London, 1888
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Category:
G through L › League of Extraordinary Gentlemen
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
4,306
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
London, 1888
TITLE: London, 1888
AUTHOR: Carmilla
EMAIL: carmilla99@hotmail.com
FANDOM: X-over: Van Helsing/LXG
PAIRING: Dracula/Dorian Grey/Mina Harper
RATING: NC-17
NOTES: Written for as part of the fic exchange. Dracuporn, because we both know that what the world needs is more vampire smut As there is so much canon for both these films, and all of it contradictory, I’ve pretty much just picked the bits I like, so don’t expect complete consistency. Dorian in particular is heavily influenced by the original book (merely because I love it so much); Dracula is as close to his Van Helsing self as I could manage.
*
“I say, Henry,” remarked Dorian Grey, turning to his companion, “who is that extraordinary fellow?”
Lord Henry Wotton turned his head to glance in the direction his young friend was facing.
“The tall gentleman with the unfashionably long hair?”
“Yes, him.”
“His name, I believe, is Vlad Dracul. A Romanian nobleman; or something similar, at any rate.”
“I wasn’t aware that we admitted foreigners to the Olympians.”
“My dear,” said Lord Henry, with a patronising smile, “any establishment such as ours must occasionally balance principle with expediency.” He ran his eye over the tastefully decorated interior of their club. “The gentleman is very rich. Were it new money, of course, it wouldn’t buy him the time of day here. But coming as it does attached to a title and an ancient, crumbling estate, you’ll find it garners him a deal of good grace.”
Dorian drained his glass, ignoring Henry’s tut of disapproval.
“I think he’s rather fascinating. I’m going to introduce myself.”
His friend smiled indulgently at him.
“Dorian, you do take a liking to the oddest people. It’s one of your charms.”
“I didn’t say I liked him, Henry, I said I found him fascinating. There’s -”
“- a great difference, I know. All the same,” he added to himself, as Dorian made his way to a small knot of admirers who had gathered around the newcomer, “it’s the ones who fascinate you that cause the trouble.” He took another drag at his cigar, and opened the Evening Standard.
*
One of the things that Dorian had always excelled at was making a new acquaintance, and it was no great time before he had the stranger to himself. The man’s manner was indeed fascinating; he had a trick of giving, or appearing to give, his absolute attention to his interlocutor, no matter how trivial the conversation. It was unnerving. Fixed with those piercing black eyes, Dorian, unaccountably flustered, found himself babbling at some length and unsure of exactly what he was saying, and the man merely smiled – the smile of an indulgent parent with an eager child.
“Where exactly did you say your home was, Count Vlad?”
Again that debonair smile.
“I do not believe that I did. My estate is in the mountains to the north of Transylvania. Naturally, when in London I reside in my house here.”
Dorian nodded, a little dazedly. The Count’s voice was hypnotic; rich and heavy with strange accents.
“Of course, Count Vlad.”
The man chuckled, baring gleaming white teeth.
“Not so formal, I beg of you. My friends call me Dracula; you would flatter me, should you do likewise.”
His ‘r’s rolled off his tongue; his ‘c’ was hard. The voice undulated gently; Dorian felt himself afloat in some uncharted sea.
“Then I shall – Dracula.”
*
When drinks at the club and inconsequential chatter had transmuted itself, through soft words and softer touches, to an invitation back to the Count’s London house, Dorian was unsure. Now they rattled through the streets together in a hansom cab, not speaking – not needing to.
Dorian had seduced too many others not to realise that he had himself been expertly seduced, even if he couldn’t put a finger on how exactly it had happened. He was not displeased with the situation; had half intended when he first strode across the room to the stranger with all the confidence of his youth, his beautiful, invulnerable youth; but he found himself somewhat bewildered at the speed the connexion had been established. True, the Olympians had a reputation (a discreet reputation, and only in the most genteel of circles) for numbering men of certain preferences among its members; but it was never discussed openly, and encounters between such men were usually preceded by weeks of cautious courtship, advances and retreats, sign and countersign.
Obviously nobody had informed the Count of these, Dorian thought with a wry smile, as the cab pulled up outside a stately, if somewhat derelict, residence. Before he had thought to move, he found the door of the cab opened for him and a gracious hand proffered to assist his descent. Half amused, half scandalised at being treated like some silly chit, Dorian placed his hand in the white kid glove and stepped down. His shoes splashed in the rainwater puddled at the curb; still feeling the touch of that ridiculously soft leather, he barely noticed. Silently, they walked up the gravel drive, and Dorian stepped through the door that his host so gallantly held open for him.
