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You would think that such a name as Wladislaus Dragwlya would strike nothing but pure fear into all the souls unfortunate enough to hear it echo through helpless rural towns on foggy days; when vision was limited and the village folk were at the mercy of fate and whatever rosary they could find, knotting it in their anxiety and fret as it twisted between their fingers. No tale from that thing, that utter monster, had any sort of happy ending, nor any hope for one at all. Whatever pitiful prey fell into his menacing jaws was beyond saving; hell, anyone that dared travel up that dreadful mountain leading to that cold, dark castle that made you ill with uneasiness must be sick in the head. It seemed he intended to hunt the innocent for eternity, judging from the sheer amount of nicknames had risen throughout the centuries. Generations had passed down stories of his reigns of fear and terror. No one had proven a sighting in quite some time, but the local shepherds suspected he took the form of one of them to make a meal out of the sheep. Menacing, shining red eyes silhouetted by the form of a sheepskin coat was a sight even the bravest men stuttered around when recalling their experiences with the worst Count Eastern Europe had seen in centuries.
It was known to most, however, that stories spread by the grapevine were usually not the most reliable, and had a tendency to misconstrue whatever had really happened all those years ago. The order he was inducted into was dedicated to fighting for the same god they clung to whenever he drew near. The same attributes held in different light could be just as heavily praised as they were shunned.
Take, for example, the dark, thick locks of your husband’s hair that you had grown to love and envy at an equal level. He had perfect waves that fell about his shoulder blades. The warm sheen of them when candlelight bounced against the locks was one of the most alluring things you had found on Earth, and your tendency to simply bury your face just behind his ear to take in the cool, subtle scent of cloves was unbearably addictive.
You lived a simple life with him, and the joy he brought you every morning to every night was all you could ask for. He was such an adoring gentleman, even if packaged in a form that made him look so devilishly handsome that it was hard to believe a man like him could lead a life of domesticity with such satisfaction.
Yet here he was, none other than the Count Dracula himself, perfectly adjusted to his life of simple pleasure and loving every second of it.
Today had been a particularly lazy day— the windows had collected condensation with all the fog, which wasn’t uncommon this type of year. It was relaxing to watch it curl sleepily along the tree lines, hovering over the dewy grass and blanketing everything in a quiet, calming embrace. The large study located in the heart of the castle was wonderful for these types of days, when the best thing to do was curl up with a book in one of the large armchairs and flip pages until your eyelids weighed too heavy for your will to stay awake. Naps in that expansive, lavishly wooded room, with books of all genres surrounding you was nothing short of a slice of heaven inside what everyone deemed hell. There was a unique smell to it as well; warm and inviting, with an undercurrent of dust and wear. There was a warmth exuded from the innumerable pages, from the endless knowledge and the content an individual felt when enclosed in a space intended for relaxation.
You were curled up in the loveseat closest to the misty windows, a book pinched between your fingers that held only half of your attention. An overwhelming feeling of fulfillment at the unhurried day and your affection for the study had overtaken you, so that you were satisfied with lying about with your own thoughts.
The sound of light footsteps faintly registered in the back of your mind, but it only added to your sleepy happiness. There was only one other person that occupied this castle, and you were quite fond of him.
You were expecting his usual greeting— some comment on looking for you, a chaste kiss wherever his lips reached first, and finally melting into wherever you lay as he gathered you up into his arms. Often times he was quite cold, but you had gotten used to it after several years of being with him. Your warmth was equivalent to a hot shower to him, if not better. The heat from your healthy, working organs, warming your skin until it seeped into his own bones felt as if you were sharing some of your vitality with him. His thoughts on your mortality could be compared to considering the same of a small pet; he thought it so fascinating that, silly as it was, you had your own little organs that really worked. It was a marvel to him— you had a little heart that pumped the blood used to warm yourself and him, and little lungs that produced the same breath that brushed his neck when you tucked into his shoulder. The beat of your heart was the rhythm that put him to sleep the quickest. It was a constant metronome of reassurance in his mind; every beat confirmed that you were indeed living and thriving in a presence he once thought was completely destructive and inhabitable.
You heard his steps near, and shifted slightly to better bare your face for a kiss.
