[Fanfic] Why Won’t You Die? (4)

Disclaimer : Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandoms : Dracula (2013), Penny Dreadful (2014)

Rating : M

Pairing : Dracula/Alexander Grayson x Dorian Gray

Genres : fanfiction, crossover, humor, probably a little OOC

Characters : Dracula/Alexander Grayson, Dorian Gray, Renfield, original character

Warnings: gore

Summary : It was pretty simple: Dracula’s habitual feeding was seen by a mortal young man (a very handsome one but it was not the matter!), so in order to protect his secrets, naturally the monarch of vampires had to kill him. Then, for some mysterious reason, the same young man showed up at his demonstration ball, alive, well and would very much like to remind the vampire how he had mercilessly ‘broken’ his heart only nights before.

IV.   No Fear of the Sun


Why wont you die 4

“I really hate this,” muttered Renfield the fifteenth time as he was making his way up the spiraling staircase to Alexander Grayson’s chamber. Of all the unconventional (and more often than not plain crazy) tasks his contract with the vampire lord included, this was the task that he hated with the strongest fervor. Let us hear Renfield explain. So during the party Grayson had scheduled an interview with a reporter by the name Jonathan Harker at 4 o’ clock in the afternoon and it was Renfield’s duty as his assistant that he had to make sure his boss would not miss the appointment. A simple-sounding task that assistants around the world had to do, how difficult could it be? Well, the problem was it was already 3 in the afternoon and Alexander Grayson had not descended the stairs yet. Judging by his condition last night, he would be unlikely to crawl out of his bed unless Renfield came up to drag him out. Seriously, dragging an average-strength drunken human out of bed was terrible enough – you might end up with a few angry punches in the guts. Dragging a super strong drunken vampire out of his bed was a matter of life and death – you might end up with a few angry punches through the guts. Adieu, guts, good to know you, and life too. And now not only did Renfield have to drag a severely drunken vampire out of bed, he also had to get him prepared for an interview, which included washing, grooming (as if that mustache would trim itself!) and properly clothing. Talk about an assistant’s duties. Since that ‘severely drunken vampire’ paid him very well and happened to have saved his life a few times, Renfield guessed he just had to grit his teeth and bore through it.

To be fair, this was not a task Renfield had to carry out very often. As said, Alexander Grayson was only human in appearance and though his usual consumption of heavy alcohol was ten times a beyond-despair alcoholic’s, the chance of him getting drunk was once in a blue moon (that time in New Orleans again). Yet that ‘blue moon’ had already paid a visit twice in the same week, which was both bizarre and extremely annoying. He remembered that Dorian Gray young man and his taunting boyish smile as he had carried an almost passed out Grayson to Renfield. If what Grayson had told him was truth and not some bloodlust-induced hallucination, then this young man was much more than a mere simple-minded pretty face. He might prove to be a serious threat even. Renfield reminded himself to go through the data of this ‘Dorian Gray’ once more to make certain he was not in any way related to the Order of the Dragon. But first thing first…

Panic shot through Renfield like a bullet when he was one step into the chamber and found Grayson sprawling on the floor with his face down – somehow in the night the unyielding and brave caterpillar had managed to break free from his fabric cocoon… Renfield quickly took off his jacket and covered Grayson’s head and rushed to the window. He breathed a lengthy sigh of relief to find the curtains thick enough to prevent any sunlight from entering. He checked again, and thanked God, or The Devil, or whatever above or below that his boss had not been burnt to charcoal yet. Gave him a fright really.

Now to a more challenging part…

“Sir,” he called, “it’s almost time to your interview with Harker.”

Grayson had no response.

He spoke a little louder, with a gentle probe on Grayson’s shoulders.

Grayson stubbornly remained a dead log.

For The Devil’s sake, Renfield hated it; still, the situation left him no choice but to get on with Grayson’s preparation, with Grayson’s being conscious or not, and hoped that the hassles he made would rouse his boss from his slumber. Right now if someone told him a kiss would wake Grayson up, Renfield would not shy from trying it. Fortunately (for Grayson and Renfield himself) our man was never a fan of silly fairy tales.

Alexander was floating in a body of water, which reminded him of a once-upon-a-time memory of a small, lovely spring behind his castle, where he and Ilona usually bathed together in a full moon. He had named it after her while his beautiful wife, laughing gleefully, splashed the silvery water into his face in hope of encouraging (destroying?) his sporadic poetic mood. It did not take long for him to join her little children game and it took even less for them to join each other, submerged in and blessed by the Moon Goddess’s grace.