The house was cold, and dark; the gas lamps were unlit. The place smelled of mildew and slow decay, and dripping water echoed from its high ceilings. But, Dorian’s practised eye noticed, this had once been a very fine establishment. The wide flight of stairs leading to the upper floor was made of polished marble. Upstairs, Dorian thought. For once in his life, he would be happy to pass over a lazy and wholly unnecessary seduction scene. He was about to turn back to the Count, a flattering smile on his lips, when he saw a light at the top of the stairs.
“Dracula? Are you home?”
It was a woman’s voice, low and clear. As she began to descend the staircase, Dorian caught glimpses of her face, half-lit by the flickering candle she carried. She was young, and beautiful, but there was a hardness about her; her eyes were hooded in shadows. Her skin was the same shade as the Count’s, so pale as to be almost luminescent, and in the white dress she was wearing she looked ghostly, unreal. Her brown hair, undressed, fell down her back in loose curls. Stopping about halfway down the stairs as she saw him, she stared, hard, in a way that would usually be deemed wholly socially unacceptable. Dorian felt cool hands settle on his shoulders. He hadn’t heard the Count move.
“Mina, my dear.” His tone was deep, caressing. “Do come and meet this young man. I have had a most delightful evening with him.”
Dorian turned his head so as to speak quietly, suddenly uncomfortably aware of how close the movement brought their lips. He didn’t know how to behave in front of this strange, bold woman, whose English accent if nothing else proclaimed her to be no relation of his new friend’s.
“Dracula, I -” he cleared his throat, and lowered his tone further. “That is to say, I did not realise you had company here. I rather expected that we should be alone.”
Dracula’s voice almost purred with amusement.
“Did you?”
It was more an admonishment than a question. Dorian remembered his manners and held out his hand to the woman, who had now reached the bottom of the stairs and was gazing at him levelly with dark, inscrutable eyes.
Dracula stepped forward, the model of a gracious host.
“Dorian Grey, allow me to present Mina Harper. Mina, this is Dorian.”
Mina placed her hand in Dorian’s, and he brushed her fingertips with his lips. He could feel their gazes meet over his bowed head.
“Your servant, madam.”
“Indeed.” Her voice was dry. “Well, gentlemen, I find it grows cold down here. I have a fire lit in one of the upstairs rooms, if you would care to accompany me?”
Dorian’s eyebrow raised a fraction. This was a turn to the evening’s events that he had no anticipated. As subtly as he knew how, he inspected the girl again, noting the full figure, the tight press of white fabric against her bosom, and decided there was nothing objectionable in this new development.
As he followed Mina’s fluttering skirts up the stairs, he felt Dracula’s presence behind him, but he never heard his footsteps.
*
The bedchamber (and for all its spaciousness, its cosy armchairs around the fire, the modest curtains drawn around the bed itself, it was not merely an ‘upstairs room’, but most decidedly a bedchamber) was the most sumptuous room in the house, not merely fully habitable but ostentatious of the Count’s great wealth. The furniture was lavish, the décor in remarkably good taste. Dorian, coddled in a warm haze of red velvet cushions and alcoholic intoxication, barely noticed.
He had, however, decided to reverse his first impression of Mina. The initial hostility he’d felt from her had melted away, and left behind a remarkably agreeable girl, soft-skinned and solicitous, pleasant of manner and soothing of voice. Her fingertips were drawing lazy circles on his wrist now as he slumped back into his chair, unashamedly gazing at Dracula as he unbound his smooth black horsetail and fingercombed it out, so that his hair fell in gentle waves around his face. On any other man of Dorian’s acquaintance, he would have found the effect feminizing, ridiculous. But Dracula’s strong features remained uncompromised; like his accent and his somewhat outlandish dress, it added to his fascination. His host was obviously aware that he was being observed; his long-fingered hands had a showman’s grace. And equally obviously, he refused to acknowledge the fact, pointedly not meeting Dorian’s gaze. Dorian’s wits were mired in eiderdown and sticky brandy-residue; all his experience wasn’t equal to the situation. He simply had no idea how to proceed.
And then Mina leant across and kissed him.
