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winterVlad Draculea: historical character. Death: original character based on Maki Ichiro's interpretation of the role of Tod in Elisabeth. Sequel to this and this.
Rated R for discreet smut.
BLOODMARKS 3: COSTA
Anno Domini 1453
The most annoying thing in the world was a wound you did not earn except through your own idiocy.
Accordingly, Vlad Draculea was at the end of his tether. He drained the goblet and set it down with a thud, wincing at the pain in his side. All the battles he'd fought in, and he got stuck with a hunting spear when he tried heroics against a boar. He'd laugh if it weren't so supremely frustrating.
He'd frightened away the servants long ago, not that he had many in his house in Timisoara. A dead-end place, a dead-end job, guarding the land of his father's killer against the man Hunyadi had put on his father's throne. For all that he had vague memories of the town from his childhood, he hated the place and the arrogance of its people. When he had power, he would-
Do nothing, he snarled silently. Power, what power? The power of a puppet, a scarecrow who'd been unable to hold the throne even when set on it by the Sultan of Turkey. The only reason he was here was because he hated Hunyadi a hair's breadth less than he hated Mehmed.
Angry at the world and most of all at his own stupid hopes, he kicked off the breeches. He'd shed his shirt and boots earlier, when a serving girl bound his midriff for him, and his cloak lay in a heap by the door. He reached for a goblet, but even that was drained, drained like his coffers and the forests around the town, bleak like the night outside. Not even a nursery-tale monster worth his salt would go abroad in weather like this.
With vicious concentration, Vlad poured himself more wine. He toasted his own shadow, then drained the cup and hurled it against the wall.
The pain it caused him was worth it.
He fell on the bed, stifling a hiss. Any more drink would only drive him to more idiocy, and medics only reminded him of janissary dungeons, so his men knew better than to bring any. Sleep was the best he could do now, let his body heal as it would.
Sleep fled him, and as the rain battered against the windows, he stared into the shadows. The fire took over a resin-filled log, and the crackling and the scent threatened to send him dreams of a burning forest, if he was lucky. If he wasn't, it would be another night of dreaming of Mircea's death.
The fire died down and the shadows shifted to grey. They still moved, twisting on the badly whitewashed walls, crossing the spill of wine. He played the old prisoner's game with them, finding ones that reminded him of people and things. A dragon, a lute, the profile of Hunyadi's boy, a castle, a cathedral, a hound...
Moroi, he thought. His first victory. Hopefully not his last one.
That thought led to more pleasant ones, of a face he still remembered, though never dreamed of. He wouldn't mind a dream of Death, strange as it sounded, not when it came to him with that angelic visage, long limbs and grasping, hungry hands. A handful of glimpses over the years, one conversation that may have been delirium, and yet the image stayed with him. He'd sworn off men after leaving the Sultan's hospitality, but oh, not this one, not if he ever had a chance to move his hands on pale skin and watch those eyes close in pleasure.
Ice and sunlight. In the darkness, the smell of a winter morning.
His eyes had fallen closed, but still he turned his head towards the window. His lips were dry, his throat almost painful with tightness, and he chanced a glimpse under his lashes just to make sure he wasn't making an idiot of himself by speaking to an empty room.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he rasped.
He only saw the shape, outlined by the faint light of torches outside his house, but he knew. The head lowered gracefully, light catching on white hair.
"To your recklessness. The spear was to kill you."
"Why didn't it?" Stupid to question, he knew, but for once in his life words deserted him.
"It was not your time." Light from the fireplace licked up one slender leg, glistened on a leather glove. "You laughed as you fell."
He hoped he wasn't wrong when he heard curiosity in that voice. "I've had my life threatened too many times to mind it. I didn't see you there."
"You don't always see." Death took a step forward. He was dressed in a similar manner as the last time, but the coat was thinner, shaping the lines of the body beneath it. "You've kept me and mine busy over the years."
"I promised, didn't I?"
Another step took Death into the light of the fire just as the slow smile appeared on his lips. A gloved hand touched the wine-stain on the wall, and Vlad suddenly regretted his show of temper.
"And you escaped your prison, as you said you would. Do you have any more promises?"
His crown, his vengeance, his people. All lost to him with no hope in sight.
"Just that I'll walk on the streets of Tirgoviste with you yet," he found himself saying. "There's a castle upriver from there, an old fortress fallen into ruin. I'll rebuild it. The view's spectacular."
Death's head dipped. "I know the place well."
