Dec 10, 2025
seen from China
seen from Netherlands
seen from France
seen from Netherlands
seen from Russia
seen from China
seen from Poland
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Poland
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Israel
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
Eternal Night (Vlad Dracula) Ch. 3
Pairing: Vlad Dracula X Reader
Words: 4,951
Warnings: No triggers.
Summary: After the shock of discovering the whole truth, you begin to delve into Vlad's inner world.
Last ch
Next Ch
English is not my first language.
Almost 5,000 words may seem like a small number, but can you believe that Word resulted in 10 pages?
˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆
The silence was so thick that the crackling of the logs in the fireplace sounded like cannon fire. You felt frozen, a chill that didn't come from the Carpathian winter, but from the fear of watching the glass castle you had built that morning shatter into pieces. Vlad approached slowly, each step heavy, as if he were walking through a minefield.
"Y/N," his voice came out dry.
🐧🐧
I just finished watching Dracula | • A Love Tale and I was completely captivated by Vlad. His love is beautiful, a true gothic tale that takes you on an adventure into a dark world! I finished watching it. I'm obsessed. This movie is incredible, touching every emotion in me. But what if Mina has a stalker everywhere? Vlad, this man is not indifferent. He's both sweet and terrifying.
London's fog is uniquely damp, penetrating to the bone, carrying the whispers of the millions of souls who once lived here. For Mina, it's sometimes a protective veil, but these days it's more of a threat. In modern society, horse-drawn carriages have been replaced by noisy cars and letters by cold emails, but human nature remains the same. Desire, jealousy, and obsession still lurk on the corners of busy streets.
And Mina, with her classic, timeless elegance, attracts attention like a full moon attracts wolves.
There's Arthur Holmwood, a senior partner at the architectural firm where she works. His eyes always linger on hers for longer than necessary. She feels a tight grip whenever a small, "meaningless" gift—a silk scarf, a first edition of a poetry book—appears on her desk. There's Quincy Morris, a charming and persistent American investor. His polite refusals are perceived as mere challenges. And worst of all, there was that nameless shadow. A man she often saw across the street as she left the office, or on the train on her way home. His eyes were vacant, but they burned.
They were all stalkers, to varying degrees. They eroded her sense of security, and the city she loved became a labyrinth of surveilling eyes.
But every night, she returned home to a luxurious penthouse overlooking the Thames, a fortress of glass, steel, and eternal shadow. Vlad was there waiting for her.
Vlad never asked directly about his stalker. There was no need to. He sensed his presence in the way Mina's shoulders tense as she took off her coat, in the way she glanced at the window before the curtains closed, in the soft breathing when the phone rang. He was an ancient predator. He smelled fear and the scent of another prey approaching him.
His love wasn't expressed in bouquets or empty promises. Vlad's love was territory, his sovereignty. And Mina was the heart of his kingdom. Showing affection wasn't about indulgence, but about fiercely defending the boundaries of her territory.
One night, Mina returned home pale. Arthur had her cornered near the library. His breath smelled of coffee and desperation, and she had once again refused his invitation to dinner. He gripped her arm tightly. "You don't understand, Mina," he breathed. "We were meant to be together."
She managed to pull away, but his touch was imprinted on her skin like a stain.
That night, as she sat by the fireplace, Vlad knelt before her. He said nothing. With incredible tenderness, he took her hand, lifted her slightly bruised arm, and pressed his cold lips against hers. It was a promise. A confirmation of ownership. His eyes, usually swirling like a centuries-old storm, were calm and cold like ice at the bottom of the ocean.
"A name," he whispered. His voice sounded like silk rustling against a dagger.
Mina hesitated. Her modern fears collided with her ancient understanding of the man she loved. "Vlad, this is not necessary. I can handle it myself."
"I didn't ask if you could do it," he replied, not taking his eyes off Mina. "I asked, Elisabeta, what the name of the damnable man who touched you was."
He hesitantly whispered the name "Arthur Holmwood."
Vlad nodded slowly. He stood and poured two glasses of wine, blood-red in the lamplight. He handed one to Mina, and the night passed like any other. They talked of art, history, and the eternity that lay before them. Vlad never spoke the name again.