Her lips were soft and full; her tongue was cool as it slid across his. Dorian absently attributed this to ice cubes in her drink as he tangled his fingers in her hair and she cupped his face in her hands. His eyes had fluttered closed as their mouths met; now he opened them, seeking Dracula’s face, curious to see his expression. But he seemed to have left the room; his chair was abandoned. Alarmed, Dorian tried to break the kiss, but Mina held him in place, betraying a surprising strength, and sucked insistently on his tongue as he struggled to free himself. Suddenly, he felt another pair of hands sliding down his chest from behind, and instantly relaxed. Dracula’s expert fingers divested him of his bowtie, already loosened, and began to undo his shirt buttons. Dorian felt a sudden chill; he had foregone an undershirt, and the hands raised goosepimples on his bare flesh. Mina, now straddling his lap, removed his belt and made short work of his trouser buttons. He felt himself stiffening rapidly; he’d never encountered a girl of Mina’s class so wanton nor so expert in her ministrations. She broke their kiss and stood up, laughing lightly at his eagerness. Dracula ran his unusually long nails up Dorian’s throat, tilting his face back, and claimed his mouth with absolute confidence and deliberate purpose. Dorian thought dazedly that it was a good thing he was seated, as he doubted he could stand; especially when he felt a flutter of scented cotton against his cheek, and divined that Mina was undressing. Dracula’s tongue stroked the roof of his mouth. Mina’s hands were at the waistband of his trousers, and he eased his hips up to assist her as she dragged them off, leaving him feeling oddly exposed wearing only his open shirt.
Mina’s hands were resting on his knees, pulling them wide; Dracula broke their kiss suddenly, and Dorian looked down. Mina was kneeling between his parted thighs, her mouth mere inches from him, and she was watching his face. The sight was shockingly, intensely erotic; his arousal strained fiercely. Dracula’s hands massaged his shoulders lightly; his dark, commanding eyes were locked with Mina’s, and Dorian, watching her face, could see something powerful and unspoken pass between them as she leaned forward without breaking their gaze and sucked at him, carefully, before rising, leaning her weight on his legs, to kiss Dracula over his shoulder. Her breasts hung full and heavy before him; eagerly, he captured a pale pink nipple in his mouth, reaching up to gently knead her other breast, and she squirmed in a most gratifying manner. Dracula’s hand raked through his hair; Mina smelt like musk and dead flowers, and her scent was heady in his mouth and nostrils. Her hands still braced on his thighs, she pulled herself up to kneel across him, and he used his free hand to pull her tighter. Her hair fell in his face, tickling him; he freed his mouth, looking up at her, and over her shoulder he saw Dracula, standing before him and watching with an indulgent smile on his lips. He was naked; the firelight turned his long, lean body into golden planes and impenetrable shadows, shifting every instant. Mina didn’t seem to mind that his attention was distracted. She licked and sucked at his neck, running one delicate hand over his torso, splaying it over his stomach, teasing at his nipples. Dracula slowly, deliberately ran one hand over his own chest and down his side, and Dorian’s arousal gave an urgent jump. He closed his eyes.
He opened them again at the touch of the Count’s hands, once more on his shoulders, shifting him around to the side so that his lower back was braced against the arm of the settee. Dracula began to slide his shirt (he had all but forgotten he was still wearing it) down his arms, temporarily restraining them behind his back. As he did so, Mina leaned forward and nipped at his neck again; her teeth were sharp. Dracula tilted her chin up with his hand, and she moaned a little in the back of her throat and pouted like a child. The effect was coquettish; Dracula kissed her lips briefly before stripping Dorian entirely of his shirt, and, guiding him with a hand resting just below his elbow, raised him off the settee and led him to the bed.
He didn’t draw the bed curtains, but rather raised one enough for Dorian to crawl under it and onto the bed, feeling the others’ eyes rake over his exposed flesh as he did so. Mina was the first to join him; he felt the touch of her cool, soft skin brush across him as she sat at the other end of the bed. Then her hands were creeping slowly up his thighs, and her mouth closed over him again, taking him deeper this time, and he gasped, closing his eyes. When he opened them, it was onto more darkness; Dracula had let the curtain fall back, and Dorian felt his body settle itself along his side. Dracula’s fingers trailed lazily over his torso. The darkness was stuffy, the air heating rapidly in the enclosed space. But none of that mattered, because Dracula was licking the sweat away from his collarbone with the delicate precision of a cat grooming itself, and Mina had him in a firm hand and was guiding him into herself. He thrust upwards, his groan stifled by an invasive kiss from Dracula.
