Work Text:
The paper is just ever so lightly off white. Eggshell or soft cream. The lettering on the paper is a sea of blue; soft waves and swirls. The words are slanted to one side, curved and flowing like ribbons over the pages, plunging down, rising high again.
Dracula has to smile to himself as he tilts the letter in his hand to the side, against the candlelight, seeing the dried blue ink draw swirls and loops again and again, rhythmically, as he reads the writing.
It is always a surprise, and yet, he finds familiarity in those words; their wording known by now. There is a certain rhythm to it, like a dance, and he imagines his dear guest quietly uttering them under his breath, as he leans over his table, deeply dived into his work. His lips and tongue, tracing these words, just like Dracula’s own fingertips are right now; boney, white, each finger adored with a sharp claw for a nail.
He has to hum at that; imagining his dear Jonathan Harker mutter and breathe the sentences as he writes them down carefully. Perhaps searching for the correct way to formulate his question or request. From what he can tell, his dear Englishman is an awfully polite fellow, countless of “If I may” and “Thank you”-s spanning the pages. No, not only polite or dutiful. Obedient. A detail he is more than willing to make use of later.
And their correspondence hasn’t been few. He and Jonathan exchange letter upon letter, settling his employment and arrival.
Of course, this could never become something mundane to Dracula. He awaits anxiously each letter, looking forward to hold the envelope in his big, cold hand, breaking open the red wax seal, pulling out the page.
What he suspects Jonathan doesn’t know - and really how should he? - is that Dracula can smell the sweet, lingering traces of aroma and scents, lingering in the microscopic pores of the paper. He can smell the earl grey tea, staining the lower left corner of the second page lightly brown. He can pick up the floral perfume, a summer wind of a note; lilies and elderflowers soaked into the paper. It must have been sprayed not only in the same room, but close to Jonathan’s work desk.
Perhaps, Dracula suggests, his darling’s fiancée was leaning over Jonathan’s side, watching him work, as she applied it, spraying one dash on her wrist and another one on her bare neck… directly on her naked skin and carotid artery.
He can also smell Jonathan’s skin, and that makes him nearly chuckle. That poor fellow must have been so exhausted, he must have fallen asleep right at the desk, on top of the stash and folders of paper and documents; his cheek pressed onto the freshly dried words of his letter, addressing the Count himself.
There is something adoring about that image, nearly innocent.
Oh, but these hands. He always keeps circling back to imagine Jonathan’s hands; the fingertips ink-stained and soft, as he holds the inkwell loosely in his grip, just barely holding on. His hand half curled around it, clasped between index finger and thumb, in the soft arch of the palm of his hand. Warm and sleepy, soft and pale, sprinkled with the vibrant color thoroughly, like a child that had trouble eating blueberries without making a mess.
The ink would stain his fingers for days, marking them with the essence he used for their correspondence.
Dracula inhales deeply again, leaning back in his high armchair at the table, stretching his long legs out. Apart from the fire, candlelight, and moonshine, falling into the room dimly through tall windows, his study is dark, and he is alone. There are no servants in his humble home these days. Some hundred years ago, perhaps. Most have either fled or died on their own, and he never bothered to replace them. No matter. He perfectly comes by on his own.
Well, he doesn’t really count the others into the equation. Hardly good or interesting company to keep most of the time. Oh, how he longs for a change.
Harker will be his first employee in decades, and truly, he is looking forward to it.
Dracula has to groan as he imagines Jonathan’s soft breath, going warm and slow against the back of his own hand, there, where he surely, once again, has fallen asleep at his work desk. Those soft, smooth, lean, slender fingers, resting atop the latest bundle of paperwork; amongst these, a train ticket, newly purchased. Clean cut nails and perfect knuckles. Hands fit for an educated man. Speaking of Jonathan’s intelligence; the way he moves them, the way he gestures with them, the way they are posed in their relaxed state.
Dracula closes his eyes and swallows thickly. He still holds Jonathan’s letter in his right hand, as the other slowly slides up his own knee, a shiver travelling down his own spine.
Yes, perfect hands, holding a pen in their gentle grasp, half clasped around it.
His own hand comes down to his front and again, he gives in to the luxury of taking an entirely unnecessary, but certainly welcomed, breath. Another shudder travels through him as he grinds the heel of his hand against the slowly stirring part of him, taken by the imagery he just conjured himself.
The pressure is only a small relief, as the ache keeps on burning. And he is alone and unbothered. Why not indulge just a little, or a lot, more?
Having made his decision, Dracula clasps the letter harder, the paper lightly knittering in his strong grasp, as he reaches with the other hand for the fly of his pants. A breathy moan escapes him, as he pulls himself out; already hard and wanting.
Imagining Jonathan – innocent, shocked, awed, even, maybe, his eyelashes dark and a blush spreading across his freckled cheeks – reaching for him, hand guided by his new master’s grasp, to curl around Dracula’s length.