The night air is unseasonably warm as a gentle wind blows into the bedroom, the thin curtains no barrier against it. You can't remember how long you've been here now. It could be a couple of weeks or a couple of months; the days have blended and mixed together to the point that you're only sure of the change between night and day.
Your days have followed the same pattern each day, in a routine that is not altogether unpleasant. You wake up around midday and eat whatever food you find outside your door before wandering around the castle. Sometimes you spend the whole day in the library, sometimes you simply go wherever your feet take you. Whatever you do during the day, you always make sure to be back in your room before nightfall.
You've occasionally thought of leaving the castle, but you don't know where you'd go. You don't know where your backpack is, with your wallet and money inside of it, and all your attempts to find it have been fruitless. You set your book down, tired of trying to make sense of a language you don't understand as well as you thought you did, and stand up from the bed. You walk over to the window and rest your arms on the bottom ledge, staring out into the night, at the tall trees and bright stars.
"The weather is lovely tonight," the Graf von Krolock says from behind you.
"Yes, it is," you say in return without turning to look at him. This isn't the first night he's come to the room he designated to you, and you're sure it won't be the last. Sometimes the Graf's son Herbert is the one at your door, wanting simply to talk to you, but more often than not it is the Graf at your door. Sometimes you talk with him, other times you don't, and every so often you'll do more than just talk with him.
When you finally turn around to look at him, he's sitting on the bed, leafing through the book you'd abandoned in your frustration. You simply stand there and look at him, studying his features. The Graf isn't the most conventionally handsome man, a fact no doubt due in part to his physical age, but there's something about him that manages to draw you in nonetheless. His hair is long, thick, slightly coarse to the touch, and more grey than it is black. His face is long and lined with age, his blue eyes are sunken into his face, his cheekbones jut out sharply, and his thin lips are the purplish color of bruised skin.
Your eyes travel from his face, down the body that you know isn't as firm or sculpted as a young man's under his fancy clothes, down his long legs, before going back up to his hands that look as if they belong to death himself, to the book held in his long, skeletal fingers. You move away from the window and walk to the bed before taking a seat next to the Graf on the bed. You look back up at his face. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration as he flips through the book.
"I wasn't aware you knew Hungarian," he says, closing the book and looking at you.
"I'm still learning," you reply, "Do you know Hungarian?"
The Graf nods and says, smiling, "Igen, magyarul beszélek."
You stare at him blankly, your brain attempting to process what he just said. You can recognize one word and you think you somewhat understand a second but you're not quite sure.
"Yes, something? And I think you said Magyar, which I know means Hungarian," you say, thinking aloud.
The Graf doesn't say anything, just continues to look at you until you put the context and words together.
"Yes, you...speak Hungarian?" You ask hesitantly. He smiles and replies, "Yes. It's my mother tongue, in fact."
"Oh. That's interesting," you say, at a loss of what else to say before you remember that Transylvania was once part of Hungary. A thought pops into your head then and you ask, "But wouldn't you be the Gróf instead of the Graf, then?"
The Graf's smile widens, and your eyes flick immediately to his fangs before looking back at his entire face. If he notices that you looked at his teeth, he makes no sign that he did, instead saying, "Correct. However, my parents moved here from what is now Germany a few years before I was born."
"I see," you say, nodding, before looking away from him and back out the window. The sight of his smile makes you feel things you probably shouldn't, so to change the subject, you say even though it's already been said, "It's a lovely night tonight."
"Yes, it is," he says, reaching out and turning your face back towards him. His fingers are cold against your chin, and you look at him questioningly. He leans in and presses his lips to yours, and the realization of the true reason he came to see you washes over you. You're still not sure of how you feel about this entire situation and about him, but you kiss him back nonetheless because this is better than sitting around and doing nothing. You take care to be especially careful around his teeth while you're kissing him, and to his credit, he seems to be trying to be careful with you as well.
After you both part, the Graf rests his forehead against yours and says, "However, while the night may be lovely, you are far lovelier."
"Thank you," you say, heat rising to your face, and then he's kissing you again. His hand moves up from your chin to cup your cheek, his cold fingers splayed across your skin, as he pulls you closer with his other hand. You deepen the kiss, one of your own hands coming up to grab at the front of his shirt, your fingers wrinkling the fine fabric.
Before you even register what's happening, the Graf has pulled you onto his lap. You arrange yourself so that you're straddling him, and make a small sound in the back of your throat at the feeling of his cock, already hard, pressing into you. His hand moves down from your face, to the buttons on the nightgown that you'd pulled from the closet and donned after your original clothes had become too dirty to wear. Slowly, he undoes each and every one of them, and then his hands fall to the hem of it. You pull back from the kiss just long enough to let him pull the nightgown off, over your head, and toss it elsewhere in the bedroom. Your lips return to his, but briefly, because then he's pulling away.
The Graf reaches down and moves the hem of his shirt aside before undoing his pants and freeing his erection. His hands move to your hips and he pulls you forward, until your sex is aligned with his cock. One of his hands moves from your hip to his cock, and he aligns himself with your opening all while guiding you down with the hand still upon your hip.
You're wet but not wet enough for this, and bite your lip to stifle the whimper of pain threatening to spill from your lips as inch after inch of his cock slides slowly into you until all of him is inside of you. He either doesn't notice your discomfort or doesn't care, because he returns both hands to your hips and begins moving you up and down the length of him, thrusting up into you all the while.
You raise your hands and grip at his shoulders, hoping that this will be over soon, because this isn't going at all like how you'd hoped it would when he first kissed you. The Graf groans, low in his throat, his hands tightening painfully on your hips as he fucks up into you. It's getting better, but slowly, the faintest hint of pleasure beginning to take root inside of you.
It's not long before he's coming, spilling himself into you with a gasp. You're not sure whether to be disappointed or glad about the fact that this is over so soon.
He buries his face in your shoulder, his open mouth pressed against the skin of your neck as he rides out his peak, and you wonder why he doesn't just bite you and get it over with. Eventually, his grip on you loosens and you get up and off of him, his softening cock slipping out of you. You find the nightgown and redress yourself before laying down on the bed.
The Graf stands and fixes and rearranges himself while you simply watch him. With a final glance and nod to you, he vanishes into the night and you're left alone with only the wind for company.