He felt Mina grip his ankles as she leaned back, riding him hard; Dracula’s tongue continued to fuck his mouth. He felt taken over, out of himself; he no longer had any control over his own body as he responded blindly, instinctively, helplessly. Mina began to twitch and clench around him, her fists closing tighter, fingers digging into his skin hard enough to bruise; vaguely, he felt Dracula’s hand moving just above his erection, working her to climax. She reached it with a rush and a shriek of abandonment, squeezing him rhythmically, like a gloved hand, impossibly tight, and he spent into her, his cries still smothered by Dracula’s lips.
The experience was intense, far more so than usual. He lay exhausted, limbs trembling slightly, as Mina pulled herself off him, and sprawled lengthways along the bed, and he felt, rather than saw it, as she and Dracula kissed mere inches above his face.
Then Mina pinned one of his arms to the bed, and Dracula the other, and their heads darted downwards in unison, and he felt teeth breaking the tender skin of his throat.
For a moment, shock blanked his mind; he couldn’t even think about what was happening. Awareness returned slowly, in the form of sensory impressions. Two distinct, sharp pains, fading by the moment to dull but persistent aches. Two sets of soft, sensuous lips, working against the wounds with almost parodic gentleness. Mild, but distinct, the familiar smell of blood. His head was swimming; blood loss was making him dizzy. He could hear nothing but a faint, constant buzzing. And then, very dimly at first, he became aware of voices, voices that seemed to appear in his mind without needing to touch his ears.
/His heartbeat isn’t slowing./
That one was soft, brushing across his awareness like silk.
/Patience, child./
And that voice, dark and deep, flooding his mind like a river, was Dracula. The certainty was so sudden and total that it didn’t leave him room to doubt even his own sanity.
/It isn’t right. Something isn’t right. He even tastes wrong. Not like blood at all. Almost…like paint./
That must be Mina’s voice speaking, then. Mina’s mouth suddenly withdrawing from him. Mina’s hands on the heavy velvet, tugging it back. Mina’s gasp, as she saw the holes in his neck already beginning to close.
He didn’t feel Dracula move, only saw him appear suddenly at Mina’s side.
“What are you?” Dracula demanded, the certainty of command in his voice. “You breathe, you bleed, your heart beats; you are not one of our race. What are you?”
Dorian grinned up at him, insolently, feeling his strength returning with every passing second.
“I’m special.”
Dracula paused for a fraction of a second; then he smiled, raking Dorian with his eyes, and Dorian felt his blood stirring again.
“Well, Mina, it would appear that I chose our evening’s entertainment better than even I knew.”
And Dorian could taste his own blood as Dracula claimed his mouth again.
*
When he woke, he could see the grey half-light that signalled a London dawn filtering in through the east facing windows. The bed curtains had all been drawn back; he was tangled in stained and sweat soaked sheets. He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear it; images of the previous night’s congress rattled around his skull. He saw himself, on his knees in front of Dracula, taking his length into his mouth and demonstrating his skills in this area with a truly virtuoso display, fuelled by the inarticulate sounds he was eliciting. Saw himself bent over the bed, grunting a little as Dracula breached him slowly, looking at Mina as she watched him, her eyes wide and her hands flitting over her body. He saw Dracula offering him a bleeding wrist, and himself pushing it away; he had heard enough legends of these creatures not to risk tasting even a drop of their blood. Considering his own remarkable existence, he could ill afford to disbelieve in monsters. He saw Mina drinking from his own wrist while Dracula ran his hands over her breasts from behind, her eyes locked on his face.
Abruptly, he became aware that she was leaning over him now; her touch on his shoulder had woken him. She handed him his clothes, neatly folded.
“Dress, now. He will be back in less than an hour – before the sun rises.”
He began to scramble into the garments, looking at her curiously. She read his expression.
“Last night he made you an offer, and you refused. Next time, you will have no choice. If you go now, you’ll probably be safe; he will lose interest before too long.”
Dorian wasn’t at all sure he wanted Dracula to lose interest in him. Mina gripped his arm; her gaze was urgent.
“Believe me, Dorian, you do not want this life. You do not want to be one of our race; you do not want to be one of his – loves.” She shuddered slightly at that last word.
Silently, Dorian nodded his assent, and followed her down the stairs. At the door, she hesitated.
“If… if I wanted to find you, where should I look?”
Dorian was startled, but there was something in her expression, something haunted and desperate and wildly hopeful. Vulnerability was appealing in her, he decided.