But this water was not the liquid silver of the Ilona spring; this water was thick and red, a spring from a slender neck he remembered having ripped open. He could not see much through the water and he also realized he was unable to move his limbs. They were there, intact, yet he had no control over them, as though he was inside another body instead of his own, and this body contained him but denied him of any usage. He tried to do something, anything, like willing his incisors to lengthen. No avail.

He had not feel mortal for centuries. He had forgotten how helpless a mortal could be. This was a harsh reminder.

All of sudden he saw a face, gradually coming closer. He recognized it, as he remembered seeing it only hours before, especially its amber-colored eyes and its Cupid’s bow of lips. But he did not recall seeing its pointed teeth, even longer and more animalistic than his own. Nor did he remember a curving red horn protruding from the middle of its forehead. Its amber eyes turned golden and the pupils slit like a cat’s; its tongue flicking against the corner of its mouth was a snake’s.

The creature swarm its way towards him, and embraced his limp body in its scaly arms. Its claws, sharp like razor knives, raked his skin and dug into his flesh. He could not even groan. The torture and humiliation at the hands of the Knights of the Dragon Order revived vividly through this creature’s claws. Currents were rising around him while the water had been perfectly still before; the liquid simmered with increasing heat. Like a witch’s boiling cauldron, he thought, and he whatever miserable ingredient caught in it. The red liquid penetrated his body through his open wounds, running along his veins. Was this how it should feel to be burnt from the inside out? Lips faintly brushed against his own before a grotesque hand clamped over his mouth and lower jaw, tipping his head back and exposing his throat. He was too familiar with this gesture to not realize its purpose. He tried to move his dead limbs in a desperate attempt to break free. “Shush.” A sound was whispered into his ear and the snake tongue licked his Adam’s apple, before the water rushed hotly into his throat. He knew his throat had been ripped open, that he should be chocked with agony, but he was not. Oddly enough, he felt the claws, the tongue, even the phantom of the creature’s breath on his neck; he only did not feel the teeth.

Was he dead already?

He saw light shyly piercing through the thick water and the creature began to swim towards it, taking him in its arms. His instincts flared and once again he fought it, with his dead limbs now vigorously brought back to life. He did not understand, perhaps it was the thick, red water flowing in him. He felt its strength, its energy pumping in his every fiber and he could use it like a well whetted sword in his skillful hand. He grabbed the creature by its shoulders, trying to wrestle free of its grip. Yet even with his new power he was no match for it – his confidence renewed, only to be crushed again as it kept pulling him closer and closer to the source of light he suspected to be the sun. Death, his inevitable fate he could fathom but not the creature’s intention. Why filling him with life and then burning him to crisp?

He closed his eyes and waited to feel the flame once he was out of the water. He saw red behind his eyelids and felt the heat. It was always comfortable in a few seconds first, the sun’s warmth on his skin, before the flame reduced him to blackened flesh and finally ash. His lips tasted salt and the memory of training with his fellow warriors under the scorching summer sun embraced his mind. Back then he could run all day without fearing that he would burst into a living torch. Back then the sun was a friend, annoying at times, but never a deadly enemy.

The creature’s claws shook him out of his reverie, and into new realization: he had not burnt yet! The warmth was on him, comfortable still. He dared to open his eyes and saw the sun glaring behind the creature’s head like a sort of halo. “No fear of the sun,” spoke a deep voice to him, foreign and sinister, a voice he had never heard before. The creature’s lips had not opened once. The face of Dorian Gray broke into an unfamiliar smile when the claws unhooked him. Gravity pulled him down to the water beneath while the creature’s body, naked but covered in vermillion scales from its neck down to the tip of its tail, remained floating.

As he was falling, he failed to question how the creature possessed the body of a giant snake instead of human legs.

He sank into the red water and emerged to the face of his assistant, Renfield.

“Sir, are you all right?” asked Renfield in a worried tone.

Alexander’s wide eyes swept around the room, taking time for the familiarity to sink in his muddled head. This was his bathroom all right, and he was in a bath tub full of lukewarm water scented with lavender oil instead of a body of blood water. Beside him was Renfield, soaked from head to toe.

“Are you all right?” Renfield asked again, wiping the water from his face. His worry increased by the seconds with Grayson’s uncharacteristic silence. His boss had been unconsciously making whimpering sounds and struggling for the last minutes, splashing water all over Renfield. He had jolted up, eyes bloodshot and wide, and the dazed look on his face as though he could not remember his own name was not the least assuring.


