Dracula moved through the forest, his hunger a restless ache. He craved not just blood, but vitality—strength, passion, life itself. The steady pounding of a hammer reverberated through the night, drawing him to a small forge on the edge of a village. Its glow pulsed like a living heart, casting flickering light onto the shirtless blacksmith.
The man was a study in raw power. Sweat slicked his body, highlighting the broad expanse of his chest and the rippling muscles of his arms as he raised the hammer and brought it down with practiced force. Sparks erupted with each strike, the flames painting his skin in shades of gold and bronze. His breath came in rhythmic grunts, his every motion purposeful, deliberate.
Dracula paused in the shadows, his crimson eyes gleaming as he watched. The blacksmith’s strength was magnetic, his raw masculinity a force of nature. Every swing of the hammer sent a fresh wave of heat rolling through the air, mixing with the scent of molten metal and sweat. The vampire’s gaze lingered on the curve of the man’s back, the taut muscles of his thighs braced against the ground.
The blacksmith finished his work with a final strike, plunging the blade into water. Steam rose in a hiss, curling around his body like smoke. He set the hammer aside, rolling his shoulders with a low groan. His hand drifted over his chest, tracing the ridges of his muscles and the lines of an old scar.
He stepped away from the anvil, wiping his brow before moving to the cot at the edge of the forge. Dracula followed his every motion, his hunger sharpening as the blacksmith sank onto the cot. The man leaned back, exhaling heavily, his hand trailing absently over his abdomen.
And then it began.
The blacksmith’s fingers moved lower, brushing the waistband of his trousers. His breath hitched as he slid his hand beneath the fabric, his other hand bracing against the cot. The rhythm of his breaths quickened, each exhale deep and guttural. Dracula’s eyes burned with intensity as he watched the man’s muscles tense and relax, his body arching slightly as he stroked himself.
The intimacy of the scene was electric, every sound and motion amplified in the stillness of the night. The blacksmith’s moans escaped his lips in raw, unfiltered waves, unburdened by shame or restraint. His hand moved with a primal urgency, the fabric of his trousers pulled taut against the motion, revealing the hard lines of his thighs and the tension coursing through his body. His breath hitched, breaking the rhythm of his strokes, and a low, guttural groan filled the air, merging with the crackling of the forge.
His head tipped back, exposing the strong column of his throat. The firelight painted his skin in hues of gold and bronze, the pulse beneath his skin hammering in time with the lingering heat of the forge. Dracula’s eyes fixated on that pulse, the lifeblood surging through the veins just beneath the surface. Each droplet of sweat that trickled down the blacksmith’s chest seemed to catch the fire’s glow, carving rivulets along the hard ridges of muscle before disappearing into the waistband of his trousers. His chest heaved with every gasp, the muscles contracting and releasing in a rhythm that spoke of unrestrained vitality.
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Dracula’s own breath quickened, a rare and involuntary reaction. His hunger twisted into something darker, something that reached beyond his usual predatory urges. Desire, sharp as his fangs, coiled within him, entwining with his hunger until the two were indistinguishable. He stepped closer, his movements as silent as the night, his gaze locked on the blacksmith’s flushed face.
The man’s jaw was tight, a bead of sweat sliding down the curve of his cheek to his neck, where it lingered tantalizingly before disappearing. His thighs trembled and clenched, the tendons in his arms straining with the force of his motions. Dracula could feel the life force radiating from him, so vibrant and immediate that it seemed to pulse in the very air. It was as though the blacksmith’s heartbeat had become Dracula’s own, a siren call drawing him closer with every thrum.
Then the blacksmith gasped-a sharp, keening sound that sent a shiver through Dracula. His body arched, muscles rippling as pleasure overtook him. The vampire's eyes burned as he watched the man shudder, his movements slowing as his release claimed him. The blacksmith's hand stilled, falling away to rest limply at his side, and his chest heaved with the effort of recovering his breath.
The flush of exertion painted the blacksmith's skin a deep, warm hue, the afterglow of his passion radiating outward like a flame. Dracula could almost taste it in the air-the heat, the vitality, the raw energy of life. It was intoxicating, a feast for every one of his senses, and he felt his hunger crest to the point of pain.
It was then that Dracula stepped from the shadows.
The forge’s glow seemed to dim as his presence filled the space. The blacksmith’s eyes snapped open, his body tensing as he registered the figure before him.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice hoarse, his hand reaching instinctively for the blade he’d forged.
Dracula’s lips curved into a smile, his fangs catching the light. “You’ve labored well tonight,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “And indulged yourself even better.”
The blacksmith rose, gripping the blade tightly. “What do you want?”
Dracula moved closer, his steps deliberate, his gaze never wavering. “Your strength,” he purred. “Your vitality. The fire that burns within you.”
The blacksmith lunged, the blade slicing through the air, but Dracula caught his wrist with preternatural ease. The man’s strength was formidable, his muscles straining as he fought against the vampire’s grip, but it was a futile effort.
“You are strong,” Dracula murmured, his voice soft but commanding. “And beautiful in your strength. But even the strongest must fall to the night.”
The blacksmith gasped as Dracula’s cold fingers trailed over his neck, brushing against the warmth of his skin. For a moment, the vampire paused, his gaze lingering on the man’s flushed face, the remnants of his arousal still evident in the way his chest heaved, his pulse racing beneath the surface.
Then Dracula struck. His fangs pierced the blacksmith’s flesh with deliberate precision, and the man’s struggles faltered as the vampire drank deeply. The blood was exquisite, rich with the heat of his earlier pleasure, spiced with vitality and strength. Dracula reveled in it, the taste igniting a fire within him that spread through every nerve, every sense.
When it was over, the blacksmith’s body went limp in his grasp. Dracula released him, letting the lifeless form fall to the ground. He stood over the man, his chest rising and falling as he savored the lingering echoes of the blacksmith’s life.
“A fitting end,” Dracula murmured, his voice tinged with satisfaction. “For one who lived by fire and steel.”
He turned and stepped into the night, the shadows enveloping him once more. Behind him, the forge’s glow dimmed, its light fading with the life it had once illuminated. Dracula moved on, his hunger sated, his purpose unshaken, though the memory of the blacksmith lingered—a testament to the fragile beauty of mortal strength and desire.