“There’s an opium den, in the East End. The Golden Dragon. You might come there.”
She closed her eyes for a second, pressed her lips together. Then she afforded him a tiny smile before she opened the door, and he stepped out into the cold London morning.
End
AUTHOR: Carmilla
EMAIL: carmilla99@hotmail.com
FANDOM: X-over: Van Helsing/LXG
PAIRING: Dracula/Dorian Grey/Mina Harper
RATING: NC-17
NOTES: Written for
*
“I say, Henry,” remarked Dorian Grey, turning to his companion, “who is that extraordinary fellow?”
Lord Henry Wotton turned his head to glance in the direction his young friend was facing.
“The tall gentleman with the unfashionably long hair?”
“Yes, him.”
“His name, I believe, is Vlad Dracul. A Romanian nobleman; or something similar, at any rate.”
“I wasn’t aware that we admitted foreigners to the Olympians.”
“My dear,” said Lord Henry, with a patronising smile, “any establishment such as ours must occasionally balance principle with expediency.” He ran his eye over the tastefully decorated interior of their club. “The gentleman is very rich. Were it new money, of course, it wouldn’t buy him the time of day here. But coming as it does attached to a title and an ancient, crumbling estate, you’ll find it garners him a deal of good grace.”
Dorian drained his glass, ignoring Henry’s tut of disapproval.
“I think he’s rather fascinating. I’m going to introduce myself.”
His friend smiled indulgently at him.
“Dorian, you do take a liking to the oddest people. It’s one of your charms.”
“I didn’t say I liked him, Henry, I said I found him fascinating. There’s -”
“- a great difference, I know. All the same,” he added to himself, as Dorian made his way to a small knot of admirers who had gathered around the newcomer, “it’s the ones who fascinate you that cause the trouble.” He took another drag at his cigar, and opened the Evening Standard.
*
One of the things that Dorian had always excelled at was making a new acquaintance, and it was no great time before he had the stranger to himself. The man’s manner was indeed fascinating; he had a trick of giving, or appearing to give, his absolute attention to his interlocutor, no matter how trivial the conversation. It was unnerving. Fixed with those piercing black eyes, Dorian, unaccountably flustered, found himself babbling at some length and unsure of exactly what he was saying, and the man merely smiled – the smile of an indulgent parent with an eager child.
“Where exactly did you say your home was, Count Vlad?”
Again that debonair smile.
“I do not believe that I did. My estate is in the mountains to the north of Transylvania. Naturally, when in London I reside in my house here.”
Dorian nodded, a little dazedly. The Count’s voice was hypnotic; rich and heavy with strange accents.
“Of course, Count Vlad.”
The man chuckled, baring gleaming white teeth.
“Not so formal, I beg of you. My friends call me Dracula; you would flatter me, should you do likewise.”
His ‘r’s rolled off his tongue; his ‘c’ was hard. The voice undulated gently; Dorian felt himself afloat in some uncharted sea.
“Then I shall – Dracula.”
*
When drinks at the club and inconsequential chatter had transmuted itself, through soft words and softer touches, to an invitation back to the Count’s London house, Dorian was unsure. Now they rattled through the streets together in a hansom cab, not speaking – not needing to.
Dorian had seduced too many others not to realise that he had himself been expertly seduced, even if he couldn’t put a finger on how exactly it had happened. He was not displeased with the situation; had half intended when he first strode across the room to the stranger with all the confidence of his youth, his beautiful, invulnerable youth; but he found himself somewhat bewildered at the speed the connexion had been established. True, the Olympians had a reputation (a discreet reputation, and only in the most genteel of circles) for numbering men of certain preferences among its members; but it was never discussed openly, and encounters between such men were usually preceded by weeks of cautious courtship, advances and retreats, sign and countersign.
Obviously nobody had informed the Count of these, Dorian thought with a wry smile, as the cab pulled up outside a stately, if somewhat derelict, residence. Before he had thought to move, he found the door of the cab opened for him and a gracious hand proffered to assist his descent. Half amused, half scandalised at being treated like some silly chit, Dorian placed his hand in the white kid glove and stepped down. His shoes splashed in the rainwater puddled at the curb; still feeling the touch of that ridiculously soft leather, he barely noticed. Silently, they walked up the gravel drive, and Dorian stepped through the door that his host so gallantly held open for him.