“… I’m fine,” he spoke at last, with voice hoarse and low like a murmur. Renfield had to strain his ears to pick up his words. “I… had a very peculiar dream.”

Having a bad dream, got it. It explained all the groaning and thrashing about. Who said bloodsuckers were not plagued by nightmares?

“You are feeling all right, sir?”

“Headache,” Alexander mumbled, clutching his head with his hands. “The same at before.”

Renfield frowned. “Should I reschedule the interview with Harker?”

“There’s no need. I’m almost sober.” He rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

Renfield checked with his pocket watch, which miraculously survived the previous onslaught of water. “Forty-five minutes until he comes, sir.”

Alexander reclined in the bath, laying his head on the marble edge. A few dark strands clung wetly on his smooth forehead. “There’s still some time, right? I’d like to stay in the water for a while.” He exhaled a breath. “Leave me, Renfield, and thank you for what you have done.”

“As you wish, sir.”

Then Alexander was alone in the bathroom. The water was warm, not scathing and thick like his dream. Despite so, when he cupped a handful of water to his face, he briefly imagined it as blood.

It was five to four and Jonathan Harker was sitting in Alexander Grayson’s office. He had showed up at Carfax Manor a little earlier than scheduled – such was his habit as a reporter: to take a little time to examine his interviewee’s place. Many might not notice but Jonathan knew from experience that a person’s office could reveal about its owner’s personality, lifestyle and habits as much as an interview. Grayson’s office was as anyone’s expectation of a rising American industrialist’s should be: filled with objects that exuded luxury – nothing cost less than Jonathan’s monthly income. Nevertheless he had to admit Grayson did have good taste. There was not a sense of ‘nouve rich’ he had overheard people whisper at the ball; everything was elegant and well complimented his office. A nostalgic air of the Middle Ages confined in Victorian walls if he were to express his impression. Jonathan took notice of a bronze statue on the mahogany bookshelf. It was a sculpture of a warrior on a majestic horse holding a long javelin in his hand with a man’s head impaled at its end. Beautiful and detailed as it was, it depicted savage brutality disguised in the name of glory. Jonathan shrugged and jotted down ‘aggressive’ on the page dedicated to Alexander Grayson. He also noticed the amber liquid in the crystal bottle among the glasses. Were they for Grayson’s guests or himself?

At four o’ clock sharp Jonathan heard the door open and Grayson’s assistant came in, announcing the American’s presence. Grayson stepped in, immaculate in light gray suit and matching tie. But Jonathan did not fail to pick up the moisture in his hair, suggesting that he had just gotten out of bath, the faint pink on his cheeks and the red rimming his pale blue eyes. Well, it was not surprising to see him in this state, considering last night had been his debut party and it was impossible for Grayson as the host not to get at least a little intoxicated. He managed enough steadiness and grace in his strides though, Jonathan gave him that.

Grayson’s handshake was cool, firm and brief as if he was afraid the afternoon sunlight peaking through the curtain window would burn his skin. Perhaps that was the way they shook hand in America, what with Americans and their odd customs. Grayson gestured to the chair Jonathan had originally sat sitting while waiting and he himself opted for the opposite chair, which was placed in the shadows. The man seemed to harbor a dislike to sunlight, which might explain the pallor of his face.

He would look fine with a little sun in his skin, thought Jonathan, noiselessly tapping the tip of his pen on the page. He hoped Grayson would not suffer from any ailment due to the lack of sunlight. The effects of such ailment could be quite devastating or so he had heard.

“Do you care for some whiskey, Mr. Harker?” Grayson reached to the low table and poured himself a glass.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Grayson, but I’d rather stay sober when the sun’s still out.”

“Some tea, then,” said Grayson after a sip. He rang the silver bell beside the crystal bottle, which summoned a freckle-faced young maid. “Miss Elsa’s apple crumbs are worth dying for.”

“Tea would be fine. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.”

“Neither do I. My trusted friend and assistant, Renfield, on the other hand…”

By the time the maid had brought in a small trolley with a pot of steaming tea and some mini-sandwiches, Grayson had already refilled his glass. Jonathan pretended he did not see Grayson smiling at him behind his glass when the reporter’s empty stomach gave a traitorous cry upon the sight of these pretty sandwiches.

“Help yourself, Mr. Harker. I trust you have skipped your lunch due to your hectic schedule.”