Vlad grinned. "Have wine with me on the ramparts one day."
He got a startled laugh for this, then Death tilted his head. "Do you never fear?"
"Yes." Vlad raised himself on his elbows, moving slowly to avoid jarring his wound. "I fear prison, pain and lice."
"But not me."
"Never."
Their eyes met. Death took another step forward. His dark eyes slid down to Vlad's bare chest.
"It's too warm for gloves," Vlad murmured.
Death bared his hands smoothly, then walked around the bed to deposit the gloves on the mantelpiece. Vlad watched that brisk walk, the way the lean legs moved, and did not try to make sense of the whirlwind of his thoughts. It felt like swimming in the rapids, and if the shore wasn't an option, he might as well try to make it as far as he could.
For a moment, Death was still, his body outlined by the light of the fireplace. Then a single rippling shrug sent the coat flowing down, only to be caught as Death turned and laid it on a table. The linen shirt underneath was pure white.
"Most fear me," Death said. "Others call to me, but they want the oblivion I can lead them to. You do not."
"I've always made my own decisions." Vlad tilted his head, letting his hair slide down his shoulder. "I don't have much respect for anyone."
Death's eyes were following his every motion. "Your life is fragile."
"Hell, I know. And you know I know." Vlad touched the bandages around his midriff, already slightly stained with blood. "But I have things to accomplish here. I promised you wine in Poenari, didn't I?"
A smile. "I didn't say I'd attend."
"Right. How many polite invitations do you get, usually?"
"Not many." Death stepped closer to the bed, close enough that Vlad could have run his hand up one of those shapely thighs. "And irreverent ones are even rarer."
Vlad laughed. "You're forgetting one thing. I might not be a creature of legend, but I know what it's like to have people be afraid of you. It gets more boring than watching paint dry."
For a moment they were laughing together, though he saw the way Death caught himself and stilled.
Vlad reached out, offering his hand. He remembered the tightly controlled hunger in that touch. He wanted to feel it again.
As Death's slim fingers touched his, Vlad saw the dark eyes flutter shut. He slid his hand forward, caressing the palm, wrist, forearm, touching muscles so tight that they trembled under the linen. He wrapped his fingers around the arm just above the elbow and felt Death repeat the movement hesitantly.
Then he pulled.
Death fell against him with a surprised gasp, which was repeated when Vlad sank his hands into white hair and pulled that beautiful face against his own. He kills with a kiss, he thought.
Then he didn't think at all, just kissed those lips, a taste like clean water, cold and intoxicating. A moment of surprised hesitation and then he was being kissed in turn, just as hungrily, slim hands curving into claws on his shoulders. A desperate gasp echoed in the room.
He'd planned seduction, slow and thorough, but the thoughts disappeared once his hands touched cool flesh. All he could think of was more. More skin, more touch, more ways to make those eyes fall shut. A lace snapped, his nails scratched lightly on the smooth chest, and against his lips he felt Death's shudder of pleasure.
He couldn't get enough of Death's body. His hands moved frantically, claiming as much as his kisses did. Death's hands slipped and scrambled in confusion at his shoulders, then clenched in his hair as Vlad's fingers found purchase. Death tilted his head back, drawing air deeply, and Vlad kissed the underside of his chin. Death's skin tasted like ice and sunlight.
Vlad learned that body quickly, finding every sensitive point and movement that made Death's breathing more ragged, then using it ruthlessly. Dark eyes opened when he explored further, the purple shade visible now that they were so close, but there was no focus to them behind the glaze of pleasure. Death was shuddering continuously now, breath stuttering with every movement of Vlad's hands, his own fingers holding to Vlad hard enough it hurt. Vlad's own breath was almost gone as he stared at that unearthly face.
He kissed Death again, and then he felt that slim body tense and arch. Death's head slid down to rest against Vlad's shoulder, his eyes half shut and unseeing.
Vlad bit his lip. The beauty of Death lost in pleasure, he knew, would be a lasting memory.
He was still staring in awe when Death's eyes opened, shining with the usual fire. He thought of saying something, but then he was on his back with white hair obscuring his vision, and speaking while kissing never made much sense anyway.
Death's hands touched every fragment of Vlad's skin, sliding with the hungry motions Vlad remembered. A lean thigh, still clad in breeches, pressed between his legs, and he arched against it. Then his lips were free again and he muttered a petulant complaint, but a bite on his shoulder turned that into a moan. Quiet laughter above him, and hands everywhere, making him move in ways that rapidly drove him insane.