The house was cold, and dark; the gas lamps were unlit. The place smelled of mildew and slow decay, and dripping water echoed from its high ceilings. But, Dorian’s practised eye noticed, this had once been a very fine establishment. The wide flight of stairs leading to the upper floor was made of polished marble. Upstairs, Dorian thought. For once in his life, he would be happy to pass over a lazy and wholly unnecessary seduction scene. He was about to turn back to the Count, a flattering smile on his lips, when he saw a light at the top of the stairs.
“Dracula? Are you home?”
It was a woman’s voice, low and clear. As she began to descend the staircase, Dorian caught glimpses of her face, half-lit by the flickering candle she carried. She was young, and beautiful, but there was a hardness about her; her eyes were hooded in shadows. Her skin was the same shade as the Count’s, so pale as to be almost luminescent, and in the white dress she was wearing she looked ghostly, unreal. Her brown hair, undressed, fell down her back in loose curls. Stopping about halfway down the stairs as she saw him, she stared, hard, in a way that would usually be deemed wholly socially unacceptable. Dorian felt cool hands settle on his shoulders. He hadn’t heard the Count move.
“Mina, my dear.” His tone was deep, caressing. “Do come and meet this young man. I have had a most delightful evening with him.”
Dorian turned his head so as to speak quietly, suddenly uncomfortably aware of how close the movement brought their lips. He didn’t know how to behave in front of this strange, bold woman, whose English accent if nothing else proclaimed her to be no relation of his new friend’s.
“Dracula, I -” he cleared his throat, and lowered his tone further. “That is to say, I did not realise you had company here. I rather expected that we should be alone.”
Dracula’s voice almost purred with amusement.
“Did you?”
It was more an admonishment than a question. Dorian remembered his manners and held out his hand to the woman, who had now reached the bottom of the stairs and was gazing at him levelly with dark, inscrutable eyes.
Dracula stepped forward, the model of a gracious host.
“Dorian Grey, allow me to present Mina Harper. Mina, this is Dorian.”
Mina placed her hand in Dorian’s, and he brushed her fingertips with his lips. He could feel their gazes meet over his bowed head.
“Your servant, madam.”
“Indeed.” Her voice was dry. “Well, gentlemen, I find it grows cold down here. I have a fire lit in one of the upstairs rooms, if you would care to accompany me?”
Dorian’s eyebrow raised a fraction. This was a turn to the evening’s events that he had no anticipated. As subtly as he knew how, he inspected the girl again, noting the full figure, the tight press of white fabric against her bosom, and decided there was nothing objectionable in this new development.
As he followed Mina’s fluttering skirts up the stairs, he felt Dracula’s presence behind him, but he never heard his footsteps.
*
The bedchamber (and for all its spaciousness, its cosy armchairs around the fire, the modest curtains drawn around the bed itself, it was not merely an ‘upstairs room’, but most decidedly a bedchamber) was the most sumptuous room in the house, not merely fully habitable but ostentatious of the Count’s great wealth. The furniture was lavish, the décor in remarkably good taste. Dorian, coddled in a warm haze of red velvet cushions and alcoholic intoxication, barely noticed.
He had, however, decided to reverse his first impression of Mina. The initial hostility he’d felt from her had melted away, and left behind a remarkably agreeable girl, soft-skinned and solicitous, pleasant of manner and soothing of voice. Her fingertips were drawing lazy circles on his wrist now as he slumped back into his chair, unashamedly gazing at Dracula as he unbound his smooth black horsetail and fingercombed it out, so that his hair fell in gentle waves around his face. On any other man of Dorian’s acquaintance, he would have found the effect feminizing, ridiculous. But Dracula’s strong features remained uncompromised; like his accent and his somewhat outlandish dress, it added to his fascination. His host was obviously aware that he was being observed; his long-fingered hands had a showman’s grace. And equally obviously, he refused to acknowledge the fact, pointedly not meeting Dorian’s gaze. Dorian’s wits were mired in eiderdown and sticky brandy-residue; all his experience wasn’t equal to the situation. He simply had no idea how to proceed.
And then Mina leant across and kissed him.