Instead, however, you were met with him collapsing on top of you. Mind you, he wasn’t very lightweight. It contracted a rather embarrassing grunt from you.
“Vlad, hun—“ you choked out, attempting to shift him so he would slide to the side and off of you. He noticed this and doubled his efforts, effectively smothering you. You jerked slightly when his icy fingertips tucked under your ribs to loop around your torso and press you flush to his chest. His head fell to the nape of your neck, taking in a large breath and releasing it in the form of a long, deep groan. At this point, his face and your shoulder must have developed some sort of magnetic pull with how often he nuzzled there— and there he goes. His jaw was always quite rough, textured with his short-trimmed scruff, but in its familiarity it had become a pleasant sensation.
In the years knowing him, it was easy to tell when he was happy. His eyes always squinted in bliss, his usually arched eyebrows relaxed, and the muscles of his arms held an anxious tension. Nevertheless, he held you gently, and in its suppression, it only fostered more tenderness. His only desire was to squeeze you until your rips snapped, but he wouldn’t ever dream of hurting you.
“Comfortable?” you asked, the indigence standing proud in your tone. He responded with a short, soft chuckle; something rare from him.
“Mhm,” he confirmed smugly, tilting his head up to peck under your jaw before burying his face right back into your shoulder again. His clawed fingertips dug into your shoulder blades with subdued intensity, being oh so careful not to get his claws snagged in your nightgown. You could feel the simple happiness pouring off of him in slow, unhurried waves. Each of his breaths was a hill and valley of his will bending to keep merely holding you and not fuse you to his very being so your souls could merge.
“You are so warm, iubi…” he mumbled, nestling closer as if he hadn’t deconstructed the concept of personal space entirely. You offered a simple hum in assent. You were in fact warm— compared to him, at least— but you didn’t know how much longer that would be true when there was a 200-pound leech in the form of your husband hogging it for his own cold blood. It only occasionally occurred to you that it must be so hard to conceptualize the most feared man in Transylvania liked to cuddle, but it got a kick out of you every time.
Overwhelmed from the giddiness his affection always brought, you wormed an arm out from under him to play with his soft hair. At any other time, he would have melted into it as if he had reached nirvana, his head dropping limp and a comically pleased hum vibrating into wherever his face had tucked into (and wouldn’t move from for the next hour). He loathed whenever you compared him to a cat because it was completely true. If for one second your hand raised to move further down or up his head, you felt his lashes brush your skin as his intense eyes opened with a concerning reaction time. You hadn’t yet found where his fulfillment bar ended when it came to physical touch— you did know, however, that if it paused for over 5 seconds, the progress was lost completely.
This time, you weren’t allowed time to notice him moving before he held your wrist in his hand, gingerly but firmly tucking it back to your side, and in consequence, under him. You raised a brow, and he pretended not to notice it while he shifted right back to his spot in your shoulder. You attempted it once more, slower this time, and he rewrapped his hold on your waist to include your arms as he adjusted with a huff.
“No, no..” he crooned sleepily, finally lifting his heavy head to give you a glimpse of that stupidly handsome face. His heavy-lidded glaucous eyes rested on yours with a familiarity that rivaled the tenderness between the sun and the moon. They searched for a moment, always searching, always looking for someway to make you more comfortable. To confirm that this living, breathing, loving little thing still held her odd, inexplainable endearment towards him. When he finally caught that twinkle, the crow’s feet at the corners of his face deepened. He had never seen your eyes without that sparkle in the corner of his favorite color, shining with something incomprehensible to him: love. Of course, nobody had any business second-guessing his love for you. Water is wet, is it not? It came as naturally as breathing should have, and there wasn’t a moment that he couldn’t sense your presence in the corner of his mind and the bottom of his heart which beat for you and only you.
But for a being full of life to love him, to really be in love with him, drew out of him a curiosity so deep he sank every time and could only gaze at the base of the pool— the simple fact that for whatever reason, if any, you did, and thinking otherwise scared him too much.
He had become quite a connoisseur of swimming.
When his gaze finally came to rest peacefully in yours, his conscious resurfaced, and he remembered the raise of your brow.