Two days later, an email was circulated throughout the office. Arthur Holmwood had suddenly resigned. Rumors were spreading that he had suffered a severe nervous breakdown. Someone said Arthur had last been seen emerging from a nearby bar, pale as if he'd seen a ghost, and muttering about a nightmare. Red eyes staring at him from dark corners, whispers echoing in his head even when he was silent, a constant, blood-curdling chill. He moved to the country and cut off all contact. The problem disappeared.
Then Quincy Morris showed up. His persistence escalated, turning into passive-aggression. He began to "randomly" show up at places Mina frequented on weekends. One afternoon, he followed her all the way to the front lobby of her building.
"I just wanted to make sure you got home safely," he said, but there was no smile in his eyes.
That night, Vlad didn't need to ask. His anger radiated from him like a cold aura, and the air around him felt thinner. As they stood on the balcony, gazing at the city lights that sparkled like jewels, Vlad put his arm around Mina's waist from behind.
"Look at the city, my love" he whispered in her ear. "Every light is a life, a story. Most are meaningless. Flickering, fading unnoticed. But your light... your light is the sun that powers my world." He rested his chin on Mina's shoulder and paused. "I wouldn't let a foolish moth get too close to your flame and burn its wings, let alone try to extinguish it."
A week later, business news reported that Quincy Morris's investment empire had collapsed overnight. Key deals had mysteriously collapsed, and investors had withdrawn en masse, as if by an invisible hand. He was bankrupt, his reputation in ruins. He returned to America a broken man, a shadow of his former self. No one could connect his downfall to the young London architect.
But a nameless shadow remained. This shadow was different. It sought neither attention nor recognition, simply watching. And to Vlad, that was the most unforgivable sin. He didn't just covet Mina. He sought to steal her peace and invade her world from afar.
One foggy night, Mina once again felt like she was being followed. Her heart pounded. She quickened her pace, and the footsteps she heard behind her grew faster and faster. Just as she was about to succumb to panic, the footsteps suddenly stopped. The sudden silence was more terrifying than the pursuit itself. She turned around and saw nothing but a swirling gray mist.
When they arrived at the penthouse, Vlad was waiting by the door. His expression was unreadable. There was a tiny, dark red stain on the collar of his crisp white shirt. It was so small it was almost invisible.
"It's finished," he said calmly.
"Finished what?" Mina asked, but she already knew the answer.
Vlad cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs gently caressing her cheekbones. "We've cleared the garden of all pests. There's no unwanted shadow in your world. Now, your only eyes are mine."
Mina didn't see a monster in his eyes. She saw devotion in its purest, most terrifying form. She saw absolute love, enough to reduce an entire world to ashes in order to protect a single flame. It wasn't a gentle love, nor was it kind. It was possessive, obsessive, and eternal.
Vlad showed his affection not with sweet words, but by creating silence around Mina. He was Mina's gilded cage, but also her gatekeeper. Every pushed-aside admirer, every quietly eliminated threat, was his love letter, written in the invisible ink of fear, ending in an inevitable conclusion.
Mina leaned against him, felt his fading heartbeat, and for the first time in weeks, felt truly at peace. Completely enveloped in the embrace of the world's darkest, most faithful love. And inside that fortress, they were alone, forever.
I can't wait any longer for Dracula fanfics, here's the movie (yes, a pirated link) please write about it. copy and paste into Google, be careful with ads and suggestions.
https://myflixerz.to/watch-movie/dracula-129142.12486409
a little bit of love for standing on his head | cats@pens 10.23.25
𝔇𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔲𝔩𝔞: 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔅𝔶 𝔇𝔢𝔳𝔬𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫.
ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 1 / 𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 ℑ𝔱 𝔅𝔢𝔤𝔞𝔫, 𝔘𝔫𝔫𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔡
𝔓𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 ⥋ Vlad, Count Dracula X OFC (nameless).
𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯’𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢 ⥋ This started as a personal-joke & then I became too attached to not give it a proper ending, then (at last) also deciding to give it a small audience in this account where I never published any of my works before. Read it at your own peril — or perhaps, your delight.
𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶 ⥋ He loved her in a world that did not deserve her. She saw him in a way no one ever had — and chose him anyway. When she died, he did not mourn as men do. He turned against heaven itself, against a God who allowed it, and refused the finality of loss. From that refusal, from that devotion that would not end, something unholy was born.
