In the gloominess of his bedchambers, Jonathan awakens from a deep, restless sleep.
What sounds like dogs howl in the night.
Mist hovers thick. Pale within the shadows and faded lamplight.
Two red eyes materialize, glowing like shining, fresh blood upon stones. Jonathan lifts his head slightly, dazed, his eyelids falling together.
As he reopens his eyes, the Count of Castle Dracula lingers within the mist. His arms fold within his shadow-black robes. It doesn't seem right. Jonathan recalls meeting him as an old and frail man. Haggard. All of Count Dracula's eyebrows and hair atop of his skull a bushy, white quality. This is not that man.
Broad-shouldered and regal, towering in height. Slicked, raven-dark curls. No visible facial hair.
His pitch eyes faintly illuminate a smoldering crimson glow around its outer irises.
Jonathan attempts to call out to him, but his mind feels soft. Damp like lumpy, foul rags.
"My friend, rest yourself now…" Count Dracula's voice hovers over him, alleviating the overcoming dread. "You are not well…"
Sweat dribbles down Jonathan's brow.
This must be real.
He lies upon the silks and satins, helplessly writhing against the quivering of cool, heavy air.
Sensations like fingertips traveling upon Jonathan's flesh, mapping up his calves and lower thighs. Over the Jonathan's belly and sternum revealed by his opened, white sleep-tunic. Each little hair on his body raises up on end. He doesn't understand what fancy, or strongwine-induced hallucination, has taken him.
Palms that do not exist crawl to Jonathan's wrists, holding him firmly on the bedding. More invisible hands combing through Jonathan's bangs, touching over the plush of his lips, pushing Jonathan's legs apart. More, more of that startling pleasure.
Dark curls, dark eyes, his incandescent pallor—Jonathan visualizes him, moaning as his own prick gives a long, hard throb.
What feels like pressure enters him, filling Jonathan to his limits. He's burning-hot, inside, outside. So far inside himself. Jonathan chokes against the force, struggling to breathe, his wrists straining to no avail. His hips shift, driven up into the air, as the pressure increases and then releases, Jonathan's buttocks clenching and returning to the bed. He succumbs, arching himself when full once more, grunting loudly. The tip of his stiffened prick dribbles fluid. Weight drops over him.
He keeps his eyes shut, violently trembling and held in place.
Jonathan's rosary-beads gather pooling on his neck. Count Dracula hisses faintly, stopping mid-thrust, glimpsing the holy crucifix shielding the young man. Two of his front teeth elongating, piercing and pearly-bright in the lamplight.
He leaves Jonathan abruptly, gasping, escaping the vampiric thrall with a sore, persistent ache down to his very bones.