’ve earned this, (Y/n). Alaric isn’t exactly the type to let anyone be anything less than perfect, especially you.”

As she worked, (Y/n) glanced at her curiously. “I don’t really know what’s going on tonight. Alaric was a little... secretive about it.”

Elera smiled, a knowing gleam in her eyes. “Well, it’s not really my place to spoil the surprise, but I can tell you that you won’t be disappointed.” She paused for a moment before adding, “Ericsson asked me to the ballet, actually.”

(Y/n)’s heart skipped a beat. “Ericsson?” She couldn’t help the surprise that flashed across her face. Alaric had mentioned something about a potential political ally, but she hadn’t connected the dots yet. “I thought Alaric said we were going somewhere?”

Elera laughed, adjusting (Y/n)’s hair gently. “I’m sure Alaric has his reasons, but don’t worry. You’re the one getting the most out of tonight. He’s taking you to the ballet as well—although I can’t say he’ll be as pleased with the whole idea as you will.”

(Y/n) blinked, the news sinking in. “Wait, so this is a date?”

“More or less,” Elera answered with a playful smile. “I think Alaric wanted to surprise you with a bit of time away from all the... shall we say, usual activities. He wants you to enjoy yourself, even if he’s the one who’s overly protective about it.”

There was something in Elera’s voice that made (Y/n) pause. She couldn’t quite place it, but it was like there was something more she wasn’t saying. “What do you mean by ‘overly protective?’”

Elera grinned as she finished styling (Y/n)’s hair, giving her an appraising look in the mirror. “You’ll see soon enough. Just relax and have fun tonight. Trust me, it’ll be good for both of you.”

(Y/n) studied Elera’s face, sensing that there was more to her words than she was letting on, but decided not to press the issue. There was something about Elera’s easy confidence that made her trust her. Maybe she didn’t know exactly what Alaric had planned, but she was beginning to feel a little more at ease. A night to relax, away from all the tension and uncertainty, was something she could definitely use.

As she looked at herself in the mirror, seeing the elegant, polished version of herself that Elera had created, she felt a flicker of excitement. Perhaps, just for one night, she could forget about the heavy burden of her past and just... enjoy being (Y/n).

“You look stunning,” Elera said with a soft smile, her eyes lingering on (Y/n)’s reflection. “Now, go enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”

For the first time that evening, (Y/n) smiled genuinely, a sense of calm settling over her. “Thank you, Elera.”

With that, she stood up and walked toward the door, where Alaric was waiting, his gaze intense as ever but tinged with something softer—a quiet anticipation. As he extended his arm to her, she hesitated for only a moment before taking it, ready for whatever night had in store.

The hum of the city softened as the sleek black car pulled up in front of an elegant restaurant, its golden lights casting a warm glow onto the cobblestone street. Alaric stepped out first, his sharp suit molding perfectly to his frame, exuding the quiet dominance he carried so naturally. The driver opened Y/N’s door, and Alaric was already there, extending a hand to help her out.

“Dinner first,” he murmured, lips curling into the faintest smile. “You deserve more than a rushed evening.”

Y/N glanced at the restaurant, blinking in surprise. It wasn’t just any place—it was the kind people booked months in advance for special occasions. The name glowed in elegant cursive above the entrance, a place she’d only heard about in passing. She hesitated.

“Alaric… this is too much.”

He leaned in slightly, his hand still holding hers. “Nothing’s too much for you.”

There was no arguing with that tone—the kind that brokered no disagreement, but it wasn’t sharp. It was soft, deliberate. As if this evening wasn’t just a date but a promise.

Inside, the atmosphere was intimate, candlelight flickering across white linen tablecloths. A quiet melody drifted from a pianist in the corner. Alaric led her to a private corner booth, away from prying eyes. It was clear he’d chosen the spot deliberately—where he could see everything, where nothing could sneak up on them.

“You’ve been working hard,” he said after they ordered, his gaze never leaving her. “Training with Elera. Exhausting yourself.”

Y/N shrugged, tracing the rim of her water glass. “I don’t mind. I want to be ready… just in case.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened. “I won’t let it come to that.”

She sighed, meeting his gaze with quiet determination. “And what if you can’t always be there?”

His hand reached across the table, covering hers. The warmth of his skin was grounding. “Then I’ve already failed.” His voice softened, almost pained. “Tonight isn’t about that. No training, no worries. Just you and me.”

The waiter arrived with their first course—something delicate and artfully plated. Y/N picked at it, while Alaric barely touched his. His focus remained on her, watching the way her expression shifted with each passing thought.

“You’re hovering,” she teased, finally breaking the silence. “Like you expect me to disappear if you blink.”

Alaric’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Can you blame me?”

Her chest tightened. She knew the truth behind those words. The shadows that clung to his past, the enemies that circled like vultures. But tonight, she didn’t want to think about that.

“Tell me about the ballet,” she asked, changing the subject.

He leaned back, finally sipping his wine. “It’s an old production. Classic. I thought you’d enjoy it.”

Y/N tilted her head. “You’re not exactly the ‘ballet’ type, Alaric.”

His smile sharpened. “No. But I’m the ‘you deserve a night of peace’ type.”

The courses came and went, though Alaric barely touched his food. His focus remained on Y/N—how she smiled at the delicate dessert, how her eyes brightened when the waiter mentioned the wine pairing. She was glowing, and for once, there was no tension lining her shoulders.

As they finished, he stood, extending his hand once more. “Shall we?”

“To the ballet?” she teased, slipping her fingers into his.

He chuckled, a rare, genuine sound. “To the rest of the night you deserve.”

But beneath his composed exterior, Alaric’s mind churned. He’d promised her a perfect evening, but the ballet was more than just a date. It was a trap—one he was walking into willingly, with her at his side.

As they stepped outside, the cool night air kissed Y/N’s cheeks. She shivered, and without a word, Alaric shrugged off his coat and draped it around her shoulders.

“You always do that,” she murmured, fingers brushing the soft fabric.

His gaze softened. “Because you’re always cold.”

They walked side by side to the waiting car, Alaric’s hand resting lightly on the small of her back. The city lights blurred past as they drove toward the theater, but Y/N barely noticed. She was too focused on the rare calm that settled over Alaric’s features.

He looked… content. Almost peaceful.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, not just for dinner but for everything he never said aloud.

Alaric glanced at her, his hand finding hers once more. He squeezed gently.

“Anything for you.”

And for a moment, he allowed himself to believe that tonight could be just that—a night of peace, untouched by the shadows of the past. Even if it was fleeting.

The grand theater was bathed in soft golden light as Alaric guided Y/N through the towering arched doors. Marble floors gleamed beneath their feet, the chatter of the well-dressed elite echoing through the expansive foyer. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen raindrops, casting fractured light over the plush crimson carpet leading toward the main hall.

Y/N couldn’t help but pause, her eyes widening as she took in the elegance around her. “Alaric,” she breathed, “this is… incredible.”

Alaric, standing beside her in his perfectly tailored suit, allowed a rare smile to tug at the corner of his lips. “You deserve incredible.”

He didn’t let her linger long, guiding her forward with a gentle hand at the small of her back. Heads turned as they passed—partially because of Alaric’s commanding presence but mostly because of Y/N herself, wrapped in a gown that shimmered subtly under the light. Elera’s doing, no doubt.

“Box seats,” Alaric murmured as they ascended a private staircase, avoiding the crowd below. “I prefer to watch from above. Less… crowded.”

Y/N hid a smile. Less crowded, yes. But more importantly, easier to protect. She knew Alaric’s habits by now.

Their private box overlooked the grand stage, the velvet curtains still drawn as the orchestra warmed up. The theater was breathtaking—golden filigree decorating the balconies, painted cherubs gazing down from the domed ceiling.

“Do you take all your dates somewhere this fancy?” Y/N teased as they settled into the plush seats.

Alaric glanced at her, one brow arching. “No. Just the ones that matter.”

Heat rose to her cheeks, and she looked away, pretending to examine the program in her lap.

Soft footsteps sounded behind them, and Elera swept into the box like a shadow, effortlessly graceful in an emerald dress that set off her sharp features. Beside her, Ericsson followed, looking far too comfortable in the lavish surroundings.

“Well, don’t you both look like a painting,” Elera drawled, sliding into the seat beside Y/N. “Alaric, you clean up nicely. Almost like you’re trying to impress someone.”

Alaric didn’t rise to the bait, his gaze fixed on the stage. “Ericsson,” he greeted coolly.

“Alaric,” Ericsson replied, equally smooth. His gaze flickered to Y/N, lips quirking in amusement. “I see you finally found a reason to leave the house for something other than bloodshed.”

“Careful,” Alaric said, voice deceptively calm. “I’m in a generous mood tonight. Don’t spoil it.”

Y/N glanced between them, sensing the undercurrent of tension but choosing to ignore it. The lights dimmed, saving her from the need to mediate.

The theater hushed as the conductor raised his baton. A breathless moment of silence hung in the air before the first note drifted from the orchestra pit—a delicate, haunting melody that wrapped around them like mist.

The curtains parted, revealing a moonlit forest painted in ethereal blues and silvers. The prima ballerina glided onto the stage, her movements fluid and otherworldly, as though she were a spirit dancing between worlds.

Y/N leaned forward, captivated. The way the dancers moved—light as air, perfectly synchronized—was nothing short of mesmerizing. She glanced sideways at Alaric, expecting him to be bored, but his gaze was fixed on her instead.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she murmured.

His eyes softened. “Yes. It is.”

She flushed, looking away quickly.

The story unfolded gracefully—a tale of love, betrayal, and sacrifice. The ballerina, dressed in shimmering white, danced with her partner beneath an artificial moon, their bodies weaving together like threads of silk.

Elera, surprisingly quiet for once, watched with sharp eyes, though Y/N suspected her mind was elsewhere. Ericsson leaned back, arms crossed, more interested in the audience than the performance itself.

Halfway through the first act, Y/N noticed Alaric’s hand resting lightly on the armrest between them. Without thinking, she reached over, her fingers brushing his. He froze for a moment, then turned his palm upward, inviting her hand into his.

