The Devil's Addict
It always started when Victor ran out of his previous pay from Sir Murray. Without the consistency of pay like normal employment or a plentiful amount of medical jobs for him to be of service with the young man never could ascertain when he would be paid again. This was, by far, one of the most stressful times of the month. ..Well, other than when Caliban was threatening him.
As soon as he found himself with a bank account to match any poet (that had never been quite a joke to Sir Murray the second time they'd met) Victor would begin counting his acorns. Metaphorically, of course. Every vial, each shiny, fragile container holding that glorious liquid would be sorted. Then resorted. Eyed meticulously as he continued his research. Gleamed cheerfully at him as he read his romantic poetry in hopes of escaping their call.
But the morphine was always the one to win in the end. That beautiful liquid filling the hypodermic needle made the young doctor lick his lips, that belt tight around his arm made him give a slight shudder in excitement. And after that all familiar pinch of pain he'd count a few seconds, his eyelids fluttering, one hand setting the empty, used needle down. Then his hand would slide the smooth leather down around his arm to join it. Victor would sit, feel his heart skip a beat, the thrumming of the morphine in his veins music to his ears.
First came the euphoria. Every muscle lax, a smile slowly spreading as his thoughts became blurred and soft, a relief felt only every few hours. His breathes shortened, and his mind briefly brought back memories of asthma as a child before they just as quickly fled. Like this he never felt pain, his emotional scars buried deep beneath the waves of the drug, aching head and wounds disappearing like a specter at dawn. The worries of when he'd get paid or how he'd find another fix after what was left never seemed to dawn on the young doctor in this state either.
The next couple days Victor spaced his last handful of doses apart by a few hours more. Each hour longer than the last was a minor annoyance at first, his limbs restless and mind wandering from medical book to rigid cadaver. But then he'd run out. The tears that dripped from his watery eyes and snot running down his upper lip had to be wiped off frequently. Throwing various utensils in annoyance because he believed they weren't adequate enough to do their jobs. Eventually the doctor would have to change clothes every few hours due to the heavy perspiration.
Though these were just the beginning.
Half a day later he'd attempt to sleep. If he didn't try to pretend he'd eventually become unaware to the world, stuck standing but mentally gone, as if in a trance. The sweating became worse, drenching his sheets, and when he did sleep he'd dream he was in the grasp of his beautiful mother. There she'd be, cold washcloth in hand, dabbing his horribly sweaty face, coddling him with her sweet words. Then as she choked on her words the fountain of blood would erupt from her soft lips, coating him. Boyish screams would turn into his own manly ones now, his body sitting upright. Gasping, profusely sweating, the young doctor would instantly regret his sudden movements, muscles screaming.
At this point his mind would race, long fingers running through his soaked dark brown hair. 'I need it,' he thought. 'No, I don't, not enough. Not enough to resort to him.' The choice was always Victor's, he knew it, though as much as his mind conveyed reason his addiction screamed back louder his need. His want. There had been many other such occasions then the one at present. Throughout medical school, since his graduation, and even now with his uncertain employment with Sir Murray and his unlikely hunting companions. But the controversy, the demeaning ordeal of the whole thing, had always made him torn.
Thus he found himself walking with quick, long strides through the streets of London. The brisk air mixed with the smoke from coal made him cough, made his eyes run tears even more so. In his disoriented state Victor realized, like usual when this happened, he'd arrived much sooner than he'd mentally prepared himself, the grand mansion before his blue eyes causing his stomach to knot. And again as usual he did not stop, nor even attempt, to go towards it. Instead he continued down the pavement, around the block and back to his dirty and confined apartment.
Inside he again tried to sleep, but just as before if he wasn't having nightmares of his mother it was of something equally as horrible, such as his poor Proteus. Lithe body tossing and turning his pale skin wept with beads of sweat, each racing down his pale skin to join those soaking the bed sheets. When he woke he couldn't fathom eating, nor could he stop feeling as if he were on fire one moment and suffering from hypothermia the next. Goose bumps danced across his body and beneath his skin muscles could have fooled the young doctor for banshees the way they shrieked as if he were the next to die. When the muscle spasms and twitches began he struggled with himself.
'I need to endure this! No, I can't take this!' His thoughts argued amongst themselves. Though once his internal cramping started the symphony of pain made his decision unanimous, 'I must.'
So, there Victor stood, ice blue eyes struggling to maintain their steady glare at the ornately carved door, metal lion knocker seemingly warning him. Shakily pale, sweaty fingers knocked three times, each strike uneven and strange, like a drunken man barely comprehending one, two, three. After a few moments filled with nothing more than an awkward cough and his arms restlessly changing positions on his body, there was an answer. Before him an elderly servant, whose cold brown eyes seemed to size him up, then took pity on him as the young doctor was ushered in.
