Disclaimer : Characters belong to their respectful owners
Fandom : Penny Dreadful (2014)
Rating : M
Pairing : Victor Frankenstein x Dorian Gray
Genre : fanfiction,
Characters : Victor Frankenstein, Dorian Gray, The Creature/Caliban
Summary : This is an aborted idea I had for a Victor x Dorian smut. Sadly my inspiration has run out before I have the chance to finish it. To not waste a few words I’ve written, I will leave it here. Feel free to use it if you want to, just give me a few words, OK? The plot is that The Creature wants Dorian Gray as his mate and implies to kill him so that Victor will resurrect him (it’s a bit dark at first). Then they both learn a disturbing truth that some people just don’t die when they are killed.
“He’s out of your league!” Victor Frankenstein hissed at his Creature, who, together with him, were lurking in the shadows and peering at the opposite coffee shop. “He’s no common folk, perhaps a lord’s son, a nobleman, a person of wealth and status. Drill some common sense into your head: should he go missing, his family could turn the city inside out to find him…”
He barely finished his sentence when his throat was seized with cold, vice-like fingers and his body was slammed against the damp wall, knocking the air out of his lungs. He clawed at the hand that sought to crush his windpipes but it was of no avail, the steeled grip did not loosen. His vision was blotted and his eyes bulging, Victor could feel the foul breath of Death very close to his face.
“How is a corpse ‘out of my league’, Creator? Does it matter whose son he is or what status or property he possesses once Death puts the veil over his pretty eyes? Oh, how fair and just Death is to us all: that he would treat a nobleman and a bastard the same, stripping them off their status and their gold, and leaving them a naked, undignified rigid cadaver.”
The Creature growled, baring his teeth in his widening grin as he lectured his creator. Victor could not bear to look at him.
“It’s different…” he retorted weakly. “He…he’s still living, he has not..”
“What is the difference? Was I human once, and living? Was my brother the same? We died of whatever cause we could not remember, and were revived by your hands. Did it matter to you at that time that you chose to give this corpse life and not the other next to him? Does it matter now that you work your magic once again on yet another corpse?”
Victor’s face crumpled in a grimace, his face purple with the lack of air. The Creature went on, voice softer and languid, “What matters is that I want him, Creator, have wanted him since the moment I saw him, closing his eyes as he inhaled the sweet perfume of the Rothchild’s Slipper. I have yearned for him as I yearned for your care and guidance when you made me, as I have yearned for release from this miserable fate of eternal loneliness and you will oblige me. Make him mine, Creator, and you have my word that we will go far away, out of your sight and your life. You want peace, don’t you? Do it for me and you will have it.”
Then The Creature released him and Victor gasped for air like a fish out of water. Every intake of breath was a painful stab to his lungs: his sight blurred with the hot tears that gathered at the corners of his eyes. “Fine…” he wheezed, clutching his throat, where he did not doubt would have five ugly purple bruises for days to come. Unconsciously he fixed his crumpled collar and cravat; he was not prepared to answer the torrent of questions from Sir Murray and Mr. Chandler lest they saw his neck. “But let me be clean of it, of this hideous crime of yours. I will have no part in your cold-blooded murder.”
“Fine. Taking life is my part as creating new life is yours. In three days I will come back, and I will have my beautiful mate. Do not fail me this time, Father.”
He retreated to the darkness faster than human eyes could follow, leaving Victor with a tornado of angst and guilt churning in his stomach as if a hungry mechanical monster. He wanted to throw up, despite he had not had much in his stomach since morning, and it was not entirely due to the violent treatment he had suffered at the hands of his ‘child’ or the putrid smell coming heavily from the open trench nearby. He braced himself to look up and found the young man had not left his place. The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history. Lines from a recently read novel sprang up in his mind. Such a beautiful creature and vividly alive. Yet Victor could envision that sculpted body, nude, pallid and lifeless, lying on his operation table, that his scalpel would mar that flawless skin with grotesque scars and stitches. He was no longer able to hold it back; he threw up violently on the pavement, toxic acid burning his mouth and tongue.
Through a veil of tears Victor saw that the young man was staring at him from his place across the street.