“You’re tense,” she whispered, squeezing his hand gently.

He didn’t deny it. “Habit.”

The lights dimmed further as the scene shifted to the tragic climax—the ballerina, betrayed and heartbroken, collapsing to the stage as her partner reached for her too late. The music swelled, strings trembling with emotion.

Y/N’s breath caught. The vulnerability in the dancer’s performance struck a chord deep within her, stirring memories she’d rather leave buried.

Alaric must have sensed the shift in her mood. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, grounding her.

As the final note hung in the air and the curtain fell, the theater erupted into applause. Y/N clapped along with the crowd, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“That was…” she began, searching for words.

“Intense?” Elera supplied, stretching languidly. “Tragic love stories always are.”

Ericsson leaned over slightly, voice low but firm. “A moment, Alaric?” His gaze flicked toward the upper balconies, where the dim glow of chandeliers barely touched the shadows. “He’s here.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened. He’d felt it too—the oppressive weight of an old, familiar presence. Without a word, he stood, smoothing down his suit jacket as his eyes swept the room. The ballet continued, dancers twirling in perfect synchronization, oblivious to the predatory game unfolding above them.

Elera, sitting next to Y/N, caught the shift immediately. “You’re leaving?” she asked quietly, her sharp gaze darting between the two men.

“Stay with her,” Alaric muttered, eyes softening for the briefest moment as they flicked toward Y/N. She was watching the performance, blissfully unaware. He hated keeping her in the dark, but this wasn’t her fight. Not yet.

Ericsson was already moving, weaving through the crowd with the ease of a man who’d stalked prey for centuries. Alaric followed, his steps silent but purposeful.

Up the grand staircase, past velvet curtains and gilded mirrors, they found him.

Valen.

Perched on the edge of a private balcony, wine glass lazily dangling from his fingers, he looked down at the crowd like a king surveying his court. The faintest smile played on his lips, cold and calculating.

He didn’t turn to face them. He didn’t need to.

“I was wondering when you’d come find me,” Valen drawled, swirling the wine in his glass. “You’re predictable, Alaric. Always chasing ghosts.”

Ericsson’s hand twitched toward the knife hidden beneath his coat. Alaric didn’t move, eyes locked on the man who’d haunted his nightmares for centuries.

“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance,” Alaric growled.

Valen chuckled, finally turning to face them. His eyes gleamed crimson in the dim light. “You had your chance. You wasted it.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “And now? I’m not the one you should be worried about.”

Alaric’s blood ran cold. Instinctively, his gaze flicked down to the main floor, where Y/N sat beside Elera, still laughing at something the other woman had said.

Valen’s smile widened. “Tick-tock, Alaric.”

The moment Valen’s words left his lips, something inside Alaric snapped. A raw, primal instinct surged through him, drowning out reason, drowning out centuries of carefully restrained rage.

Before anyone could react, he moved.

A blur of darkness—too fast, too sudden. The very air seemed to shudder under the force of his movement. One second, Valen stood smirking, and the next, he was slammed against the cold stone wall with a force that cracked the surface behind him.

The wine glass slipped from Valen’s fingers, shattering against the marble floor. But he barely had a chance to care—Alaric’s hand was already at his throat, crushing, suffocating, pinning him in place like a predator tearing into its prey.

For the first time, Valen’s amusement flickered, replaced by something sharper. Wariness.

“You,” Alaric snarled, voice low, guttural—inhuman. His fangs bared, his eyes burning with a furious, molten glow. “You don’t say her name. You don’t breathe in her direction.” His grip tightened, nails pressing into flesh. “Or I swear to every god that still listens, I will rip you apart until there’s nothing left but dust.”

Ericsson took a slow step forward. “Alaric—”

“Stay out of this.” The growl that tore from Alaric’s throat was not meant for negotiation. It was the voice of something feral, something ancient and unforgiving.

Valen let out a strained chuckle, despite the pressure threatening to crush his windpipe. “Touched a nerve, have I?” His eyes gleamed, even as his fingers twitched at his sides, no doubt calculating an escape. “Didn’t take you for the possessive type.”

Alaric slammed him harder against the stone, making the entire balcony tremble. “She is mine.” The declaration was absolute. Unyielding. “And if you so much as look at her wrong, I will make what I did to Marquis look like mercy.”

Valen’s smirk wavered.

For the first time in a long, long time—he looked at Alaric and saw death staring back at him.

The tension shattered like glass as Valen slipped into the shadows, but Alaric was already moving. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Instinct screamed, and centuries of suppressed fury roared to life, drowning out reason.

“Alaric—” Ericsson’s voice barely registered as Alaric followed the faint trace of Valen’s presence, weaving through the opulent corridors of the opera house like a predator on the hunt.

Valen had underestimated him. They all did.

But this wasn’t just another political maneuver. This wasn’t about power or territory.

This was about her.

The moment Valen hinted at touching her—at taking her away—it was as if every lifetime of failure, of watching her slip through his fingers, came crashing down at once. Every scar, every moment of helplessness, ignited a rage so pure it burned away the centuries of restraint he'd built like armor.

Never again.

He burst through the side entrance, the cold night air slicing across his skin as he hit the dimly lit alley. Shadows danced across wet cobblestones under flickering streetlamps. Silence hung thick, save for the distant hum of the city.

Then—a whisper of movement.

“Tsk.” Valen’s voice drifted from above, lazy, arrogant. He stood on the rooftop’s edge, silhouetted against the moon, one hand adjusting his cufflinks like this was nothing more than an inconvenience. “Really, Alaric? Are we resorting to street brawls now? I expected more civility from you.”

Alaric didn’t answer. He was already there, faster than Valen anticipated, boots slamming onto the rooftop with enough force to crack the tiles.

Their eyes met.

And Valen finally saw it—the storm brewing within Alaric.

This wasn’t the cold, calculating tactician he’d known for centuries. This was something feral. Unrelenting.

“She’s not yours to take,” Alaric growled, voice rough with unfiltered wrath.

Valen chuckled, but there was an edge to it now, a flicker of uncertainty. “You’re acting like I’ve already stolen her away. Possessiveness doesn’t suit you, Alaric. Love makes you sloppy.”

Sloppy?

Alaric moved—blink and you’d miss it.

The first punch connected with bone-crushing force, sending Valen flying across the rooftop. He barely caught himself, boots skidding against loose gravel. The smirk vanished from his lips, replaced by something colder.

“Ah,” Valen muttered, touching the corner of his mouth where blood now trickled. His expression hardened. “So, it’s that kind of fight.”

He lunged.

Ancient strength met unyielding fury.

They collided like titans, each blow shaking the rooftop. Fists, elbows, knees—centuries of combat experience distilled into brutal efficiency. Valen fought with the grace of someone who’d lived too long, his movements precise, elegant, almost bored.

But Alaric?

Alaric fought like a man with nothing left to lose.

Every strike was fueled by lifetimes of failure. Of watching her die. Of holding her lifeless body. Of hearing her screams and being too far away to save her.

He wasn’t fighting for dominance.

He was fighting for her.

Valen’s defenses began to slip. He was fast, but Alaric was relentless, every movement a calculated assault, pushing him further toward the edge of the rooftop.

“Do you even hear yourself?” Valen hissed between ragged breaths. “You can’t protect her forever. She’s mortal. Fragile. It’s only a matter of time—”

CRACK.

Alaric’s fist slammed into Valen’s jaw, sending him sprawling. Before he could rise, Alaric was on him, boot pressing down on his chest, pinning him like an insect under glass.

“I will burn the world to ash before I let you touch her.” Alaric’s voice was ice, his face twisted into something dark and unforgiving.

Valen coughed, eyes narrowing. “You think this changes anything?” he rasped, blood staining his teeth. “You’re fighting fate, Alaric. And fate—”

Steel flashed.

Valen froze.

Alaric had drawn the dagger from his coat—a vampire’s dagger, ancient and deadly.

“…fate dies tonight,” Alaric finished, pressing the blade to Valen’s throat.

For the first time, true fear flickered in Valen’s eyes.

It wasn’t just about power. It was the realization that Alaric would do it. He would cross any line, break any rule, damn himself to the darkest pits of existence if it meant keeping her safe.

“Go near her again,” Alaric growled, his hand steady despite the fury burning through his veins, “and I’ll make sure you never walk away.”

Silence.

The city buzzed faintly in the distance, oblivious to the war waged in the shadows.

Then, slowly, Alaric stepped back, releasing the pressure on Valen’s chest but never lowering the blade.

Valen coughed, sitting up with a wince. His arrogance was gone, replaced by cold calculation. “You’re a fool, Alaric,” he muttered. “She’ll be your downfall.”

Alaric didn’t flinch. “Better my downfall than her grave.”

He’d tear it apart with his bare hands.

The streets were eerily silent, save for the faint hum of the city and the rasping sound of Valen struggling to catch his breath. Broken tiles and splintered wood littered the ground, evidence of the raw violence that had just unfolded. Blood—dark and glistening—pooled where Alaric had pinned Valen down moments ago.

Valen, the ancient, the untouchable, now leaned against a crumbling ledge, wiping the blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. His usual smugness was gone, replaced by something colder. Calculating.

And standing at the edge of the destruction, eyes wide and lips slightly parted in disbelief, was Ericsson.

He had followed the trail of chaos—the shattered balcony railing, the dented cobblestones in the alley below—and arrived just in time to see Alaric sheathing the vampire dagger, his face carved from stone.

“Gods above…” Ericsson muttered under his breath, boots crunching over debris as he stepped forward. His sharp eyes flickered between the two men. “What the hell happened here?”

Alaric didn’t answer immediately. His chest rose and fell with measured breaths, fists still clenched at his sides, knuckles bruised and bloodied. The rage simmering beneath his skin hadn’t cooled yet. It wouldn’t cool—not while the scent of Valen’s threat lingered in the air.

Valen chuckled bitterly, wiping more blood from his jaw. “Your friend here seems to have forgotten the fine line between possessiveness and madness,” he sneered, though there was no hiding the slight tremor in his voice. “All because I dared to mention the girl.”