Her lips were soft and full; her tongue was cool as it slid across his. Dorian absently attributed this to ice cubes in her drink as he tangled his fingers in her hair and she cupped his face in her hands. His eyes had fluttered closed as their mouths met; now he opened them, seeking Dracula’s face, curious to see his expression. But he seemed to have left the room; his chair was abandoned. Alarmed, Dorian tried to break the kiss, but Mina held him in place, betraying a surprising strength, and sucked insistently on his tongue as he struggled to free himself. Suddenly, he felt another pair of hands sliding down his chest from behind, and instantly relaxed. Dracula’s expert fingers divested him of his bowtie, already loosened, and began to undo his shirt buttons. Dorian felt a sudden chill; he had foregone an undershirt, and the hands raised goosepimples on his bare flesh. Mina, now straddling his lap, removed his belt and made short work of his trouser buttons. He felt himself stiffening rapidly; he’d never encountered a girl of Mina’s class so wanton nor so expert in her ministrations. She broke their kiss and stood up, laughing lightly at his eagerness. Dracula ran his unusually long nails up Dorian’s throat, tilting his face back, and claimed his mouth with absolute confidence and deliberate purpose. Dorian thought dazedly that it was a good thing he was seated, as he doubted he could stand; especially when he felt a flutter of scented cotton against his cheek, and divined that Mina was undressing. Dracula’s tongue stroked the roof of his mouth. Mina’s hands were at the waistband of his trousers, and he eased his hips up to assist her as she dragged them off, leaving him feeling oddly exposed wearing only his open shirt.
Mina’s hands were resting on his knees, pulling them wide; Dracula broke their kiss suddenly, and Dorian looked down. Mina was kneeling between his parted thighs, her mouth mere inches from him, and she was watching his face. The sight was shockingly, intensely erotic; his arousal strained fiercely. Dracula’s hands massaged his shoulders lightly; his dark, commanding eyes were locked with Mina’s, and Dorian, watching her face, could see something powerful and unspoken pass between them as she leaned forward without breaking their gaze and sucked at him, carefully, before rising, leaning her weight on his legs, to kiss Dracula over his shoulder. Her breasts hung full and heavy before him; eagerly, he captured a pale pink nipple in his mouth, reaching up to gently knead her other breast, and she squirmed in a most gratifying manner. Dracula’s hand raked through his hair; Mina smelt like musk and dead flowers, and her scent was heady in his mouth and nostrils. Her hands still braced on his thighs, she pulled herself up to kneel across him, and he used his free hand to pull her tighter. Her hair fell in his face, tickling him; he freed his mouth, looking up at her, and over her shoulder he saw Dracula, standing before him and watching with an indulgent smile on his lips. He was naked; the firelight turned his long, lean body into golden planes and impenetrable shadows, shifting every instant. Mina didn’t seem to mind that his attention was distracted. She licked and sucked at his neck, running one delicate hand over his torso, splaying it over his stomach, teasing at his nipples. Dracula slowly, deliberately ran one hand over his own chest and down his side, and Dorian’s arousal gave an urgent jump. He closed his eyes.
He opened them again at the touch of the Count’s hands, once more on his shoulders, shifting him around to the side so that his lower back was braced against the arm of the settee. Dracula began to slide his shirt (he had all but forgotten he was still wearing it) down his arms, temporarily restraining them behind his back. As he did so, Mina leaned forward and nipped at his neck again; her teeth were sharp. Dracula tilted her chin up with his hand, and she moaned a little in the back of her throat and pouted like a child. The effect was coquettish; Dracula kissed her lips briefly before stripping Dorian entirely of his shirt, and, guiding him with a hand resting just below his elbow, raised him off the settee and led him to the bed.
He didn’t draw the bed curtains, but rather raised one enough for Dorian to crawl under it and onto the bed, feeling the others’ eyes rake over his exposed flesh as he did so. Mina was the first to join him; he felt the touch of her cool, soft skin brush across him as she sat at the other end of the bed. Then her hands were creeping slowly up his thighs, and her mouth closed over him again, taking him deeper this time, and he gasped, closing his eyes. When he opened them, it was onto more darkness; Dracula had let the curtain fall back, and Dorian felt his body settle itself along his side. Dracula’s fingers trailed lazily over his torso. The darkness was stuffy, the air heating rapidly in the enclosed space. But none of that mattered, because Dracula was licking the sweat away from his collarbone with the delicate precision of a cat grooming itself, and Mina had him in a firm hand and was guiding him into herself. He thrust upwards, his groan stifled by an invasive kiss from Dracula.