Twin blushes made their ways to Jonathan’s cheeks as he reached for the tea and sandwiches.

After one and a half hour of tea, delicious sandwiches, an empty bottle of whiskey and talk about industrialism, evolution, Darwin, emancipation and London weather as compared to America’s (New Orleans’ precisely), Jonathan Harker left Carfax Manor with a couple of first-class tickets to an opera. Grayson, despite his look and the whiskey he had consumed during the interview (which Jonathan did not doubt could send an average man to bed for a day straight), had been quite sober. Therefore, in his notebook, Jonathan had jotted down a long list of adjectives to describe the American industrialist: ‘visionary’, ‘delusional’, ‘egomaniac’, ‘hammy’ (he did not even know what that word was supposed to mean – blame it on the sandwiches), to name a few. And at the end of the list, ‘potential alcoholic’.

Talk about Americans and their bourbon.


As Jonathan fingered the tickets in his hands, he was thinking about a lovely evening with Mina. He considered crossing out the last description.

Alexander sat cross-legged on the floor among various photographs of his guests from last night. He had stripped down to his white linen shirt, waistcoat and trousers. It was torture to wear a full suit in this weather.

“I’ve given Harker the tickets, sir, as you instructed. Pardon me for asking but are you not going to the opera tomorrow night?”

“I have another engagement and you loathe opera so those tickets would be a waste if not given to someone. And Harker was writing in his notebook that I am a ‘potential alcoholic’.” Alexander air-quoted.

Renfield arched an eyebrow comically.

“I read his hand’s movements,” explained Alexander.

“Ah, so they were to grease his palm.”

“Yes, they were.”

Alexander shuffled through the photographs and picked out a handful. Placing them side by side, he turned to Renfield. “The Order of the Dragon, how to describe them?”

Renfield trod carefully to an armchair next to Alexander and sat down, eager for a history lesson.

“Murder, torture, rape, wholesale slaughter – that has been the stock-in-trade of them for over five hundred years. Back in my past, they asserted their will more directly via the cross and the sword. Slaughtering entire villages, branding men and women heretics, burning them on the stakes while they were screaming for a God…”

The image of Ilona in the flame flashed before his eyes. “… who never came.”

“Those atrocious acts are hard to cover in this era,” said Renfield.

“That doesn’t deter the scum from committing them – what happened to Van Helsing’s family is a macabre echo of the past. Though today they have carried out their dirty work via private clubs and boardrooms. Business, politics, and oil have a much bigger impact than simple slaughtering. And the last will be their undoing. They think oil is the future and by controlling it, they have the future in their palms. But…” He raised his forefinger. “… Our wireless, clean and inexpensive energy will drain them off their blood.”

“Yes, I did pay attention to their faces during the demonstration, sir. One of them, this man I believe, was not particularly pleased.”

“He gave me a piece of his mind actually. And I too may give him a piece of my mind, you know, to return the favor.” He held up the picture of a stocky middle-aged man and separated it from the rest. “I might have done so if not for…” he mumbled.

A ray of sunlight penetrated the crack in the curtain and Alexander, as if held under a compelling spell, reached out with his hand. Blisters began to surface before a small flame burst out. Renfield rushed to his side and pulled his hand back to the shadows. The pain began to register and Alexander hissed.

“What on earth are you doing, sir?” Renfield bit his fingers and allowed drops of blood to fall on Alexander’s lips.

Alexander studied the healing of the burn on his hand with curious eyes. “No fear of the sun,” he whispered.

“Sir, what did you just say?”

“I had a strange idea that if I reached out, I would not be burnt.”

“What gave you such an idea?”

“What do you think if I tell you it was a creature in my dream? Half-man, half-snake and with the face of this?”

He reached for the black-and-white photograph of Dorian Gray.

“I think we may have a serious problem, sir. Do you remember last night’s events? It was this Dorian Gray that carried you back to me.”

Alexander let out a sigh. “I drank him to make certain that he wasn’t a ghost. It felt exactly the same as three nights ago. I was quite sure that the blood I took from him was enough to fill two grown men and yet…”

“And yet he was fine, albeit looking only a little pale. Sir, about your instructions to investigate this man…”

“What did you find?”

“Plenty, sir. This Dorian Gray isn’t a man of discretion. Quite the opposite, actually. He is the only grandson of Lord Kelso, a late aristocrat, and thus the sole heir to the massive fortune of the lonely old man. He is quite a talk amongst the upper class, probably thanks to his looks and wealth. A typical young aristocrat like many of his peers as first look. But there are some rumors about him: his notorious hedonistic lifestyle for one and his age, another.”