Ericsson’s brows shot up. “Yn?” His gaze snapped to Alaric, and understanding dawned like a thunderclap. “…By the gods, Alaric. What did he say?”

Alaric’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look away from Valen. “Enough.”

“More than enough,” Valen muttered, pushing himself to stand. He winced, clearly favoring one side. “You should leash your hound, Ericsson. Or at least remind him that wars have been started over less.”

Ericsson ignored him, stepping closer to Alaric. His voice dropped to something edged with rare concern. “You lost control.” It wasn’t a question.

Alaric’s eyes flickered toward him, the crimson hue slowly fading, replaced by piercing, predatory gold. “I don’t care.”

Ericsson blinked, momentarily taken aback. Alaric was always composed, always calculating, the one who strategized ten steps ahead while others fumbled through the first. But now?

Now, he looked like a man standing on the edge of a precipice, ready to leap without caring about the fall.

“Alaric,” Ericsson tried again, voice firm but not unkind. “You nearly killed him.”

“I should have.”

The weight of those words hung in the air, heavy and final.

Valen scoffed, shaking his head as he straightened his collar. “You’re blinded by love, Alaric. It’ll be your undoing.”

Ericsson’s hand shot out, grabbing Valen’s shoulder and yanking him back before he could provoke Alaric further. “Enough. Walk away while you still can...”

Valen’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t argue. Not this time. He knew when the odds had turned against him.

“I’ll enjoy watching this crumble around you,” Valen muttered as he stepped past them, disappearing into the night like smoke on the wind.

Ericsson waited until the last trace of his presence was gone before exhaling sharply. He turned back to Alaric, studying his friend—the tension in his shoulders, the wild look that still hadn’t fully faded from his gaze.

“You’ve fought wars,” Ericsson said quietly. “Killed kings. Faced down entire armies without flinching. But I’ve never seen you like this.”

Alaric finally looked at him, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes made Ericsson’s breath catch.

“She’s not just another mortal passing through my life, Ericsson,” Alaric murmured, voice rough and low. “She’s the only constant. Every lifetime, every cruel twist of fate—she’s always the one taken from me.” His throat bobbed with the weight of the confession. “I won’t survive losing her again.”

Ericsson was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded, once.

“Then we make sure you don’t.”

Alaric didn’t wait for more words. He was already moving, boots striking the rooftop with purpose as he headed toward the edge.

“Where are you going?”

Alaric paused, glancing back. The answer was obvious.

To her.

To the only thing that kept the monster inside him from consuming what little of his soul remained.

Tags: @yune1337 @mybones537 @yourhornysister @lilyalone

[fidesvirtusobsession]

Heatstrike (Nathaniel "Nate" Hayes)

Full Name: Nathaniel "Nate" Hayes

Alias: Heatstrike

Affiliation: Heroes Association

Alignment: Lawful (but Obsessed)

Occupation: Professional Hero

Public Reputation: The Golden Boy of Justice ☀️

True Personality: Lovesick, Obsessed Yandere

Overview

Nathaniel "Nate" Hayes, also known by his hero name Heatstrike, is a renowned hero, beloved by the masses and heralded as the beacon of hope in times of crisis. His fire-based abilities, unmatched charisma, and flawless public image make him the perfect superhero in the eyes of the world. He is adored by children, admired by adults, and often praised in the media as the epitome of heroism.

However, beneath this golden persona lies a disturbing truth—Nate is obsessed with his arch-nemesis and will go to extreme lengths to win their affection. His so-called "heroic" pursuits often stem from a personal desire to capture their heart, and every battle is more of a twisted game of cat and mouse than a genuine fight for justice. Despite his infatuation, no one suspects the truth, as Nate's public reputation remains untarnished.

Appearance

Hair: Golden blonde, always tousled in a charming and effortless manner.

Eyes: Warm amber, glowing with confidence and determination.

Height: 6'1" (185 cm)

Build: Athletic, with a well-maintained physique, embodying the ideal heroic figure.

Hero Suit: Heatstrike’s suit is a sleek, red and gold design that enhances his flame-based powers. The outfit includes a long, flowing jacket that symbolizes his fiery abilities, complete with flame-like patterns that dance across his chest and arms.

Casual Attire: Outside of hero duty, Nate dresses casually but stylishly, often sporting fitted shirts and designer jeans, never looking less than flawless. He’s often seen with a charming, smug smile on his face.

Personality

Public Persona:

Charming & Confident: Nate is everything people love in a hero—charismatic, calm, and always ready to help.

The Perfect Gentleman: He always knows what to say and when to say it. He’s polite, kind, and has a warmth that makes him easy to trust.

Beloved by the People: Whether it’s saving a kitten from a tree or stopping a major villain, Heatstrike’s actions are always framed as perfect moments of heroism.

Flawless Reputation: No one has ever seen him lose his temper or fail in his duties. He is the public’s ideal hero.

True Personality

Obsessed with His Villain: Nate’s devotion to his arch-nemesis borders on madness. Every battle is a chance to get closer, to flirt, and to capture them. He believes that deep down, his villain reciprocates his feelings, even if they resist him.

Manipulative: He plays the perfect hero, manipulating public perception to make sure his villain is always seen as the bad guy. Any attempts to expose his obsessive nature are ignored or distorted, leaving him above suspicion.

Emotionally Unstable: If his villain gets too far away or threatens to escape, Heatstrike will become erratic, using his powers destructively to bring them back.

Flirty & Creepy: Every encounter with his villain is filled with flirtatious remarks and possessive undertones.

“You’re really pushing my buttons, darling. I like it when you’re feisty.”

“You can run, but I’ll always catch you. I’ll always bring you back.”

Obsessive Souvenir Collector: Keeps items from every battle, including photographs, mementos, and stolen items from his villain.

Powers & Abilities

Solar-Powered Strength: Nate’s abilities are at their peak when exposed to sunlight, making him stronger, faster, and nearly indestructible during the day.

Heat Manipulation: Nate can control fire at will, from creating flame blasts to coating his fists in intense heat.

Blazing Speed: Heatstrike can move at incredible speeds, his fiery aura making him almost untouchable.

Overheat Mode: When emotionally charged (especially when in the presence of his villain), Heatstrike enters an overcharged state, where his powers intensify, and his body glows with golden flames.

Unshakable Persona: His public image is so strong that it keeps him above suspicion.

Relationships

Arch-Nemesis / Object of Obsession: [Y/n]

The One He Loves: Nate’s obsession with his villain is all-consuming. Every fight is a chance to prove his "affection." He frequently attempts to manipulate his villain into reciprocating, often mistaking their defiance as a form of flirtation.

"A Captive Heart": In his mind, capturing the villain isn’t just a victory—it’s their love story.

Stalker Behavior: He follows them, keeps track of their whereabouts, and is even known to break into their hideouts, all under the guise of "heroic duty."

Flirting in the Midst of Chaos: While in battle, he will deliver flirtatious lines, making it clear that, to him, the fight is nothing more than a game.

Only Person Who Can Rattle Him: His villain is the only one who can break his calm, collected demeanor and cause him to lose focus.

Hero Teammates:

Confused & Alarmed: His teammates are suspicious of his excessive attention to his villain but are too caught up in his golden-boy persona to act. They often notice strange things, like kiss marks on his face or him coming back too eagerly after a battle, but they brush it off as typical hero behavior.

Concerned for His Mental Health: Some teammates (especially those close to him) are starting to suspect that Nate’s obsession is unhealthy, though they would never challenge him directly due to his popularity and status.

The Public:

Adored by All: The public believes that Heatstrike is a perfect, noble hero. His flirtations and battles are viewed as part of a romantic rivalry with his villain. Many people ship him with his villain, creating a fervent fandom surrounding their "relationship."

Manipulated Perception: Any actions or statements by his villain that might reveal Nate’s obsessive behavior are dismissed as mere theatrics or lies. Nate’s charm and reputation are too strong to be questioned.

Quotes

“You really think you can escape me, sweetheart? You can run, but I’ll always catch you.”

“You’re so cute when you’re angry. Let’s see how long that lasts.”

“Don’t worry, darling. I’ll make sure we’re together—forever.”

“One day, you’ll understand. You’re mine. And I’ll never let you go.”

Trivia

His lockscreen? A blurred image of (Y/n) during their latest confrontation.

Has a drawer full of stolen trinkets from his battles, including jewelry, masks, and other personal items from his villain.

Frequently hums romantic songs when chasing his villain, much to the confusion of his teammates.

Once destroyed half a city block trying to track down his villain after they evaded him for a few days.

(Y/n) once defeated him in battle. He smiled at the defeat, saying, “You’re so cute when you’re on top.”

Summary

Nate Hayes, also known as Heatstrike, is the world’s golden boy hero. On the surface, he is the ideal protector, adored by all for his charisma, courage, and fire-based powers. But underneath that charming exterior, Heatstrike is obsessed with his villain and will do whatever it takes to make them his. Whether he’s saving the day or starting a fire, he’s always thinking about one thing: getting closer to the one he loves—and he'll stop at nothing to make them his.

Created with: @yourhornysister

[fidesvirtusobsession]

No because Yan hero would be such a hypocrite!!!

His darling never does anything bad enough to ever be locked up either.

Someone would litter and he'd lock them up. But Yn? They can destroy half the city and he'd make up some excuse

After having an amazing talk with @fidesvirtusobsession all creds goes to you babes I can't get this idea out of my head

Set the scene with Yan!Hero and Villian!darling but we need the drama so imagine one day Yan!Hero is purposely left out of the knowledge that someone else is fighting his darling and he only hears about it on the news.

His heart breaks as he sees his darling thrown off a building and barely surviving before attacking the hero fighting her.

He rushes out of the office his heart racing as he flies as fast as he can towards the fight and if he hadn't made it in time the sword thrown hazards at his darling could've seriously injured her. And now he's pissed, he makes sure his darling is okay before stalking slowly to the hero and suddenly the feed from the camera reporting the live fight suddenly cuts.