It was slow and thorough, almost cruel, but he was free to move and his frantic motions seemed to please. Death made no attempt to spread Vlad's legs, to take it further - take more - but that wouldn't be - unwelcome - not when-
Vlad mewled. Somewhere, the fire crackled.
Kisses again, lazy and gentle. Death lifted his head and Vlad knew he was staring again, but it wasn't his fault that Death's satisfied smile was so beautiful.
Vlad couldn't remember anything as pleasurable as this simple experience, and just for that he dragged Death down for another kiss, then finally stroked his hand down one lean thigh. Just as supple under his hand as he thought, and that got him a pleased murmur against his lips. Death's body was light enough on top of him that he could breathe easily. He hoped that scent would remain in the sheets, something to stay with him for a while.
He wondered idly just where Death's long boots had gone, but then he grinned as Death lifted one hand in a lazy gesture that dealt with the messy remains of their activity. He should have guessed there were perks to bedding the lord of the netherworld. He licked Death's ear and got another smile.
Death leaned down to kiss him again, then propped himself up on his arms, looking around the room. Vlad's hand was on Death's arm before he realised. Surprised purple eyes looked down at him.
"Stay." Vlad suppressed a grimace of annoyance at how tentative his voice sounded. "Just for a while."
Death's expression was unreadable. "Why?"
Vlad grinned. "Maybe because I like looking at you." He cupped Death's cheek. "And I think you like being looked at, by someone who isn't a terrified idiot."
"You have a high opinion of yourself."
"You mean it isn't a justified one?"
Death laughed, then lowered himself back to the bed at Vlad's side. Vlad wrapped his arm around Death's waist and closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of ice, surprised at how little his wound hurt now.
That night, he did not dream at all.
-TBC-
(And yes, 2 more parts already written, third one underway.)
Rated R for discreet smut.
BLOODMARKS 3: COSTA
Anno Domini 1453
The most annoying thing in the world was a wound you did not earn except through your own idiocy.
Accordingly, Vlad Draculea was at the end of his tether. He drained the goblet and set it down with a thud, wincing at the pain in his side. All the battles he'd fought in, and he got stuck with a hunting spear when he tried heroics against a boar. He'd laugh if it weren't so supremely frustrating.
He'd frightened away the servants long ago, not that he had many in his house in Timisoara. A dead-end place, a dead-end job, guarding the land of his father's killer against the man Hunyadi had put on his father's throne. For all that he had vague memories of the town from his childhood, he hated the place and the arrogance of its people. When he had power, he would-
Do nothing, he snarled silently. Power, what power? The power of a puppet, a scarecrow who'd been unable to hold the throne even when set on it by the Sultan of Turkey. The only reason he was here was because he hated Hunyadi a hair's breadth less than he hated Mehmed.
Angry at the world and most of all at his own stupid hopes, he kicked off the breeches. He'd shed his shirt and boots earlier, when a serving girl bound his midriff for him, and his cloak lay in a heap by the door. He reached for a goblet, but even that was drained, drained like his coffers and the forests around the town, bleak like the night outside. Not even a nursery-tale monster worth his salt would go abroad in weather like this.
With vicious concentration, Vlad poured himself more wine. He toasted his own shadow, then drained the cup and hurled it against the wall.
The pain it caused him was worth it.
He fell on the bed, stifling a hiss. Any more drink would only drive him to more idiocy, and medics only reminded him of janissary dungeons, so his men knew better than to bring any. Sleep was the best he could do now, let his body heal as it would.
Sleep fled him, and as the rain battered against the windows, he stared into the shadows. The fire took over a resin-filled log, and the crackling and the scent threatened to send him dreams of a burning forest, if he was lucky. If he wasn't, it would be another night of dreaming of Mircea's death.
The fire died down and the shadows shifted to grey. They still moved, twisting on the badly whitewashed walls, crossing the spill of wine. He played the old prisoner's game with them, finding ones that reminded him of people and things. A dragon, a lute, the profile of Hunyadi's boy, a castle, a cathedral, a hound...
Moroi, he thought. His first victory. Hopefully not his last one.
That thought led to more pleasant ones, of a face he still remembered, though never dreamed of. He wouldn't mind a dream of Death, strange as it sounded, not when it came to him with that angelic visage, long limbs and grasping, hungry hands. A handful of glimpses over the years, one conversation that may have been delirium, and yet the image stayed with him. He'd sworn off men after leaving the Sultan's hospitality, but oh, not this one, not if he ever had a chance to move his hands on pale skin and watch those eyes close in pleasure.