It was always that same room, full of nothing but portraits, each pair of eyes seemingly boring into the back of his skull. Times like these the paranoia made him look, believing if he turned around fast enough he would catch them. Continuously he'd try to no avail until finally he'd hear the all too horrible and all too quiet laugh from the only other real presence in the room. Wiping his face carelessly with his sleeved arm blue eyes widened in surprise before narrowing, his tongue licking his lips as he swallowed, throat suddenly dry.
"And to what do I owe the pleasure, Dr. Frankenstein?"
Always with act, always such a bloody gentlemen! Victor wasn't a fool; It was obvious, it was like his whole existence was screaming what he was here for. It made it all the harder to force the words to the surface, from his pale, pink lips, admitting what that devil wanted.
"I-I'm not feeling well. It's, it's," he stuttered, shivering like mad, suddenly cold. The muscles in his arms began to spasm as the young doctor hugged himself for warmth. And somehow in a moment of delirious uncertainty, just like all the other times he could just barely remember, nary a foot away stood the bane of his addiction, a one Dorian Gray. 'Never was it the morphine,' Victor thought, his breaths becoming rapid and his eyes tearing up. 'It was always him.'
"Hush now. I believe you're having one of your fits again. Come," eloquently spoken every syllable dripped off those lips like a sweet venom. The taller gentlemen had wrapped his arm around the young doctor, outwardly an act of support, of caring. But Victor knew better as he felt the unnerving waves run through his smaller body, rippling like something dropping in water. His mind screamed this wasn't natural, to suddenly feel this attraction, however slight it was in his horribly sickened state caused by withdrawal. But his feet still shuffled, one after the other, in mismatched tandem with Mr. Gray, towards one of the few large, luxurious couches in the room full of watching portraits.
"You know I can make you all better, Victor." Dorian's enunciation of his name made him believe spiders were crawling up his spine, sent by that damn devil's arm around his waist. As he sat the arm around his waist brushed against his back more than necessary, fingers groping him through the cheap material of his waist coat and button up blouse. Those hazel eyes were watching him, gleaming, becoming that golden hue of wicked enjoyment in the presence of his suffering. "Let me prepare you some. And a drink."
After a few steps towards the same place the faux gentlemen had always kept what made him better ice blue eyes darted up to catch Dorian's back. Before he could say anything in return about denying the drink a sudden sweat came over him, the temperature seemingly rising by the second. Without a thought Victor removed his waist coat, sloppily dropping it to find a new home upon the exquisite marble ground. Delirium was upon him again, which made everything so much harder to interpret, exceedingly so was grasping a feeling of security. If there was one to be had here.
But then, amongst the heat and the pain, there his eyes met those golden ones, full of amusement and accompanied by a spark of hunger. Victor made one last attempt to listen to his reason, to his conscious, falling limply backwards, away from the devil in disguise, but between the spasms and the once again unnerving and invading feeling of sensuality he found it was in vain.
"Careful," a smirk following mocking words as Dorian's hands affixed the leather belt around his bicep. "I don't want this to hurt more than it has to." A mere moment later and the respective arm was stuck in a vice-like grip, the hypodermic needle glimmering maliciously. The last thing the young doctor would see in his delirious state of withdrawal was that golden eyed devil towering above him as he felt that miniscule pain of a pinch compared to his body screaming as the morphine was injected into his veins. Then the seconds would pass, along the with needle, and the belt would join it elsewhere, perhaps where his waist coat had gone, and suddenly the visage before him would change.
No longer was there a fear, no, instead there was nothing but a handsome man above him, a thrumming in his veins that was consoling him. It reassured Victor that there was no devil before him, only the gentlemen who did make him better as he had promised. And then Dorian would come closer, closing the divide, and kiss the young doctor's pink lips, run his tongue along them. Soon there would be butterfly kisses down his throat, and a moan would slip from Victors lips as his ears were suckled and nibbled on. The euphoria was intense, every stroke, every touch so brilliant he had to think this is what his famed authors of poetry meant.
The buttons became undone on his blouse and soon it was upon him no longer, joining that waist coat on the floor, he was sure this time. He helped Dorian lose his silk shirt, the feel beneath the young doctor's fingers made him bite his own lower lip at how pleasurably soft it was. Exchanging kisses yet again they became more heated, a strand of saliva connecting their mouths as they dislodged. The hazel eyed gentlemen caressed his face softly and instinctively he leaned into the touch, feeling Dorian's mouth connect with his therefore exposed neck.
Licks and kisses came first, then suddenly there was a slightly harder than before nibble, which made Victor's eyelashes flutter. As the interactions became more intimate his blood sung, his heart beating erratic at the erotic nature of his high. Soon he couldn't handle the slow, monotonous pace, or at least that was what it seemed to the young doctor in his morphine induced passion. A pale, slender hand reached up and perched onto Dorian's left shoulder, dislodging the gentlemen from his collarbone. With this leverage he switched places, suddenly the one atop, straddling the hazel eyed man's hips. Victor took a sharp breath in, his heart seemingly skipping a beat as he gazed deeply into those eyes he once foolishly took in as that of a wicked, evil creature.