This idea is haunting me sm @fidesvirtusobsession but also I was thinking about Yan!hero stopping a fight between his Darling and someone else and he tries to talk some sense into her maybe and be like "what are you doing? You could've hurt yourself or killed him! Do you know how traumatised you would've been if he had died at your hand"

And Darling is just dumbstruck like "wot" so confused that he didn't care about the man dying but at that, it could've hurt her mental state if she'd have killed him

[fidesvirtusobsession]

People love projecting human morals onto animals, even when it doesn't make sense. It’s like they forget nature runs on instincts, not ethics. Some folks just can’t resist turning everything into a debate, even over crabs.

At the end of the day, animals do what they do. No crab is out here twirling its mustache, plotting to be "evil."

[fidesvirtusobsession]

Okay but I saw this cute(in a way) video of box crabs, where the male just picks up the female when there is damger near by and runs while carrying her. And he hides her in the sand safely before hiding himself. And it's so freaking cute.

So i dig a little and

Males initiate the mating process by approaching females from behind and enveloping them with their claws. This behavior often occurs when the male senses that the female is about to molt, as females are receptive to mating immediately after shedding their exoskeleton. By grasping and carrying the female, the male ensures proximity for mating and prevents other males from accessing her. This pre-copulatory guarding can involve the male carrying the female around, maintaining close contact until she molts and is ready to mate. Now some of you need to know some of these males don't care if these females already have mates.

And it's just silly watching two male crabs fight over a female tbh.

Now as a monster lover girly.

I imagine in a monster world, you know your regular monsters, human hybrids etc.

Imagine a box grab male hybrid.

Imagine he wants you as his little mate, he just grabs you and runs off

[fidesvirtusobsession]

Bjornsson

Full Name: Bjornsson (Son of Bjorn)

Alias(es): The Wolf of the North, Ragnar’s Shadow, The Unyielding

Age: 32

Gender: Male

Occupation: Viking Chieftain, Raider, Warlord

Affiliation: His clan (Name TBD)

Status: Alive

Family:

Bjorn the Red (Father, deceased) – Former chieftain, a ruthless warrior known for his bloody conquests.

Astrid (Mother, unknown fate) – A seeress who disappeared when Bjornsson was a child.

Half-siblings (Unacknowledged) – As is common in Viking culture, Bjornsson likely has half-siblings from his father’s various concubines or wives, but he does not acknowledge them.

Appearance

Bjornsson is an imposing warrior, standing well over six feet tall, his body carved from years of battle. His long, dark blonde hair is braided back, streaked with hints of silver at the temples. His piercing ice-blue eyes are his most striking feature, cold and calculating, though they burn with something darker when fixated on YN.

A deep scar runs from his left temple to his jawline, a mark from an ambush during his youth. He wears hardened leather and chainmail, often draped in wolf pelts, signifying his status as a hunter and a leader. His arms and chest are marked with runic tattoos, symbols of protection, war, and fate.

Personality

Bjornsson is a man of contradictions. He is both calculated and impulsive, brutal yet strangely protective. His leadership is rooted in strength and fear, but he commands loyalty from his people because he is undeniably effective.

Cold & Possessive: He is not used to losing anything, let alone someone he desires. YN’s resistance only fuels his obsession.

Respected, but Feared: His people follow him not just out of loyalty, but because crossing him is dangerous.

Tactical Mind: He is a strategist, always five steps ahead, which makes escape nearly impossible.

Believes in Fate: His mother was a seeress, and though he denies believing in magic, YN’s survival against the wolf unnerves him. He sees it as a sign from the gods.

Backstory

Bjornsson was raised in the shadow of Bjorn the Red, a warlord who saw compassion as weakness. From an early age, he was trained to fight, kill, and lead.

His first kill was at age 12, when he slaughtered a rival chieftain’s son during a raid.

At 15, he was sent into the wilderness alone as a test of manhood. He killed a massive wolf with nothing but a seax knife, earning his title as The Wolf of the North.

By 20, he had claimed his father’s title, after Bjorn the Red was betrayed and killed. Bjornsson hunted down every man involved and executed them brutally.

Despite his upbringing, Bjornsson does not enjoy pointless cruelty. He is a man of war, not madness.

Past Relationships

Bjornsson has had lovers, concubines, and women offered to him, but he has never claimed anyone as his own.

Casual Affairs: He has shared beds with women out of convenience, but none have held his interest.

Marriage Prospects: He has rejected several marriage alliances, finding no woman worthy.

Why YN is Different: She is not given to him, not easy, and not afraid. She fought back. And she made a choice—to save her village—rather than be taken like a victim.

This intrigues him. This angers him. And more than anything, this makes him want her even more.

Obsession with YN

Bjornsson’s fixation on YN is different from any desire he has felt before.

The First Spark: When she wounded him during the raid, he felt shock—then excitement. A simple village girl drew his blood.

The Breaking Point: When she agreed to go willingly to save her people, it twisted something inside him. She did not beg. She did not plead. She chose.

His Logic: If the gods willed her survival, then she must belong to him.

Her defiance makes him restless. Her resistance thrills him. He adores her fire but will break her if necessary.

Life in the Settlement

YN’s arrival is met with curiosity, envy, and resentment.

The Women’s Reactions: Some resent her for holding Bjornsson’s attention, while others seek to befriend her to understand why.

The Warriors’ Reactions: His men mock him for being "soft" over a village girl—until they realize she is no ordinary woman.

The Völva’s Interest: The village seeress (Völva) is fascinated by YN’s knowledge of herbs. She claims fate brought her here.

Bjornsson relishes her struggles yet protects her fiercely. Any man who so much as looks at her too long meets a swift, brutal fate.

Trivia

He has never lost a battle.

The wolf pelts he wears are symbolic, a reminder of his first kill.

He carves runes into his weapons before battle.

He believes YN belongs to him completely—body, soul, and fate.

[fidesvirtusobsession]

Can I get 4 with Lucien pls I love your writing <3

This man is so unhinged, he has the power and resources to oblivious track your every move. So of course he'd have your schedule memorized

100 followers

Y/N barely had time to catch her breath after tucking Isabelle into bed before there was a sharp knock at her door. She hesitated, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. It was late. Too late for casual visitors.

Still, she had learned that ignoring Lucien was never an option.

She pulled open the door, and there he stood—Lucien von Reichenberg, pristine as always, his tailored black coat dusted with the faintest trace of rain. His green eyes flickered over her form, from the slight crease in her blouse to the damp strands of hair that clung to her neck. She had just showered, and judging by the way his lips twitched in satisfaction, he knew.

“Lucien,” she said cautiously. “What are you doing here?”

Instead of answering, he stepped inside, his presence suffocating in the small space of her apartment. He didn't ask for permission. He never did.

“I see you’ve finally taken my advice and started winding down at a reasonable hour.” His voice was smooth, but there was an underlying smugness to it. “You used to stay up until 12:43 a.m., lingering by the window. Then you’d prepare Isabelle’s things for the next day at 6:12 a.m. sharp, just before she wakes up.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

“I—What?”

Lucien’s smirk was slow, deliberate. He reached out, fingers ghosting along the rim of her coffee cup on the counter.

“I memorized your entire schedule,” he said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Isn’t that romantic?”

Y/N stiffened.

Romantic? No. Romantic was flowers, quiet glances, and whispered affections. This—this was something else.

Lucien continued as if he didn’t notice her discomfort. “You take the train every morning at 8:03 a.m. unless Isabelle throws a tantrum, which delays you until 8:10. You always stop by the corner café on Wednesdays because they restock those little cinnamon pastries you like. On Fridays, you walk through the park instead of taking the usual route home because you think Isabelle needs fresh air after a long day.”

His voice was calm, too calm, as if these were just trivial observations rather than evidence of his unrelenting surveillance.

Y/N swallowed, forcing herself to keep her voice steady. “You’ve been… watching me?”

Lucien tilted his head, his eyes flashing with something dangerous. “Watching is such a crude way to put it, Liebling. I prefer to say that I look out for you.”

He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the faint, intoxicating scent of his cologne—rich, dark, expensive. Overwhelming.

“You have a tendency to forget things, Y/N,” he murmured. “You leave your window unlocked on warmer nights. You hesitate too long at crosswalks. You don’t notice when strange men stare at you on the train. But I do.”

Her breath hitched.

Lucien reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch deceptively gentle. “I know your routine better than you do,” he murmured. “If anything ever happened to you—if you ever tried to disappear—I’d know exactly where to find you.”

The weight of his words settled over her like chains.

Lucien didn’t just want her. He wanted complete dominion over her—over every aspect of her life, down to the smallest details.

And worst of all?

He already had it.

[fidesvirtusobsession]

Omg I sent in for prompts 27 and 31 with Alaric but I'm rereading the prompts and it doesn't fit him😭😭 so I was wondering if I could have 27 and 31 with maybe the Yandere Emperor or Yandere cult leader...I love Alaric sm but I don't ever see him hurting or ever putting his darling at risk😭😭 so sorry for the inconvenience😭

Okay so I couldn't help myself and wrote gave wrote the scenes.

Because aaaah. Men who are just unhinged and go feral make my head spin!!

100 follows

27 "I erased every trace of them. They never existed."

The room was suffocating in its silence. The flickering candlelight cast long, distorted shadows along the ornate walls of the temple, making everything seem larger, more ominous. The marble floors gleamed, polished to perfection, reflecting the soft glow of the golden altar at the center of the chamber.

Azrael stood before it, his back to the trembling figure behind him. His white robes were pristine, untouched by the filth of the outside world, but his hands—his hands bore the faintest smudges of red. He raised them slightly, almost admiring them, before exhaling a slow, contented sigh.

"You should have seen how they begged," he murmured, almost to himself, as if recounting a fond memory. "Pathetic, really."

A choked sound came from behind him. You.

You didn’t need to ask what he meant. You already knew. The others. The people at the clinic. The ones who had been searching for you.

Your nails dug into the silk sheets of the grand bed—your cage. The temple was extravagant, a palace crafted in your honor, but it was still a prison.

“What did you do?” your voice wavered, barely above a whisper.

