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Jonathan is dying.
He knows this.
He can feel his heart slowing as the Count continues to drink his blood, taking and taking and taking.
Jonathan’s fingers twitch, but he does not have the strength to lift his hand.
He can no longer feel the warmth of the fire burning in the hearth behind him. The soft fur pelts and ancient Turkish rugs he’s lying on are nothing more than a memory against his skin. The cock fucking into him is only a motion now, hardly bringing him the hazy pleasure it once had. The only thing Jonathan feels, can truly feel, is the Count’s lips against his neck, no longer holding the chill of a corpse, finally warmed by Jonathan’s own blood.
Blood.
Jonathan can feel that too, being pulled unnaturally through his veins, leaving his body bit by bit every time the Count swallows.
He groans, head lolling to the side.
There is a book lying on the floor beside him. It’s open. Facedown. Spine cracked. It’s in Romanian. Jonathan hadn’t understood a word. He’d only picked it up to look busy, to give himself just a little bit more time. He hadn’t really been reading it.
Dracula’s thrusts pick up speed even as Jonathan’s heart continues to slow.
He is so weak now.
Dracula doesn’t need to hold him down anymore as he continues to fuck into him. Jonathan can’t fight him—not that he had been trying particularly hard to in the first place. He can only lie there, limp and pliant, body moving in time with the Count’s own, the guilt of how easily he had given in to Dracula’s deceptively tender touch leaving a film of bitterness in his mouth.
There is so little blood left in him.
The hands holding Jonathan’s thighs open are gripping him tight, nails digging into the meat and fat on his bones. It should hurt. It does not. They should be leaving bruises and drawing blood. Jonathan’s skin remains as untainted and pure as the winter’s first snowfall.
The Count stills.
He must have climaxed. Filled Jonathan with his spend. Claimed him in this too, stolen this from him too, in this visceral, primal way.
He hardly feels it.
The Count releases Jonathan’s neck.
Jonathan whimpers.
Dracula hushes him gently, letting go of his thighs to run his hands up and down Jonathan’s flank like he’s soothing a startled animal. “How good you were to me, my dear friend,” he says, leaning forward, driving his cock deeper into Jonathan. “I’ve never had such a sweeter meal.”
“M—“
Jonathan tries to speak.
Fails.
He no longer has the breath left.
“Don’t strain yourself.” Dracula cradles Jonathan’s cheek in his palm, tilts his head so Jonathan is forced to look back at him. The Count seems so young. So strong. So healthy. His cheeks are flushed with stolen blood, his eyes bright, his lips upturned in a cruel bloodstained smile. “You want a peaceful death, do you not?”
Jonathan doesn’t want to die at all.
He jerks his head.
Dracula’s smile widens.
“Worry not, my young friend.” He croons, thumbing at the soft skin underneath Jonathan’s eye. “It will be over soon.”
No.
No, it can’t be over.
He has to live.
He has to—
Jonathan parts his lips.
He can’t breathe.
Jonathan’s entire body shudders in one last violent fit. Even this does not hurt. It’s as if he’s tied to strings, nothing more than a marionette doll, with someone tugging violently at his limbs. His body is shutting down. Jonathan knows this. There is so little left in him. Heat. Blood. Oxygen. It has all been nearly entirely taken away from him. If he could just…if he could only replace what the Count took, then perhaps…
Jonathan tilts his head, turns more into the cradle of Dracula’s palm.
Dracula watches him curiously.
Jonathan’s body seizes, and with the last sluggish pulse of his heart he sinks his teeth into the flesh of the Count’s hand.
The taste of figs and honey and copper and ozone and grave dirt explode across his tongue.
Dracula hisses, but he does not pull his hand back.
“Jonathan, you little minx.” He purrs the words out, as pleased as a cat with a fresh kill.
The Count lifts his other hand, strokes Jonathan’s hair as he desperately tries to take back what was stolen from him, but Jonathan is struggling to do even that. He does not have the strength to swallow. The blood only pools in his mouth, coats his tongue and teeth. Dracula knows this, he must, because he carefully tilts Jonathan’s head back, ceases stroking his hair in favor of massaging his throat, coaxing the blood down his esophagus with a gentle touch.
“What a wonderful creature you are.” Dracula marvels.
Jonathan whimpers.
His eyes feel so heavy.
“Rest now, my own,” Dracula murmurs.
He pulls his hand away from Jonathan’s teeth, drags his thumb along Jonathan’s lip, smearing the blood left behind like paint.
And then he kisses him once.
Sweetly.
Like a lover sending their beloved off to bed.
“All will be well when you wake.”