𝔇𝔦𝔰𝔠𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔪𝔢𝔯 ⥋ English is not my first language.
𝔚ℭ ⥋ 1786.
𝔖𝔲𝔟𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔠𝔨 / 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 / 𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯
He did not remember his mother’s voice. Not in a way that could be held. What he remembered instead — was hunger. Cold. The sound of iron. And the way silence settled differently in a place where children were not meant to remain children for long. They were not called prisoners — not formally — but they were kept all the same. Taken as offerings, as leverage, as something between tribute and warning. Boys from lands that had dared to resist, sons of men who had chosen defiance over submission.
He was one of them. Small. Silent. He learned quickly that pain was not something to be feared, it was something to endure. To outlast. To survive. And so he did.
The first time he saw her, he thought she had lost her way, because nothing about her belonged there. Not the softness of her clothing, untouched by dust and ruin. Not the way she moved — hesitant, careful, as though the world had not yet taught her to fear it. And certainly not her eyes, which looked at him not with dismissal, nor with cruelty, but with something far more dangerous. Curiosity.
“You should not be here.” — his voice was quieter than expected, not weak, just unused.
“I know.”
A pause.
Then — “I come anyway.”
That made him frown, because nothing in this place allowed for choice.
“Why?” — the question came before he could stop it.
She hesitated. Not out of fear, but as though the answer mattered.
“Because no one else does.”
Silence followed. She stepped closer, slowly, as though approaching something that might break if handled too roughly.
“You are not like the others.” — he stiffened, not in offense, but in instinct.
“Neither are you.”
That made something shift in her expression — something small, something thoughtful — she knelt. Not above him. Not distant. And from beneath the folds of her cloak, she pulled something wrapped in cloth.
Bread.
Still warm.
The scent alone was enough to make his chest tighten.
“You should not do this.” — the words came sharper now, not because he wished her to stop, but because he knew what would happen if she did not.
“I know.”
He stared at her for a moment longer. As though trying to understand something that did not belong to the world he knew. Then, slowly, he reached for the bread. Their fingers brushed. Brief. Accidental. And yet — he felt it. Not warmth. Not comfort. Something else. Something he did not yet have a name for.
“You should not come again,” — he said, quieter now.
She tilted her head. Studying him.
“And if I elect to do so?”
“You will be seen.”
“And what if I am not?”
“You will be.”
The certainty in his voice was absolute, because in his world, nothing went unnoticed. Nothing went unpunished. She considered that. Truly.
And then — “I will be careful.”
A child’s answer.
She came again. And again. Not always with food, sometimes with water, sometimes with nothing at all. Just presence. She did not ask him questions he could not answer. Did not pity him. Did not turn away from what she saw. And he — he did not send her away.
“You will leave.” — the words came suddenly.
“What?” — she blinked.
“You will not always come here.”
A pause.
“And I will not always be here.” — he stopped, the rest did not come, but it did not need to, because she understood.
“Then you will remember.”
“And what would I remember?”
“That someone came.”
The answer was immediate. Certain.
The last time he saw her — she did not come close. She stood at the far end of the corridor, where the light still touched the stone, where she still belonged. He was already being taken. Pulled away. Given elsewhere. Given back to a world that would not be kinder.
Their eyes met.
Only for a moment.
No words. No promises. Nothing spoken that could bind what could not be kept.
And yet — something remained. Something unspoken. Something unfinished.
Years would pass. Empires would fall. Blood would be spilled. Names would be carved into history with violence instead of memory. And he — he would become something far removed from the boy who had once sat in silence and endured. Though some things did not leave. Not entirely. Not even when buried. Not even when forgotten. Because somewhere — beneath war, beneath power, beneath everything he would become — there remained the memory of a girl who had stepped into darkness and had not turned away.
The city did not fall in a single night.
It resisted — proudly at first, then desperately, and finally with the quiet understanding of those who realize too late that resistance has already failed. The gates did not hold, the walls did not protect, and the banners that once declared dominion over others were lowered not in dignity, but in inevitability. By the time the army entered, the outcome had already been decided long before the first blade met flesh.
He did not rush the conquest. That was what unsettled them most.