Azrael finally turned, his expression unreadable, save for the glint of something dangerous in his golden eyes. His lips curled into something that was neither a smile nor a frown—something in between, something cruel.

“I erased every trace of them.” He took a slow step toward you. “They never existed.”

Your breath hitched.

He said it so simply. So easily. Like it was nothing. Like they were nothing.

“I gave them a choice, of course.” His voice was light, almost conversational, as he sat at the edge of the bed. His fingers ghosted over your wrist, barely touching, yet it sent ice through your veins. “Worship. Obey. Forget.”

You swallowed hard. “And if they didn’t?”

Azrael tilted his head slightly, studying you as if he were amused by the question. “Then they were never here to begin with.”

Your body went rigid. Gone. Completely erased.

“You’re lying.” You tried to keep your voice steady, but it cracked at the edges. “You wouldn’t—”

He let out a soft hum, reaching out to cup your cheek. His touch was warm, deceptively gentle, but you could feel the possessiveness beneath it.

“I would,” he whispered. “And I did.”

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes. He knew how much they meant to you. He knew.

And he took them anyway.

Azrael pressed a kiss to your forehead, reverent and deliriously devoted, as if he hadn’t just confessed to destroying everyone who had ever cared about you.

“They were distractions,” he murmured against your skin. “Obstacles between you and divinity. Between you and me.”

You clenched your fists. Hate burned in your chest, but it was trapped beneath the crushing weight of fear.

Azrael smiled as if he could feel it. As if he relished it.

“There’s no one left to take you from me now.”

31. “You don’t love me? Then why do you keep looking at me like that?”

Zhéyàn’s voice was soft—too soft. A dangerous lull beneath the storm raging in his golden eyes. His fingers curled under your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“Say it again.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t love you.”

A slow, exhale. Then, a chuckle—dark, humorless. His grip remained gentle, but the air between you felt suffocating.

“Lies,” he murmured, tilting his head as if studying a puzzle he was moments away from solving. “You lie so easily with your words, but your body…” His free hand traced the pulse at your neck, feeling how it betrayed you. “Your body tells me the truth.”

You tried to step back, but his grip only tightened. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you—there was no running from him.

His lips brushed against your ear, voice a velvet whisper. “You don’t love me? Then why do you always search for me in a room? Why do your eyes linger when you think I’m not looking? Why do you melt so perfectly into my hands when I touch you?”

You pressed your lips together, refusing to answer.

Zhéyàn pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, and for the first time, a flicker of something dangerous crossed his features. A possessive, consuming hunger.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, as if it were the most natural truth in the world. “You’ve always been mine. And whether you accept it now or later… makes no difference to me.”

Your heart pounded as he leaned in, his lips brushing over your temple with something almost tender.

“I am a patient man, my little bird.” His fingers traced along your jaw. “You can keep pretending all you want.”

A smirk curled at his lips as he pulled away, watching your reaction with amusement, with hunger.

“But in the end…” His golden eyes burned with the promise of inevitability.

“You will be mine.”

[fidesvirtusobsession]

Echoes of a Thousand Nights

(Yandere Vampire x AFAB reader)

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Description: For centuries, Alaric has walked the earth, bound by the cruel hand of fate. A vampire of old blood, he has seen empires fall, lovers turn to dust, and the world reshape itself around him. Yet, through the endless nights, one thing remains constant—her. The woman who haunts his past lives, slipping through his fingers with every rebirth. She never remembers, never knows who he is, yet he finds her, lifetime after lifetime, only to lose her again.Now, in the present day, her scent resurfaces in the most unlikely of places—an underground auction house where humans are sold like cattle. But Alaric will not let fate steal her away this time. This time, he will keep her.

The night after the banquet was restless. The manor was quiet, save for the occasional flicker of candlelight and the distant howling of the wind. But sleep did not find Alaric. He sat in the dimly lit study, his fingers curled into fists on the polished wood of his desk. The name Valen rang in his mind like a curse.

He had spent centuries trying to bury the past—to move forward without letting vengeance consume him. But now, knowing that the monster responsible for his suffering was within reach, it was as if every carefully built wall inside him was crumbling.

The glass of wine beside him remained untouched. He had no appetite, no patience for distractions. His mind was already plotting.

Valen had always been a ghost, slipping through the cracks of history, hiding behind different names and identities. But Ericsson knew something. He could feel it in the vampire’s taunting words, in the way he dangled information like bait. Alaric would have to push him for more.

What would have happened if he had never met them?

The thought was pointless.

Valen and Marquis. Two names that had haunted him for lifetimes.

Brothers in blood. Monsters in every sense of the word.

Marquis had been the one to turn him, the one who had stolen his mortality, his humanity, after slaughtering his family before his very eyes. Alaric could still remember the scent of their blood, the heat of the flames licking at the walls of his home, his mother’s screams as she was torn from his grasp. He had fought. He had fought until his body had given out, until the strength had drained from his limbs and all he could do was watch as they took everything.

And then Marquis had made him one of them.

Alaric had never forgiven him for that.

It had taken years, decades, but he had eventually driven his sword through Marquis’s heart, watching the light drain from his eyes as his body turned to ash.

But it had never been enough.

Because Valen still lived.

If Marquis was a sadistic creature who enjoyed watching his victims break, then Valen was something far worse. He was patient. Calculating. A monster with a mind sharpened by centuries of cruelty. While Marquis had revealed in chaos, Valen had orchestrated it.

He had been the one who chose Alaric’s family for slaughter. The one who whispered in Marquis’s ear, feeding his violent hunger. And when Alaric had finally slain Marquis, Valen had not come for vengeance right away. No. He had waited. Let Alaric believe he had won.

But they both knew the truth.

This war between them had never ended.

It was a game of patience now, a slow, torturous dance leading to the inevitable.

"He’s waiting for you."

Alaric’s grip tightened on the glass as the words from the letter burned in his mind.

Valen had always known where to find him. He had always known. But he had let Alaric sit in his illusion of control, let him build a life, let him care for people again—because he knew exactly how to take it all away.

And Alaric hated him for it.

No matter how many years passed, the rage never faded. The hunger for vengeance never dulled. It was still there, festering in the deepest parts of him.

But now… Now it was no longer just his battle.

If Valen was making his move, it meant one thing.

He was coming for her.

The glass shattered in his hand, shards digging into his palm. Blood dripped onto the desk, staining the letter.

Alaric didn’t even flinch.

He only exhaled slowly, his expression dark and unreadable.

"If it’s war he wants…"

His eyes flickered crimson in the dim candlelight.

"Then war he shall have."

The study was dimly lit, the fireplace casting long shadows against the walls. Alaric stood near the window, arms crossed, watching the garden below with sharp, narrowed eyes. His jaw was tense, his fingers twitching at his sides as if barely resisting the urge to storm outside.

Elera strolled into the room, wine glass in hand, her gaze immediately falling on Alaric’s stiff posture. She sighed. Here we go again.

"You're brooding," she said, taking a lazy sip of her drink. "Again."

Alaric didn’t look at her. "You're too careless." His voice was tight, barely leashed frustration woven between each word. "You left her alone."

Elera arched a brow, unimpressed by his temper. "She's fine." She gestured toward the window with her glass. "Vincent is with her."

Alaric’s eyes flicked down to the garden again, and sure enough, there she was—Y/N—sitting outside, bathed in the glow of the lanterns, laughing softly as she cradled a teacup between her hands. And beside her was Vincent, smiling as he leaned back in his chair, speaking to her with his usual easygoing charm.

Alaric’s teeth clenched.

Vincent was harmless, he knew that. Young, hardworking, more of a big brother figure to everyone he met than anything else. He had been turned far too young, barely into adulthood, but he had adapted well—better than most.

But right now, Alaric didn’t care about any of that.

His instincts roared at the sight of someone else making her laugh, someone else keeping her company while he stood in the shadows, consumed by rage and paranoia.

Elera watched him closely, her smirk growing. "You're jealous."

Alaric scoffed, but it was too sharp, too defensive. "Don’t be ridiculous."

"Please." She rolled her eyes and sauntered closer. "I know that look. I’ve seen it a hundred times before. You're wound up over Valen, and now your paranoia is getting the best of you."

Alaric exhaled sharply, but he didn’t deny it.

Elera leaned against the desk, swirling her wine. "Deep down, you know no one could take her from you. But you're still pissed off, aren’t you?"

He didn’t answer.

Because she was right.

It wasn’t just gnawing at his mind. It wasn’t just the fear of history repeating itself, of losing someone else he—cared about. No, it was this, too. The ugly jealousy curling in his chest, a possessiveness he wasn’t proud of but couldn’t ignore.

He had never felt this way before.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Elera smirked. "Well, if you're just going to stand here like a creep, brooding in the dark, I might as well join her." She pushed off the desk and made her way toward the door.

Alaric exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he forced himself to calm. But his eyes lingered on the garden a moment longer, watching the way Y/N smiled, oblivious to the war raging inside him.

Elera lingered near the fireplace, her wine glass resting against her hip as she studied Alaric’s brooding form. He hadn’t moved from the window, still watching Y/N in the garden below, his shoulders rigid with tension.

She sighed dramatically. "You know, standing there glaring isn’t going to change anything."

Alaric didn’t respond, but his grip on the windowsill tightened slightly.

Elera smirked. So predictable. "You should take up Ericsson’s offer."

That got his attention. His head turned slightly, but he didn’t fully face her.

"The ballet," she clarified, watching his reaction closely. "Where Valen will be."

Alaric’s gaze darkened.

Elera ignored it. "Valen always had a taste for the finer things in life, didn’t he? The arts, the grand performances—his little indulgences. A man like him would never miss a night like that."

Alaric exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "You think it’s worth the risk?"

"I think it’s a perfect opportunity," Elera said smoothly. "Ericsson clearly thinks so too." She paused, then added, "And you could take her with you."

That made him turn. "What?"

Elera shrugged, feigning innocence. "You need a cover, don’t you? What better way to blend in than pretending to be a man simply enjoying a night out with a lovely woman?" She gestured toward Y/N, still chatting with Vincent outside. "I’m sure she’d love to go out again."