Ice and sunlight. In the darkness, the smell of a winter morning.
His eyes had fallen closed, but still he turned his head towards the window. His lips were dry, his throat almost painful with tightness, and he chanced a glimpse under his lashes just to make sure he wasn't making an idiot of himself by speaking to an empty room.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he rasped.
He only saw the shape, outlined by the faint light of torches outside his house, but he knew. The head lowered gracefully, light catching on white hair.
"To your recklessness. The spear was to kill you."
"Why didn't it?" Stupid to question, he knew, but for once in his life words deserted him.
"It was not your time." Light from the fireplace licked up one slender leg, glistened on a leather glove. "You laughed as you fell."
He hoped he wasn't wrong when he heard curiosity in that voice. "I've had my life threatened too many times to mind it. I didn't see you there."
"You don't always see." Death took a step forward. He was dressed in a similar manner as the last time, but the coat was thinner, shaping the lines of the body beneath it. "You've kept me and mine busy over the years."
"I promised, didn't I?"
Another step took Death into the light of the fire just as the slow smile appeared on his lips. A gloved hand touched the wine-stain on the wall, and Vlad suddenly regretted his show of temper.
"And you escaped your prison, as you said you would. Do you have any more promises?"
His crown, his vengeance, his people. All lost to him with no hope in sight.
"Just that I'll walk on the streets of Tirgoviste with you yet," he found himself saying. "There's a castle upriver from there, an old fortress fallen into ruin. I'll rebuild it. The view's spectacular."
Death's head dipped. "I know the place well."
Vlad grinned. "Have wine with me on the ramparts one day."
He got a startled laugh for this, then Death tilted his head. "Do you never fear?"
"Yes." Vlad raised himself on his elbows, moving slowly to avoid jarring his wound. "I fear prison, pain and lice."
"But not me."
"Never."
Their eyes met. Death took another step forward. His dark eyes slid down to Vlad's bare chest.
"It's too warm for gloves," Vlad murmured.
Death bared his hands smoothly, then walked around the bed to deposit the gloves on the mantelpiece. Vlad watched that brisk walk, the way the lean legs moved, and did not try to make sense of the whirlwind of his thoughts. It felt like swimming in the rapids, and if the shore wasn't an option, he might as well try to make it as far as he could.
For a moment, Death was still, his body outlined by the light of the fireplace. Then a single rippling shrug sent the coat flowing down, only to be caught as Death turned and laid it on a table. The linen shirt underneath was pure white.
"Most fear me," Death said. "Others call to me, but they want the oblivion I can lead them to. You do not."
"I've always made my own decisions." Vlad tilted his head, letting his hair slide down his shoulder. "I don't have much respect for anyone."
Death's eyes were following his every motion. "Your life is fragile."
"Hell, I know. And you know I know." Vlad touched the bandages around his midriff, already slightly stained with blood. "But I have things to accomplish here. I promised you wine in Poenari, didn't I?"
A smile. "I didn't say I'd attend."
"Right. How many polite invitations do you get, usually?"
"Not many." Death stepped closer to the bed, close enough that Vlad could have run his hand up one of those shapely thighs. "And irreverent ones are even rarer."
Vlad laughed. "You're forgetting one thing. I might not be a creature of legend, but I know what it's like to have people be afraid of you. It gets more boring than watching paint dry."
For a moment they were laughing together, though he saw the way Death caught himself and stilled.
Vlad reached out, offering his hand. He remembered the tightly controlled hunger in that touch. He wanted to feel it again.
As Death's slim fingers touched his, Vlad saw the dark eyes flutter shut. He slid his hand forward, caressing the palm, wrist, forearm, touching muscles so tight that they trembled under the linen. He wrapped his fingers around the arm just above the elbow and felt Death repeat the movement hesitantly.
Then he pulled.
Death fell against him with a surprised gasp, which was repeated when Vlad sank his hands into white hair and pulled that beautiful face against his own. He kills with a kiss, he thought.
Then he didn't think at all, just kissed those lips, a taste like clean water, cold and intoxicating. A moment of surprised hesitation and then he was being kissed in turn, just as hungrily, slim hands curving into claws on his shoulders. A desperate gasp echoed in the room.
