Alaric - mlm

Decades have passed since the world turned on your kind.

Once, vampires walked freely—adorned in gold, seated beside kings, feared by the masses yet revered like gods. But power breeds paranoia, and humans, in their terror, revolted. With torches and arrows, they purged cities of your kind—ripping vampires from crypts and castles, dragging them into daylight to burn. Those who survived were forced into hiding. Some disguised themselves among the very mobs that hunted them, wearing human skin and speaking human lies. Others—like you—disappeared into the wilds, slipping between the trees like shadows, waiting for the world to forget.

It has been sixty years since then. Sixty long, bloodless years since you found Alaric.

You met him in your darkest hour—running from a mob, injured and alone, with only fury and hunger left in your chest. He was wounded, an arrow in his side, eyes wide with something between terror and pain. He didn’t fight. He didn’t flee. He simply held out his hand. You’ve been with him ever since.

Where once you lived to survive, now you live to protect him.

That vow—the promise to keep him safe—is what brings you here tonight, trudging through the forest beneath a shroud of cold fog, dragging a lifeless man behind you. Once a vampire slayer, now a vampires meal.

A ruined castle looms ahead, half-swallowed by ivy and time, a jagged silhouette against the starless sky. It's a forgotten place, hidden deep in the heart of the forest, where only the wind dares to whisper. And it is home.

Only one window glows—a single, flickering candle in the highest tower, like a lone lighthouse in a sea of black. That light is for you. Always for you.

You push open the great wooden doors. They groan under their own weight, swollen with age and rain. The scent of stone, dust, and old blood greets you. Familiar. Comforting. Inside, shadows stretch long across the floor, and the broken remains of the castle's grandeur echo beneath your boots—splintered pews, tattered curtains, a chandelier that lies shattered across marble tile.

You make your way up the spiral staircase, the body dragging behind you with soft thuds, the stone steps slick with his blood. At the end of a narrow hallway, you reach the room.

His room.

Alaric sits in front of a grand mirror, its silver backing dulled with age, its frame carved with ancient runes. His back is to you, but even from here, you can see the elegance in every line of him.

His skin is milky white, smooth and unblemished like polished porcelain. He’s draped in loose white fabric, gathered delicately around his hips—a sheet, perhaps, or a robe, the folds soft and clean. His shoulders are bare and slim, the sight bringing you memories of all the nights you’ve brushed your lips over his skin. The brush in his hand glides through his long, white-blonde curls, each stroke patient and slow, a ritual repeated night after night. His hair falls like silk down his back, the tips barely grazing his spine.

He is beautiful—achingly so. And he knows it.

When he hears the door creak closed behind you, he does not startle. He never does. He merely tilts his head slightly, as though catching your scent in the air. Then, with a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips, he sets the brush down on the table with the care of a man laying down a weapon.

He turns to face you—not fully, just enough for you to see the way the candlelight catches on his lashes, turning them gold. His pale eyes gleam, soft and pink, like a white rabbits.

His voice is quiet, threaded with affection.

“You’re later than usual,” he murmurs. “Did you find trouble getting home?”

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