Alaric’s expression was unreadable, but she could feel his hesitation.

So she pushed further.

"Think about it," she teased, tilting her head. "Dancing, wine, a breathtaking performance—all while keeping an eye on your enemy. You get what you need, and she gets a wonderful evening out." She smiled slyly. "Besides, she already trusts you. It’s a perfect excuse."

Alaric exhaled sharply, his eyes flicking back toward Y/N.

Elera’s grin widened. "Oh, and if you’re worried about being old-fashioned, I could always chaperone."

That earned her a sharp glare, but she only laughed. "Come on, Alaric," she said, nudging his arm as she passed. "Take the girl to the ballet. I promise, it won’t kill you."

Then, with a smirk, she sauntered out of the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts—and the image of Y/N smiling in the candlelight.

The moon hung high above the manor, casting a soft silver glow over the garden. The gentle rustle of leaves whispered in the cool night air, mingling with the faint clink of porcelain as (Y/n) set her teacup down on the delicate saucer.

She sat beneath the wisteria, the lavender blossoms swaying overhead like a canopy of stars. The warmth of the tea did little to soothe the lingering ache in her chest—the weight of the day's revelations still heavy on her mind.

Vincent stood nearby, ever-watchful, his charming smile a quiet reassurance. He leaned against the railing, arms crossed, eyes flickering toward the shadows every so often, as though expecting something—or someone.

Alaric moved like the night itself—silent, commanding, with an aura that made the air shift around him. His dark coat billowed slightly as he stepped into the moonlight, sharp features illuminated by the pale glow.

Vincent straightened, offering a polite nod. "Alaric," he greeted, casual but respectful.

Alaric’s gaze flickered to Vincent, cold and sharp like a blade glinting under moonlight. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his jaw spoke volumes.

"That will be all for tonight, Vincent," Alaric said smoothly, voice laced with quiet authority. "I’ll see to her now."

Vincent hesitated, glancing at (Y/n) as if to silently ask if she was alright. She offered a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Of course,” Vincent replied, pushing off the railing with a shrug. “Try not to steal all the moonlight for yourself, Alaric.” He grinned, playful as ever, before disappearing into the shadows of the manor.

Alaric barely spared him another glance. His focus had already shifted entirely to (Y/n).

“Tea under the moonlight?” he murmured, stepping closer. His presence was like gravity—impossible to ignore, pulling her attention toward him without effort.

(Y/n) smiled faintly, fingers curling around the teacup again. “It’s quiet out here. Peaceful. Needed a moment away from everything.”

Alaric nodded, his eyes softening just enough for her to notice. He lowered himself into the chair besides from her, elegant yet predatory in the way he moved. As though every motion was calculated, deliberate.

For a moment, neither spoke. The moonlight painted shadows across his sharp cheekbones, highlighting the faint crease in his brow. He was watching her—not with the usual guarded intensity, but with something gentler. Something more fragile.

Alaric sat beside (Y/n), a little too close. His presence loomed, not in an oppressive way, but in a way that felt... different. Protective. Stifling.

It wasn’t the first time she’d noticed.

Lately, he had been hovering.

At first, she thought she was imagining it. The way his hand would linger at the small of her back whenever they walked together. The way his gaze never seemed to leave her, sharp and assessing, as if he were waiting for something—expecting something. The way he insisted on being near her, even when she didn’t need him to be.

Tonight was no different.

She reached for the sugar, only for Alaric to beat her to it, his fingers brushing against hers as he placed the bowl in front of her without a word.

She blinked, glancing at him. “You know I can grab things myself, right?”

Alaric didn’t look at her immediately. Instead, he stirred his own tea, slow and methodical, before finally meeting her gaze.

“I know,” he said simply.

That was it. No teasing remark, no amused smirk. Just a steady, unreadable look.

(Y/n) frowned, leaning back slightly. “Okay… then why are you acting like I’m going to break at any second?”

He sighed, setting his spoon down with a quiet clink. “I don’t know what you mean.”

(Y/n) crossed her arms. “Oh, don’t play dumb. You’ve been watching me like a hawk for hours since last night. Always nearby, always making sure I’m comfortable, always looking over my shoulder. It’s—” She exhaled. “It’s a lot.”

Alaric tensed. His hand, resting on the table, curled into a fist for the briefest moment before he forced himself to relax. “I just want to make sure you’re safe,” he said, voice low.

Safe.

(Y/n) narrowed her eyes. “From what?”

Alaric hesitated. That was new. He was always so sure of himself, so composed. But now? Now he looked conflicted, like there was something he wasn’t saying.

Finally, he exhaled, rubbing his fingers against his temple. “I just—” His jaw clenched. “Things are changing. And I’d rather be careful than reckless.”

(Y/n) studied him for a moment. The tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers twitched as if he were holding himself back from doing something.

She reached out, gently placing her hand over his. It was cool, steady.

“I can take care of myself, you know,” she said, softer this time.

Alaric looked down at their hands before glancing up at her again. His expression was unreadable, but something in his eyes softened just a little.

“I know,” he murmured.

And yet, he still didn’t let go.

“The world is cruel,” he said after a beat. “You know that as well as I do.” His fingers tapped lightly against the arm of the chair, restless. “And now, with Valen…”

The name hung in the air like a curse. (Y/n)’s breath hitched.

“Alaric,” she murmured, reaching across the table to place her hand over his. The tension in his fingers eased under her touch, though his shoulders remained rigid. “You can’t protect me from everything. And you don’t have to.”

His eyes met hers, dark and stormy, torn between frustration and something deeper.

“I do have to,” he said quietly, almost bitterly. “Because if something happened to you…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

The moonlight bathed them both in pale silver as silence stretched between them. Finally, Alaric’s hand turned under hers, fingers curling around her palm with surprising gentleness.

“Stay close,” he murmured, thumb brushing against her knuckles. It wasn’t a command, nor a plea. Just a truth spoken aloud, bare and unguarded.

(Y/n) smiled softly, squeezing his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time that night, Alaric’s shoulders relaxed. Just a little. Just enough.

The sun had long since set, casting the Devereaux estate in soft moonlight. Most of the house had settled into its usual nighttime hush, save for the faint crackle of the fireplace in the study. It was there that Alaric sat, a glass of untouched whiskey in his hand, mind lost in the storm of thoughts that had plagued him ever since Valen’s name resurfaced.

(Y/n) found him there, as she often did when sleep eluded her. She leaned against the doorframe for a moment, watching him. He looked every bit the untouchable figure he always was—sharp, composed, yet burdened by the weight of his own mind.

“Alaric,” she called softly, stepping into the room. His gaze lifted immediately, eyes softening when they met hers.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low and steady, though she didn’t miss the tired edge to it.

“Not really.” She hesitated, fingers curling around the edge of her sweater. “I’ve been thinking… I need you to teach me how to fight. Or at least how to defend myself.”

The request hung in the air, and for a moment, Alaric didn’t move. Then, slowly, he set the glass down, the crystal catching the firelight.

“No.”

(Y/n) blinked, caught off guard by the immediate refusal. “No?”

He stood, towering and imposing, the flickering light casting shadows across his face. “You don’t need to know how to fight. That’s what I’m here for. I am your sword, your shield—whatever weapon you could possibly need.”

She frowned, stepping closer. “That’s not enough, Alaric. You can’t be everywhere, all the time. What if something happens when you’re not there?”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, it looked like he might snap back with something sharp. But instead, he exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face.

“I don’t want it to come to that,” he muttered.

“But it might,” she pressed, standing her ground. “I’m not asking to become a warrior. I just… I want to know I can survive if the worst happens.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Alaric’s shoulders sagged in reluctant defeat.

“Fine,” he muttered, turning toward the ornate desk tucked in the corner. He opened a drawer, fingers brushing past the mundane clutter until they found something cool and solid.

When he turned back, (Y/n)’s breath caught.

It was a dagger. Sleek, wickedly sharp, with a faint silver sheen that seemed to shimmer unnaturally in the dim light. She didn’t need to ask to know what it was—a vampire dagger. A weapon designed not just to wound but to kill swiftly, mercilessly.

Alaric held it out to her, grip firm but gaze soft. “If it comes to it,” he said quietly, “I want you to use this.”

She hesitated, eyes flickering from the blade to his face. “Alaric… this is—”

“I know what it is,” he interrupted, voice taut with something deeper. “And I know what it means.”

The weight of the moment settled between them. He wasn’t just arming her against the world—he was arming her against him, if it ever came to that.

“If I lose control,” he continued, quieter now, “if anyone in this house, including me, becomes a threat to you… you don’t hesitate. You drive this into their heart, and you run.”

The finality in his tone left no room for argument.

(Y/n) swallowed hard, hand trembling slightly as she reached for the dagger. The cold metal kissed her palm, and the reality of the situation settled in her chest like a stone.

The sound of footsteps drew their attention. Elera stood in the doorway, arms crossed, sharp green eyes narrowing at the weapon in (Y/n)’s hand.

“Is that what I think it is?” she asked, voice laced with disbelief.

Behind her, Vincent appeared, brows shooting up. “A vampire dagger?” His usual easy going demeanor slipped, replaced by rare seriousness. “You don’t just hand those out, Alaric. What the hell are you thinking?”

Alaric’s gaze never left (Y/n). “I’m thinking that if I fail to protect her, she deserves a fighting chance.”

Elera stepped forward, arms falling to her sides. “You’ve never even let us near one of those. Not even when things were at their worst.”

Her words hung heavy in the air, unspoken implications clear. Alaric had been in dark places before—darker than he ever admitted. The existence of the dagger, tucked away in a drawer rather than destroyed, spoke volumes. It hadn’t just been for defense. It had been for escape—from himself, from the monster he feared becoming.

And now he was entrusting it to (Y/n).

Her fingers curled tighter around the hilt as she met his gaze. “I won’t need to use it,” she said quietly, with a conviction that made his throat tighten. “Not against you.”

Alaric’s expression softened, just a fraction. He reached out, brushing a thumb against her cheek.