“His age?”

“They say he came to London at the age of seventeen to inherit his grandfather’s massive fortune. A decade has passed since then.”

Alexander’s eyes squinted – a sign of him being in contemplation – at the picture of Dorian Gray. He asked, after a while, a seemingly irrelevant question. “How old do I look, Renfield?”

“Late twenties, perhaps thirty, sir,” answered Renfield incredulously.

“How old does Dorian Gray look?”

Renfield’s black eyes lit up. “Twenty give or take. Are you suggesting that he is like you, sir?”

Alexander shook his head. “Not like me. That I can be sure – no vampires survive having his heart ripped out. Dorian Gray is something else, something entirely different from what I know. And that is what I would like to find out.”

He stood up with the picture of Dorian Gray and placed it neatly on his desk. “Can you guess who I am to meet tomorrow night, Renfield?”

Dorian Gray’s eyes shot open. He was in his chamber, lying on his four-poster king-sized bed. The sky outside his window had turned a light purple. Someone from his childhood once told him that the sky was a giant pretty egg. He wished that was true. More romantic and less real. He was always fond of things that were unreal.

“Must you be a prick and bugger my pleasure?” said Dorian Gray in annoyance. “It barely got to the fun part.”

He ran his tongue slowly on his lower lip, reminiscing his short-lived pleasant dream before it got rudely interrupted and he himself was flung into another of his restless, mundane ones.

“It’s quite refreshing when you use less formal vocabulary,” a deep voice said, the speaker unseen. “The pleasure of denial, my sweet child. Leaves him puzzling, curious. The art of baiting.”

Dorian gazed at the ceiling, uninterested.

“Want to make a bet with me?”

It was apparently Dorian was paying more attention to the tiny laborious spider on the wall than the voice.

“That he will be drawn to you even if you just sit in your room?”

“Sounds interesting.”

“It is.” The voice barely hid its excitement.

“But I don’t like sitting in my room,” said Dorian, sitting up. Naked, he left the massive bed and made for the door. “And I like your ugly voice less so please kindly shut up.”

Loud music thumping his eardrums, Dorian made his way through the throng of audience to reach the backstage. He was one foot inside when a boy halted him.

“Sir, this place isn’t for the patrons. Please return to your seat,” said a young voice thick with African accent. The face was brown but not uncomely, especially when it was trying so hard to sport a stern look.

Dorian smiled at the boy and purred. “You must be new I assume? What’s your name, lovely thing?”

His smile was even wider as the boy stammered for a proper response. He was quite sure under the dark skin there was a shade of blooming rose.

“Yes, he is new so don’t jest him,” spoke a deep female voice from behind. Keeping his smile, Dorian saw past the boy to spot a tall figure fast approaching. Her hair was as white as silver and cut short in a man’s fashion and her choice of attire would catch anyone with eyes. She was wearing a man’s white shirt, unbuttoned and showing a deadly cleavage, a pair of tight black trousers and knee-high sleek black boots that glorified the graceful lines of her long legs. On her rogue lips, a stark contrast to her pallid skin and striking purple eyes, was lolling a cigarette.

“Long time no see, Alicia,” greeted Dorian.

“Dorian Gray,” she replied in a cool voice. Blowing a circle of smoke, she turned to the boy, patting him on his shoulder. “Sebastian, go fetch Divina. Tell her her ‘sweet daddy’ is paying a visit.”

The boy Sebastian rolled his eyes but did not question his superior. He went back inside.

“Now who is going to take my hat and coat?”

Alicia’s reply was a hard slap on his bottom, causing him to jolt. “Coat hangers over there.” She pointed to the corner with a manicured finger. Hanging his hat and coat, Dorian could only smile and shake his head as he followed her steps into a spacious, furnished chamber at the end of the hall. A four-poster queen size bed covered in magenta satin stood in the middle of the space. On the vanity to the left corner there was a motley array of small trinkets, vials and boxes. The air smelled a mixture of various perfumes; as a result, no scent particularly stood out.

“I’ll leave you and your ‘daughter’ to each other. A warning: Divina’s in very bad mood. You know how she loathes losing your attention.”

“I’m prepared, thank you for your kind consideration.” Dorian made himself comfortable on the huge bed.