He felt Mina grip his ankles as she leaned back, riding him hard; Dracula’s tongue continued to fuck his mouth. He felt taken over, out of himself; he no longer had any control over his own body as he responded blindly, instinctively, helplessly. Mina began to twitch and clench around him, her fists closing tighter, fingers digging into his skin hard enough to bruise; vaguely, he felt Dracula’s hand moving just above his erection, working her to climax. She reached it with a rush and a shriek of abandonment, squeezing him rhythmically, like a gloved hand, impossibly tight, and he spent into her, his cries still smothered by Dracula’s lips.
The experience was intense, far more so than usual. He lay exhausted, limbs trembling slightly, as Mina pulled herself off him, and sprawled lengthways along the bed, and he felt, rather than saw it, as she and Dracula kissed mere inches above his face.
Then Mina pinned one of his arms to the bed, and Dracula the other, and their heads darted downwards in unison, and he felt teeth breaking the tender skin of his throat.
For a moment, shock blanked his mind; he couldn’t even think about what was happening. Awareness returned slowly, in the form of sensory impressions. Two distinct, sharp pains, fading by the moment to dull but persistent aches. Two sets of soft, sensuous lips, working against the wounds with almost parodic gentleness. Mild, but distinct, the familiar smell of blood. His head was swimming; blood loss was making him dizzy. He could hear nothing but a faint, constant buzzing. And then, very dimly at first, he became aware of voices, voices that seemed to appear in his mind without needing to touch his ears.
/His heartbeat isn’t slowing./
That one was soft, brushing across his awareness like silk.
/Patience, child./
And that voice, dark and deep, flooding his mind like a river, was Dracula. The certainty was so sudden and total that it didn’t leave him room to doubt even his own sanity.
/It isn’t right. Something isn’t right. He even tastes wrong. Not like blood at all. Almost…like paint./
That must be Mina’s voice speaking, then. Mina’s mouth suddenly withdrawing from him. Mina’s hands on the heavy velvet, tugging it back. Mina’s gasp, as she saw the holes in his neck already beginning to close.
He didn’t feel Dracula move, only saw him appear suddenly at Mina’s side.
“What are you?” Dracula demanded, the certainty of command in his voice. “You breathe, you bleed, your heart beats; you are not one of our race. What are you?”
Dorian grinned up at him, insolently, feeling his strength returning with every passing second.
“I’m special.”
Dracula paused for a fraction of a second; then he smiled, raking Dorian with his eyes, and Dorian felt his blood stirring again.
“Well, Mina, it would appear that I chose our evening’s entertainment better than even I knew.”
And Dorian could taste his own blood as Dracula claimed his mouth again.
*
When he woke, he could see the grey half-light that signalled a London dawn filtering in through the east facing windows. The bed curtains had all been drawn back; he was tangled in stained and sweat soaked sheets. He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear it; images of the previous night’s congress rattled around his skull. He saw himself, on his knees in front of Dracula, taking his length into his mouth and demonstrating his skills in this area with a truly virtuoso display, fuelled by the inarticulate sounds he was eliciting. Saw himself bent over the bed, grunting a little as Dracula breached him slowly, looking at Mina as she watched him, her eyes wide and her hands flitting over her body. He saw Dracula offering him a bleeding wrist, and himself pushing it away; he had heard enough legends of these creatures not to risk tasting even a drop of their blood. Considering his own remarkable existence, he could ill afford to disbelieve in monsters. He saw Mina drinking from his own wrist while Dracula ran his hands over her breasts from behind, her eyes locked on his face.
Abruptly, he became aware that she was leaning over him now; her touch on his shoulder had woken him. She handed him his clothes, neatly folded.
“Dress, now. He will be back in less than an hour – before the sun rises.”
He began to scramble into the garments, looking at her curiously. She read his expression.
“Last night he made you an offer, and you refused. Next time, you will have no choice. If you go now, you’ll probably be safe; he will lose interest before too long.”
Dorian wasn’t at all sure he wanted Dracula to lose interest in him. Mina gripped his arm; her gaze was urgent.
“Believe me, Dorian, you do not want this life. You do not want to be one of our race; you do not want to be one of his – loves.” She shuddered slightly at that last word.
Silently, Dorian nodded his assent, and followed her down the stairs. At the door, she hesitated.
“If… if I wanted to find you, where should I look?”
Dorian was startled, but there was something in her expression, something haunted and desperate and wildly hopeful. Vulnerability was appealing in her, he decided.
“There’s an opium den, in the East End. The Golden Dragon. You might come there.”
She closed her eyes for a second, pressed her lips together. Then she afforded him a tiny smile before she opened the door, and he stepped out into the cold London morning.
End