He'd planned seduction, slow and thorough, but the thoughts disappeared once his hands touched cool flesh. All he could think of was more. More skin, more touch, more ways to make those eyes fall shut. A lace snapped, his nails scratched lightly on the smooth chest, and against his lips he felt Death's shudder of pleasure.
He couldn't get enough of Death's body. His hands moved frantically, claiming as much as his kisses did. Death's hands slipped and scrambled in confusion at his shoulders, then clenched in his hair as Vlad's fingers found purchase. Death tilted his head back, drawing air deeply, and Vlad kissed the underside of his chin. Death's skin tasted like ice and sunlight.
Vlad learned that body quickly, finding every sensitive point and movement that made Death's breathing more ragged, then using it ruthlessly. Dark eyes opened when he explored further, the purple shade visible now that they were so close, but there was no focus to them behind the glaze of pleasure. Death was shuddering continuously now, breath stuttering with every movement of Vlad's hands, his own fingers holding to Vlad hard enough it hurt. Vlad's own breath was almost gone as he stared at that unearthly face.
He kissed Death again, and then he felt that slim body tense and arch. Death's head slid down to rest against Vlad's shoulder, his eyes half shut and unseeing.
Vlad bit his lip. The beauty of Death lost in pleasure, he knew, would be a lasting memory.
He was still staring in awe when Death's eyes opened, shining with the usual fire. He thought of saying something, but then he was on his back with white hair obscuring his vision, and speaking while kissing never made much sense anyway.
Death's hands touched every fragment of Vlad's skin, sliding with the hungry motions Vlad remembered. A lean thigh, still clad in breeches, pressed between his legs, and he arched against it. Then his lips were free again and he muttered a petulant complaint, but a bite on his shoulder turned that into a moan. Quiet laughter above him, and hands everywhere, making him move in ways that rapidly drove him insane.
It was slow and thorough, almost cruel, but he was free to move and his frantic motions seemed to please. Death made no attempt to spread Vlad's legs, to take it further - take more - but that wouldn't be - unwelcome - not when-
Vlad mewled. Somewhere, the fire crackled.
Kisses again, lazy and gentle. Death lifted his head and Vlad knew he was staring again, but it wasn't his fault that Death's satisfied smile was so beautiful.
Vlad couldn't remember anything as pleasurable as this simple experience, and just for that he dragged Death down for another kiss, then finally stroked his hand down one lean thigh. Just as supple under his hand as he thought, and that got him a pleased murmur against his lips. Death's body was light enough on top of him that he could breathe easily. He hoped that scent would remain in the sheets, something to stay with him for a while.
He wondered idly just where Death's long boots had gone, but then he grinned as Death lifted one hand in a lazy gesture that dealt with the messy remains of their activity. He should have guessed there were perks to bedding the lord of the netherworld. He licked Death's ear and got another smile.
Death leaned down to kiss him again, then propped himself up on his arms, looking around the room. Vlad's hand was on Death's arm before he realised. Surprised purple eyes looked down at him.
"Stay." Vlad suppressed a grimace of annoyance at how tentative his voice sounded. "Just for a while."
Death's expression was unreadable. "Why?"
Vlad grinned. "Maybe because I like looking at you." He cupped Death's cheek. "And I think you like being looked at, by someone who isn't a terrified idiot."
"You have a high opinion of yourself."
"You mean it isn't a justified one?"
Death laughed, then lowered himself back to the bed at Vlad's side. Vlad wrapped his arm around Death's waist and closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of ice, surprised at how little his wound hurt now.
That night, he did not dream at all.
-TBC-
(And yes, 2 more parts already written, third one underway.)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-11 07:43 pm (UTC)I almost feel sorry for Death; he doesn't stand a chance.
I think in the comments for the last story you said you'd read several biographies of Dracula. Which titles would you recommend?
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-11 07:55 pm (UTC)In English, I recommend Dracula: The Prince With A Thousand Faces by Raymond McNally and Radu Florescu. They're shameless Dracula fanboys, but they're also very good historians and do a fair job of extrapolating a probable truth from the various narratives of Dracula's life.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-11 11:51 pm (UTC)Very nice!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-12 05:43 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-12 01:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-12 05:43 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-12 09:02 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-12 09:12 am (UTC)Btw, want the next part this evening?
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-12 09:18 am (UTC)Sure. I'm house-bound now anyway, might as well do something except laze around. =^___^=
(no subject)
Date: 2006-11-05 02:30 pm (UTC)I can't believe I missed that one.
Death is cute when he's confused. ;-)