"Someone's feeling better, aren't they, darling?" The way Mr. Gray had said it sent shivers down the addict's spine, and the invasion of sensuality radiating from the man below him he noticed not anymore, only blamed to be the results of his first injection of that sweet liquid in days. The suffering had cleaned him up just enough to be lost in this devious attraction, to tear ruthlessly at the pants still on himself and Dorian. They too joined the waistcoat and two blouses on that beautiful marble floor.
Soon the young doctor found his half lidded blue eyes meeting hazel, lowering his head to the half-hard cock between the other man's legs. Dorian watched that pink tongue dart out and as it stroked upwards from his balls to the tip, suddenly Victor's soft velvety mouth encompassed the head making him gasp quietly. In no time at all there was a steady, vigorous tempo to his dick being sucked, and the gentlemen found one hand entangled in the other man's curly, dark brown hair. The other hand reached in the depths of the couch cushions retrieving a small bottle of oil.
A moment later Dorian shooed Victor's mouth away from his fully erect member, "If you don't stop I shan't think I'll last." The doctor's face was flushed as he sat up on the couch and the gentlemen neared, one hand gripping the hard dick between Victor's legs, a soft moan coming from the soft pink lips that just left his own. With every tug another raspy whine followed, and soon Dorian had the other man leaning back enough to prod at his ass with an oil slicked finger. Blue eyes popped open from their half-lidded state as he entered with his digit, but every pump of Victor's dick made him relax and give in to the bombardment. Soon two fingers followed and Dorian searched, hazel eyes watching that flushed face, until a loud whine came.
A few more brushes on the spot inside him made Victor cry out more intensely and in a split second Dorian was surprised to find he'd been knocked backwards again, hips straddled and a very lusty young man atop him. He slicked his member with oil as the doctor's ice blue eyes screamed at him the want, the need. Impatiently Victor in his analgesic, pain-free state of high came down rather quickly onto Dorian's dick, throwing his head back as that spot was hit again. Without a seconds pause the slender, pale man atop started riding the gentlemen at a steady pace, but within seconds he was bored and began slamming down onto Dorian. He couldn't get the pace right, his mind delirious and his body screaming for more.
Hazel eyes took this in, Dorian's mind clear save for the normal amount of lust that went into interactions such as these with the doctor, and with one fast, fluid act he'd pulled Victor off, who groaned in disapproval, and flipped him onto his belly. "Like I said; I can make it better Victor." One statement while Dorian pulled his hips upwards, leaving Victor's face on the couch, before plunging into the softness of the doctor's ass once again.
Immediately the addict below him moaned in approval, each thrust causing the following noises to be more raucous than the last. Dorian's pace was bringing stars and fog to his mind, the morphine and seduction from the gentlemen behind him resonating in harmony. As a hand found his member and started stroking to every fuck Victor knew he wouldn't last long, and Dorian felt his rump tense around him. The slapping of skin against skin grew harder and louder, and the symphony of groans from Dorian and intoxicated screams of pleasure from Victor finally came to a crescendo. Semen shot onto the doctor's chest and upon that red, velvet couch beneath him as Dorian gave his last few hard thrusts before digging his fingers into Victor's hips, as sure to leave bruises in the pale skin as the white fluid filling his cavity.
As both disconnected from each other the never ending cycle came to the beginning again, the blouses departing from each other and that marvelous marble stone floor. In a whirlwind of withdrawal and manipulation things always took their course like this, sometimes worse. Those times the doctor didn't simply leave and the act of passion wasn't that, only violence done to his body the drug didn't allow him to feel until he woke the next day, no recollection of the exact happening, just the painful sting of each new wound to tend for. Of course, with that sting there would always be the extra two vials, a parting gift from Dorian each and every time.
After his cheap clothing was upon his joyfully weightless body again said morphine was placed into his pale hands, fingers curled carefully over them as Mr. Gray came in for a parting kiss. Their tongues danced briefly and with what felt like a final nibble on his bottom lip Victor found his way out of the room. Though as he left through the front door the chilly air made him notice something slick running down his chin, his hand quickly wiping the sensation dry.
Blood. Suddenly in his misplaced thoughts his conscious started to scream.
He was the devil's addict yet again.
authors note: First work of ff. Please leave any helpful pointers or constructive criticism alike. I have an idea of a second chapter, may write it next, referenced with "the act of passion wasn't that, only violence done to his body the drug didn't allow him to feel." Researched morphine to see what the withdrawal symptoms were, never actually done it(and don't plan to...). Really was shocked to see so little ff for Penny Dreadful. Planning to write more. Perhaps some Ethan/Victor. Definitely more Dorian/Victor.