“Let’s hope you’re right,” he murmured.

But the weight of the dagger in her hand told them both that hope might not be enough.

The sun had barely sat when (Y/n) found herself being summoned to the training grounds. She hadn’t expected Elera, of all people, to be waiting there—arms crossed, sword in hand, and an expression as sharp as the blade itself.

"You're up early," (Y/n) greeted, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

Elera didn’t return the smile. Instead, she tossed a practice dagger at (Y/n)'s feet. "Pick it up."

(Y/n) blinked, confused. "What’s this about?"

Elera stepped closer, her usual playful demeanor absent. "You asked Alaric to teach you how to fight, didn’t you? He’s too soft when it comes to you. But I’m not."

(Y/n) hesitated before crouching to grab the dagger. It was lighter than she expected but felt cold in her hand.

"You should know how cruel the world is to women," Elera continued, voice steady but eyes burning with something deeper—something personal. "I’ve seen girls dragged off the streets, sold, used, and discarded like trash. I've seen what happens when they can’t fight back. And the auction house? It’s not just for trinkets and antiques. It’s for people."

The blood drained from (Y/n)'s face. She’d heard whispers, but hearing it from Elera made it real.

"Alaric can’t always be your shield," Elera pressed, stepping closer. "If someone comes for you, you need to know how to end it. Quickly. Brutally. Without hesitation."

(Y/n) swallowed hard but nodded. "Teach me."

Elera’s lips curled into a grim smile. "Good. Because I’m not training you to win a fair fight. I’m training you to survive."

Without warning, Elera lunged. (Y/n) barely raised the dagger in time to deflect the strike, heart pounding in her chest.

"Lesson one," Elera muttered, knocking (Y/n)'s balance off with a quick sweep of her leg. (Y/n) hit the floor with a grunt. "The world won’t wait for you to be ready. So get up. Again."

And so, the training began—not with gentle guidance, but with the harsh reality Elera had faced herself. Because, deep down, she refused to let (Y/n) become another victim.

The soft thud of boots against the grass filled the training grounds as (Y/n) stood across from Elera, dagger clutched tightly in her hand. The sun streamed through the tall windows, casting long shadows that danced with their movements.

"Loosen your grip," Elera instructed, circling (Y/n) like a predator sizing up its prey. "You’re holding it like it’s a lifeline. It’s a weapon. Treat it like one."

(Y/n) adjusted her hold, fingers relaxing slightly around the hilt.

"Better. Now, come at me."

There was no hesitation this time. (Y/n) lunged forward, dagger aimed for Elera’s midsection. But Elera sidestepped effortlessly, catching (Y/n)'s wrist and twisting it until the blade clattered to the floor.

"You're too direct," Elera scolded, releasing her hold. "Anyone with experience will see that coming from a mile away. Again."

Breathless but determined, (Y/n) retrieved the dagger and reset her stance. Sweat dampened her brow, but the sharp edge in Elera's gaze told her there'd be no sympathy here.

"Think," Elera pressed, tapping her own temple. "You're not stronger. You’re not faster. But you can be smarter. Feint. Distract. Go for soft targets. Eyes. Throat. Knees."

(Y/n) nodded, swallowing hard.

They moved again—Elera advancing this time, testing (Y/n)'s defenses with quick, precise strikes. (Y/n) dodged the first, blocked the second, and, remembering Elera’s words, flicked her wrist in a false strike toward her opponent’s shoulder.

Elera instinctively shifted to block—just as (Y/n) pivoted and swept her leg behind Elera’s, knocking her momentarily off balance.

A breath of silence hung between them before Elera grinned. "Finally."

But the smile faded just as quickly.

"That’s a start," Elera muttered, stepping back and adjusting her gloves. "But remember, (Y/n): your enemy won’t stop because you got one good hit in. They'll get back up—angrier, meaner, and ready to end you."

Her tone softened, just slightly. "You fight like someone who’s never truly feared for her life. That’s not a bad thing. It means you’ve been protected."

(Y/n)'s grip on the dagger tightened.

"But protection fades," Elera finished quietly. "And when it does, you'll either be ready… or you won’t."

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of Elera's words settling like dust in the air.

"Again," Elera commanded. And this time, (Y/n) didn’t hesitate.

The clang of the dagger against Elera's blocking blade echoed through the grounds as (Y/n) struck again, her movements sharper, more calculated. She wasn’t just reacting anymore—she was anticipating. Watching Elera’s footwork, the shift of her shoulders, the flicker of her gaze that telegraphed her next move.

“Good,” Elera muttered, parrying (Y/n)'s strike and sidestepping. “But don’t get cocky. Confidence can kill just as easily as fear.”

(Y/n) barely dodged the counterstrike, her heart pounding in her chest. She was already breathing heavily, muscles burning from the relentless repetition.

"You're pushing me harder than I expected," (Y/n) managed between breaths, stepping back to reset her stance.

Elera’s expression darkened. "I’m pushing you because the world won't go easy on you. Especially not as a woman. Not as someone connected to Alaric."

The name stung like ice water, pulling (Y/n) out of the fight for a brief moment.

Elera didn’t let up. She advanced, swift and merciless, forcing (Y/n) to stumble backward.

"You should know how cruel the world is to women," Elera snapped, disarming (Y/n) with a sharp twist of the wrist. The dagger clattered to the ground. “Especially women who can be used as leverage.”

(Y/n) blinked, startled by the sudden intensity in Elera's voice.

Elera stepped back, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. "I've seen it firsthand. The auction house? It doesn’t just deal in trinkets and rare finds. It deals with people. Women. Children. Sold to the highest bidder without a second thought."

The weight of her words hit like a punch to the gut. (Y/n) had heard whispers, but never in such stark, brutal clarity.

"Do you think Alaric’s enemies won’t use you if given the chance?" Elera continued, voice cold. "That they won’t hurt you just to see him bleed?"

(Y/n) swallowed hard, throat tight.

"That’s why I’m training you," Elera finished, retrieving the fallen dagger and pressing it back into (Y/n)'s hand. "Not because I doubt Alaric's protection. But because you deserve the chance to protect yourself. To make sure no one ever puts you in chains."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken understanding.

(Y/n) looked down at the dagger, then back at Elara. Her grip formed around the hilt.

"Again," (Y/n) said quietly, determination burning in her gaze.

Elera’s lips quivered into a faint smile. "Now you’re getting it."

And so, they moved once more—dagger flashing under the dim light, each strike a step closer to strength, to survival. To freedom.

The blades clashed again, the sharp ring echoing through the grounds. (Y/n)’s breath came in ragged gasps, arms trembling as she barely blocked Elera’s strike. Sweat clung to her skin, but it was the frustration burning in her chest that made her grip the dagger tighter.

Elera stepped back, eyes narrowing as she circled (Y/n). Her movements were smooth, predatory, like a panther toying with its prey. But this wasn’t to humiliate—this was to teach.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Elera taunted, voice sharp as the dagger in her hand. “You're holding back.”

“I’m trying,” (Y/n) snapped, irritation flaring.

Elera’s expression hardened. “Trying won’t save your life. Trying won’t stop someone from dragging you away in the middle of the night.”

(Y/n) froze, heart skipping a beat.

The silence hung heavy between them until Elera stepped closer, gaze burning with something raw and unforgiving.

"Do you think the world cares if you try? If you beg? If you cry for mercy?" Elera’s voice was cold, cutting deeper than any blade. "The auction house didn’t care. The men who profit from suffering don’t care. Valen doesn’t care."

The name hit like a slap. (Y/n)’s chest tightened, memories flashing behind her eyes—the feeling of powerlessness, of being nothing more than a possession, a bargaining chip.

Elera leaned in, her own anger barely restrained. "Use that anger."

(Y/n)'s gaze snapped to hers, breath catching.

"All those years of being powerless," Elera pressed, voice rising. "The fear. The humiliation. The scars no one sees. Use it. Let it fuel you. Because if you don’t—"

She struck without warning, the flat of her blade coming toward (Y/n)'s side.

But this time, (Y/n) didn’t flinch. She moved.

The dagger in her hand came up, knocking Elera’s strike aside with a sharp clang. (Y/n) pivoted, stepping into Elera's guard, eyes burning with something fierce, something unyielding.

Elera grinned, finally seeing the fire she’d been trying to ignite.

"Good," she murmured, stepping back with a nod. "That’s the strength they can’t take from you. That’s what will keep you alive."

(Y/n) stood tall, chest heaving, the dagger firm in her grip. The anger didn’t feel like poison anymore—it felt like power. Controlled. Sharp. Unbreakable.

“I’m not afraid anymore,” (Y/n) said quietly, voice steady.

Elera’s smile softened, just a touch. “Good. Now, let’s see if you can win.”

And with that, the blades danced once more, but this time, (Y/n) was no longer the one on the defensive.

The clang of steel rang through the air as (Y/n) ducked beneath Elera’s strike, muscles screaming from the relentless training. Her heart pounded in her ears, but she didn’t falter—Elera’s words echoed in her mind.

"Use that anger."

Elera lunged, swift and merciless, her dagger aimed for (Y/n)'s shoulder. But this time, (Y/n) didn’t just dodge—she moved, instinct guiding her hand.

With a sharp breath, she twisted her wrist and slashed upward.

The blade met flesh.

Elera staggered back, eyes widening as a thin line of crimson bloomed across her cheek.

(Y/n) froze, horror flooding her system as she realized what she’d done. Her dagger clattered to the floor, hands flying to her mouth.

“Oh my god—Elera! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

But Elera didn’t move. For a moment, she simply stood there, fingertips brushing the cut. Then, slowly, a grin spread across her lips, sharp and wicked.

"Finally," she muttered, voice low and proud.

She wiped the blood away with the back of her hand, the wound already beginning to close. Her eyes gleamed, almost predatory, but there was no malice—only satisfaction.

"You did good," Elera said, her grin widening. "About damn time you stopped fighting like you’re afraid to hurt someone."

(Y/n) blinked, breath caught between relief and disbelief.

"But I—"

Elera stepped forward, clapping a hand on her shoulder.