“Just let me hold you,” Vlad answered simply, taking the opportunity of their proximity to press a small kiss to your cheek. He hovered briefly before giving in and pressing another to your cheekbone. And then the corner of your eye.
“That’s all I want to do. Don’t worry about my hair, draga.”
He attempted to end it there with a peck to your nose, but you spoke before he could huddle back into the warmth of your jugular.
“You don’t want your hair touched?” You confirmed incredulously, the slight amusement poorly hidden with the quirk of your lips.
He drew a sigh again, which was slightly more dramatic than it needed to be, considering he didn’t even need to breathe.
“No, I...” he trailed off, his careful hand sliding down to your thigh to better tuck it under the cover of his own. “I just want you to relax.” His chin came to rest over yours with a gentle, grounding pressure. To emphasize his point, he squeezed your arm briefly. He acted as if lifting a finger was back-breaking work.
But in all honesty, it was; to him. This unbelievable woman had hung every star in his deep midnight sky, every trait to love, every reason to forgive. Even when a man of his caliber wasn’t expected to have an upbringing focused on compassion and emotional intelligence, what was left of it had been snatched from him in exchange for the means to become a political weapon. What he did know of love was taught in a feeble, inconsistent manner throughout his adolescent and young adult years.
400 years later, he had convinced himself he knew the concept of affection. Some things are held in higher regard above others simply from the blind choosing of one’s heart, and fostering that connection brings implausible happiness and even greater sorrow when it is taken. He had felt bits and pieces of it scattered about a plethora of terribly unlucky events that seemed a constant factor in his unbearably long life.
But never before had it been so concentrated in a single rhythm; one that sang to him the cycle of your breath and the pumping of your blood. It could be overwhelming at times, thinking of the curve of your lips and realizing his will of life had collected there.
His favorite color flooded his head once more as you looked over his face, pinched in concentration, and caused him to hide again, this time pressing his curved Roman nose to the apple of your cheek. Small kisses spontaneously interrupted his next words.
“I suppose the fact that you’re safe under me makes me want to keep you there.”
It seemed he had more to say, but he paused to peek up and stare down that fascinating twinkle. “I would give you the world, you know that?”
You were slightly caught off guard from his sudden declaration, flushing slightly. He caught it from the corner of his eye, but they never left yours. The way your lips curled didn’t go unnoticed either.
“You know this?” He repeated, this time with a restless edge that pleaded an answer to what you originally believed to be rhetorical. A small, amused pant left you as you broke into a fond smile.
“I know,” you assured playfully, and the tone was bright enough to melt the intensity of his staring into a yielding nuzzle. The brush of his dark mustache informed you he was smiling.
“Scumpa mea…” he croons adoringly, pressing his face even closer to your own. You turned to face him, and he instantly replied with a firm kiss to that little curve that held all of his love.
“I feel a bit hoarded,” you admit in a tongue-in-cheek manner. The way his already arched brow raises spreads your smile.
“Hoarded?” He repeats questioningly, which elicits a quick laugh. You nod, and he huddles in to explain himself.
“I wouldn’t say hoarded, draga, you’re free to roam wherever you wish.”
“…As long as I’m within a 10 meter distance,” he adds, on the brink of jest.
He closes up the banter as he completely settles over you, letting his relaxed weight scale the passion he held in keeping you cherished beneath the shield of his rib cage and the cocoon of his cape.
The constant simmering in his gut had finally cooled. The anxiety of having an ephemeral, mortal life in the castle churned in his stomach until it cultivated an itch to.. keep, in simplest words. Having his one love tucked into his arms was the closest he could get to making his heart beat again. It wasn’t selfless, but it couldn’t be helped on this scale, when your words were his scripture. Nothing could ever come to harm you within the embrace of the man that loved you most, and who he hoped with all of his being was the man you loved most, too. Settling atop you felt like conquering every anxiety and converting all of it into a cache pool of gratification. The devotion he felt veiling your entire existence under his own was more devout than any townsfolk could try to muster up to be when facing him.
“Te iubesc, dragostea,” he promised, finalizing the thought with a drowsy peck against your lips that held an infinite tenderness. You returned it just as happily.
With a final squeeze— as close as he could get to using his full strength to hold you— he lay over his haven, kissing into your hair and polishing his most prized treasure.