There was no frenzy in him, no chaos, no reckless hunger for destruction. He moved through the city as though it had always belonged to him, as though he had merely returned to claim what had been delayed. His men followed with discipline rather than disorder, their violence precise, controlled, leaving behind not ruin for its own sake, but something far more deliberate: submission.
Power, when it is certain, does not need to announce itself loudly. It is simply understood. And he was.
They brought her to him at dusk.
Not bound, though she was watched closely. Not dragged, though there was no mistaking the fact that she had not been given a choice. She walked with her head held high — not in defiance that would invite punishment, but in something quieter, something steadier. The kind of composure taught to those born into power, even when that power had already been taken from them.
“The king’s daughter.” — one of his men announced.
The title lingered in the air for only a moment before dissolving into irrelevance. He stood with his back to her when she was brought in, his attention fixed on the maps spread across the table before him, marked with lines of strategy that had already proven themselves effective. At the sound of her presence, he did not turn immediately. There was no urgency in him, no curiosity that needed to be satisfied at once.
“Leave us.”
The command was given without elevation of voice, and yet it carried more authority than any shouted order could have. The men obeyed without hesitation, the door closing behind them with a quiet finality that sealed the space into something more contained, more intimate, and far more dangerous.
Only then did he turn. At first, there was nothing.
No recognition. No visible shift. Only the measured gaze of a man who had seen countless faces brought before him, none of them significant enough to disturb the order he had built within himself.
But then — something paused. Not outwardly. Not enough that another would notice. But it was there, because he knew.
Not immediately, not with certainty, but with something far more unsettling — a familiarity that did not belong to the present moment. Something that had no place in the man he had become, and yet refused to be dismissed.
She saw it too.
Not recognition — not yet — but the brief, almost imperceptible hesitation that broke the seamless control of his presence. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by something far more composed, far more distant. And yet, the absence of it did not erase the fact that it had been there.
“You stand before me without fear.” — his voice was calm, low, measured in a way that made the words feel less like an observation and more like a test.
“I stand as I was raised to.” — her answer was just as steady, just as controlled. There was no tremor in it, no attempt to provoke, no attempt to appease. Only truth, spoken without adornment.
“That world no longer exists.”
“And yet I remain.”
Silence followed.
He studied her more closely now — not as a conqueror assessing a prisoner, but as something else, something quieter and far more precise. There was something in the way she held herself, something in the steadiness of her gaze, that did not align with what he expected to find.
And then — it came. Still not fully. Not clearly. But enough.
A fragment. A memory that had no right to remain.
The flicker of candlelight in a place where light did not belong. The faint warmth of something offered without expectation. A voice — softer than the ones he had known since, quieter than the world that had shaped him. He did not allow it to surface fully. He did not allow himself to do that.
“You have been brought here under the assumption of value.” — he said at last, his tone returning to something more deliberate, more distant — “That your presence holds weight.”
“And does it not?”
The question was not bold. But it was not submissive either.
Another pause.
He stepped closer. Not abruptly, not with force, but with intention. The distance between them narrowed, not enough to invade, but enough to make the space between them feel deliberate. Her gaze did not waver.
“You are not my prisoner.” — the words came quietly, unexpectedly, even to him — “You are free to leave at any moment.”
The statement settled between them, carrying a weight that neither of them could ignore. Her breath did not falter. Her posture did not change. But something in her gaze — deepened.
“You conquered this city.” — a simple truth — “And you stand before me as the man who commands it.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Then there is nowhere for me to go that is not already yours.”
The answer was not defiance. It was not surrender. It was something far more treacherous. Recognition.
“You misunderstand.” — his voice lowered slightly — “Freedom is not the absence of walls. It is the absence of claim.”
“And if I choose to remain?”
“That would not be by force.”
“No,” — her voice softened — “but it would not be without reason.”
“You should not remain where danger stands so near.”
The words carried something different now. Less command. More like a warning.
“And yet I do.” — she did not move, did not look away — “And you do not send me from it.”
And in that moment, something old and unfinished drew just a little closer to the surface. Not enough to be known. Not yet. But enough to ensure — this was not the end of what had once begun.
I made a bunch of sticker designs for everybody that’s played on the Pens’ blue line this year.
Would anyone be interesting in actually having them as stickers if I made a Redbubble shop? I’d end up doing the forwards and goalies as well, though that might take me a little longer.