"No buts. You landed a hit on me. Me." She chuckled, the sound rich with approval. "That fear? Let it go. Out there, hesitation gets you killed. In here? It gets you lectured by me until your ears bleed."

(Y/n) swallowed hard, but the weight of guilt slowly lifted, replaced by something steadier. Stronger.

"...I actually got you," she murmured, almost in disbelief.

"Damn right you did." Elera’s eyes glinted as she stepped back into a fighting stance, dagger spinning effortlessly between her fingers.

"Now, do it again."

Alaric stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, his knuckles turning white as they clenched the iron railing. Below, Elera circled (Y/n), sharp eyes watching every movement, every hesitation. The dagger in (Y/n)'s hand caught the light of the setting sun, but her grip still lacked the confidence of someone truly prepared to use it.

"Again," Elera snapped, dodging (Y/n)'s attempt to strike. "You're pulling your arm back too much. This isn’t a dance; it’s survival. Strike like you mean it."

Alaric’s jaw tightened. His body instinctively leaned forward, the urge to intervene nearly unbearable. He trusted Elera, of course—trusted her with his life. But her life? That was different. Each stumble (Y/n) made, each moment of vulnerability, sent a spike of protective rage through him.

This is madness, he thought, nails digging into his palms. She shouldn’t need to fight. That’s my role.

But then (Y/n) steadied herself, chest heaving with determination. She met Elera’s next feint with surprising speed, her dagger grazing the older vampire's shoulder. Blood welled instantly, dark and vivid against pale skin.

(Y/n) froze, horror flashing across her face. "Elera! I didn’t mean—"

Elera only grinned, wiping the blood away with the back of her hand. Her eyes, faintly glowing from the adrenaline, sparkled with satisfaction.

"You did good," she praised, voice low and approving. "That’s what I’ve been waiting for."

Alaric exhaled sharply, the tension in his chest unraveling just enough for him to breathe. She’s learning. She’ll survive.

But as his gaze lingered on her flushed cheeks and determined stance, another truth gnawed at him.

He hates that she has to.

Alaric’s eyes remained fixated on (Y/n) as she continued her training with Elera, every strike, every movement making his insides tighten with a mixture of possessiveness and dread. The sight of her struggling, her posture faltering, her uncertainty—it infuriated him. His body tensed, his breath shallow, a storm of rage boiling under the surface as he gripped the balcony railing, his nails digging into the stone.

His mind was racing—no one else could have her. No one. Not Elera, not anyone. He could barely stand to watch her near anyone else, especially when it came to being touched by another. His jaw clenched as Elera move fluidly, teaching her, pushing her, the older vampire's eyes gleaming with practiced calm.

But Alaric could barely focus on Elera. His attention was solely on (Y/n), each moment dragging on like hours, his thoughts dark and possessive. He knew she wasn’t as experienced as Elera, but he couldn’t stand to see her vulnerable, failing. Someone could hurt her.

And that thought—the thought of her in pain—was enough to break something inside him.

Before he even realized what he was doing, his feet were moving, his body acting purely on instinct. He couldn’t let her fall. He wouldn’t let her fall.

He reached her just in time as she stumbled backward, her legs buckling beneath her. He was fast—too fast—and before (Y/n) could even react, he was already pulling her into his arms. His chest was like a vice against hers, his body rigid as his eyes flickered down to her wide, startled expression.

His hands shook slightly, but not from fear—no, not from fear. It was from the overwhelming, possessive need to claim her, to shield her from everything and everyone. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath catching as he held her a little too tightly, a little too desperately.

“You’re fine,” he muttered, his voice rough, almost panicked. He wanted to say more—so much more—but the words didn’t come. His fingers tightened on her, drawing her closer as if she could slip away if he wasn’t careful.

“I’ve got you,” he continued, his tone a dark promise, a vow. “I’ll always have you.”

(Y/n) blinked up at him, her lips parting in surprise, but before she could speak, his eyes flickered to her lips, his grip tightening around her waist, as though he was afraid someone else might try to take her from him.

He could feel his possessiveness growing, curling like a snake around his chest, coiling around his heart. His thoughts spiraled into darker territory. What if she falls again? What if she’s hurt and can’t call out for help? What if someone else lays a hand on her?

The thought was maddening.

“I—” (Y/n) began to say something, but Alaric was already stepping away from her, his hands still lingering on her shoulders, possessive and careful.

“No,” he whispered harshly. “Don’t try to apologize.” His eyes were cold, dark. “You’re not weak. You’re not helpless. But you need to remember—I’m the only one who will protect you. Understand?”

Her eyes softened, but Alaric could see the uncertainty still there. She was starting to understand, but he needed her to know—he was her protector, her only protector. No one else could touch her, no one else could get close.

At that moment, he heard a sound—a soft clearing of Elera’s throat. He turned to find the older vampire standing there, watching them both, her gaze sharp and knowing. There was something in her eyes—something that unnerved him. He didn’t want her to see this. He didn’t want anyone to know the depth of his obsession, the intensity of his need to keep (Y/n) close, to never let anyone near her.

“You’ve done well,” Elera said, her tone smooth, as if she hadn’t just witnessed Alaric’s near breakdown. She nodded to (Y/n), but her eyes were still on him. “But don’t let your guard down. The world will never stop trying to take what’s yours.”

The words were a threat, and Alaric knew it. He didn’t need to be told. He could feel it in his bones. Everyone wanted to take what was his. Everyone wanted her.

His gaze turned back to (Y/n), a cold shiver running through him at the thought of someone else even thinking of touching her.

“I’ll never let anyone take you from me,” he murmured under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear. His voice was low, dark, almost dangerous.

His possessiveness was raw now, bleeding into every action, every word. He couldn’t control it, couldn’t stop the need to protect her, to keep her by his side.

And when Elera made a move to step forward, to speak again, Alaric’s eyes darkened with a warning. Stay away from her.

He reached out, pulling (Y/n) close once more, a desperate need to shield her from the world, from everything.

“She’s mine,” Alaric whispered, almost to himself, his eyes never leaving hers. “And I’ll make sure no one forgets that.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Elera’s voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable sharpness beneath it. She was standing a few feet away, her arms crossed, her eyes trained on the way Alaric held (Y/n), his expression possessive and protective.

Alaric straightened, still holding (Y/n), his protective instinct flaring. “She’s still weak. I don’t want her to get hurt.” His voice was low, almost as if he were trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

Elera stepped forward, her gaze hardening. “You are the one weakening her.” Her words cut through the air like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. “You coddle her, Alaric. You treat her like she’s fragile. But she’s not fragile. The world isn’t kind to women. Not the world we live in.” She gestured to (Y/n) with a slight nod, her eyes never leaving Alaric’s face. “You can’t protect her every second of the day. If something were to happen to you—if—what would she do?”

Alaric’s jaw tightened, and his gaze flickered to (Y/n), who was now steadying herself, looking up at him with an expression that was both concerned and a little unsettled by the conversation happening around her. He didn’t like this. Didn’t like the idea of (Y/n) being anything but safe in his arms, in his world.

“I can protect her,” he said, his voice thick with possessiveness.

“Can you?” Elera’s tone was steady, but there was an edge to it. She wasn’t backing down. “If something happens to you, what then? She can’t stay sheltered forever. She needs to be able to defend herself. That’s the truth of it.” Her voice lowered, but the conviction in it remained. “If she doesn’t learn to fight, she’ll be at the mercy of anyone who comes for her. You’re not always going to be around to shield her from everything. You can’t.”

Alaric's chest tightened at the thought, the very idea of (Y/n) being vulnerable, exposed, it ignited something in him—something darker. But he couldn’t deny the weight of her words.

“She’s not weak,” Elera continued, stepping closer, her voice almost too gentle now. “But she needs to understand that there’s a harshness to this world. To protect her, you need to stop acting like you’re the only one who can keep her safe. She needs to know how to fight back. She needs to be ready, no matter the situation.”

Alaric’s eyes darkened, and he looked at (Y/n) again, his grip tightening ever so slightly as she steadied herself. His heart was torn. He didn’t want her to have to fight. Didn’t want her to ever experience any of the darkness that had shaped him, that had shaped them.

“You want her to train… with you?” He didn’t mask the suspicion in his voice.

Elera’s eyes narrowed, her posture not shifting an inch. “I’ve seen what’s out there. What we deal with. She needs to be prepared. I can’t—we can’t—be there every time. If you truly want to protect her, Alaric, let her learn to protect herself too.”

He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze shifting to (Y/n) once more. He was reluctant to admit it, but Elera was right. He couldn’t shield her from everything forever. His protective nature, the possessiveness, would only suffocate her. She deserved more than that. And, deep down, he knew she’d want more than that.

“I don’t want her to ever need to fight,” Alaric muttered, his tone heavy.

Elera’s eyes softened, but her words didn’t lose their sharpness. “And I understand that. But sometimes, we don’t get to choose. So, don’t rob her of that chance, Alaric. Don’t rob her of the chance to protect herself… and you.”

The silence between them stretched for a long, tense moment. The weight of the conversation hung in the air, unspoken and undeniable.

Finally, Alaric looked down at (Y/n), his thumb brushing lightly over her hand, as if trying to calm the storm that had been rising in his chest. His voice, when it came, was quieter, more resigned. “Fine. If anything happens to her—”

“She’ll be fine,” Elera interrupted, her voice firm but not unkind. “She’ll be ready.”

Alaric nodded, though a part of him remained wary, the image of her standing alone, fighting for her own survival gnawing at him. But maybe Elera was right. Maybe it was time to let go—just a little. Let her learn what she needs to learn.

“Don’t make her hurt herself in the process,” he warned, his voice laced with an unmistakable edge of concern.

Elera smiled, a rare, knowing smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I won’t. But you know this won’t be easy, don’t you?”

Alaric didn’t answer, his gaze still on (Y/n). His heart ached at the thought, but he knew deep down that this was the only way she’d be truly safe. And he would make sure of it.

Tags : @yune1337 @mybones537 @yourhornysister @lilyalone