With the same grace she had entered, Alicia walked out. Her light footsteps were barely out of Dorian’s hearing range when loud ones rushed in. The door was swung open and hit the wall with a bone-shaking noise.

“Good evening, Divina dear,” said Dorian to a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties.

Divina’s look might not fit in with the Victorian standards that celebrated fair hair and pale skin; however, with tanned complexion and coal-black hair that fell in lazy ringlets around her shoulders she possessed an exotic undeniable charm that immediately attracted the men who were bored with the demure beauties all around them. She was not tall as Alicia but what she seemed to lack in height she compensated in the luscious curves of her breasts and hips, which she certainly knew how to accentuate with a black laced corset. No blouse. Her fashion, like Alicia’s, was to be desired rather than approved, and her temper was neither. She had obsidian eyes that were a tad too large for her small face, making her more of a girl than the fully grown woman she was, and they burnt on Dorian the moment she stomped in.

Mute as a shadow, Divina stalked to him, raised her hand and… slapped him. With her small, gloveless hand she made Dorian blush furiously on one cheek.

“What the fuck have you been doing in the past months?”

“Language, Divina dear,” he chided, not harshly. “You’ve been around too much with those coarse sailors.”

“Don’t try lecturing me, professor. Just because you’re twice my age me doesn’t mean you’re my father,” Divina hissed. “Nor are you my master, whose every beck and call I have to be constantly be at.”

“My apologies,” he said, taking her into his arms and sought to sooth her rage in the way they both knew he did best: he kissed her on the lips, a long, lingering caress that took a passionate, wild turn. Red smeared their lips with the force of their kiss. She missed the chance to bite his tongue when he instinctively withdrew from her.

“I have been preoccupied recently. Is this enough to atone for my negligence?”

She licked her lips in the same manner as a cat’s. “Hardly.”

“Oh well, I guess so.”

He procured a choker from his pocket and clasped it around her swan neck. The drops of sapphire were blue tears on her partly covered breasts. “A quaint souvenir from my travel. I hope you like it.”

“Oh you don’t ‘hope’, Dorian Gray,” she said through chuckles. “You only know.”

“I don’t always know, dear. That is why I have to voice my concern about the little performance I had Razz brought to you on such short notice.”

“It’s a bribe.” Divina fingered the little sapphires. They sure looked like tears, angels’ tears.

“Such as it is.”

“Not to worry, daddy o’. Carrying it on as always. Actually we’ve been a bit short on ideas these days so yours was most welcome. I just wonder…”

She spun on her heels to face him, her taffeta dress swirling around her like a black rose in bloom. “What kind of people to have inspired your lazy ass to do something like this?”

“You will see them tomorrow night, and I may introduce you to them, if you do well, of course, and mind your language.” He touched the tip of her nose with a finger.

“Your high-birth friends, all right.  You will introduce me as what?”

“An intimate friend, a dearest sister.”

Divina pouted with her full lips. “Dull. Spare me the ‘sweet sister’ role.”

She locked her arms around his neck and pressed her body to his. “Why not tell them I am your ‘bastard daughter’ you conceived in a one-night passion? A cliché tragedy between a wealthy man and a country girl that produced an illegitimate child. The man left, the poor girl ended up a street whore and her daughter followed her mother’s step soon afterwards. Poor thing. And there’s more. Never did the child know that one day she would end up on her own father’s bed. Shock them, right?”

Dorian grimaced, shaking his head. “I see why you never do Shakespeare. You would murder him on the very first night.”

“Shakespeare bores me. You, on the other hand…”

She captured his lips with her own and maneuvered him to the bed with the grace of a tigress. Dorian allowed her to straddle him. “You little nymphomaniac,” he said.

“… that you made. Don’t forget to add it to my introduction tomorrow.” She said, and set about to divest him of his many-layered clothes. “Don’t tell me you came to my jolly little theatre not expecting a jolly little ride.”

“I don’t mind, true, but I’m afraid Alicia will not be very pleased.”

Divina’s nimble fingers halted. She groaned, bringing a hand to her forehead. “Oh right, she’s been quite touchy-feely these days.”

“The stoic Alicia?”

“Don’t let her face fool you; she’s quite the opposite. Best not to upset her.”

She quickly climbed off him. “You wait here while I get her.”

Looking at her hurried figure, Dorian could not help a smile. He would wait.


A little note: Alicia, Divina and Sebastian are my original characters. Alicia is an albino.

I took some details from The Picture of Dorian Gray and the 2009 adaptation for Dorian’s part.

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