I’m so starstruck, baby ‘cause you blow my heart up.
With Dorian, it is different. The boy is overwhelmed with the desire to please – not for money, but to be someone in this man’s eyes. He does not offer himself because the thought of rejection makes his soul cower. He waits, watches Dorian’s flint-black eyes flicker past the others, prays.
Dorian is so beautiful without his clothes that the boy is afraid to look for too long lest his eyes burn and shrivel in their sockets. He closes them for a moment against the sight of cupid’s bow lips parting around a sigh of pleasure, an assault on his senses. And then he finds he can’t stop looking. Someone faceless stands at Dorian’s shoulder, hands sliding over his marble-white chest, and the boy swallows sour jealousy between Dorian’s thighs. He wants to hold Dorian and kiss him, not as his whore but as his lover. He wants to paint Dorian nude, commit the lithe and graceful sin of his form to more than memory. He wants to rescue Dorian from the jaws of dragons and wake him from eternal sleep with passionate kisses.
Instead, the boy worships, performing magic on his knees. With his hands, lips, tongue and teeth and saliva, he makes Dorian writhe and moan. He usually closes his eyes while he sucks but this time he can’t miss a moment. Every curve of skin, every twitch of flesh and every breath and noise of ecstasy Dorian makes tattoos itself on the boy’s brain, and when Dorian spills himself he swallows and it burns all the way to his stomach, making Dorian a part of him. Inside him. The mere idea is something his mind can’t quite comprehend, and when Dorian leaves him with a brief, harsh kiss, the boy feels like he’s seen the face of God.
I don’t believe in love like you believe in me.
When it happens, it is the same as she’d imagined every night since they’d met, everything she has ever expected from what she has heard of coupling, of copulation. He’s a slender serpent and she feels like Eve, giving in to temptation. He looks at her as if she’s a beautiful piece of art while he makes love to her. And she surrenders and curls her pale limbs around him and wails and moans and fairly screams his name in a pain of ecstasy. She gives herself, when only an hour before she had been terrified of doing so. Dorian says nothing, makes no noise. Just stares at her and sighs, and she thinks it is because he can’t think of words to express himself. He was the one who had told her he loved her first, after all. He’d invited her to stay.
But everything seems to change after that. Sibyl wants to see Dorian’s shining dark eyes on her as she swoons onstage, knowing she is carrying his child, but the audience is full of strangers, and everything about him has changed when she meets him and Lord Wotton after the show. His voice, the look in his eyes, even the way he moves. It’s all different. She wants to believe he is play-acting, trying to seem impressive in front of his friend.
“Make me your wife, not one of your whores,” she pleads. Then Dorian says coldly, “I think perhaps I ought to go,” and she realises that the way he’d looked at her the first time they’d made love perfectly captures how he sees her. She is, perhaps always has been a piece of art to him, a pretty accessory, nothing more.
And so it is with an amazing sense of clarity that she lets herself go under.
The alcohol is scented with your breath.
It is the first time Celia has been with anyone and she falls in love with the way he manipulates her body, contorting her into exotic positions she has only seen in books. Books she looked at and then, blushing fiercely, put back on the shelf.
She doesn’t know that Dorian will discard her the same way, and within the same hour say the same words to her mother and drag her mother’s hand to the hardness concealed in his trousers. The harness that was for her, Celia, while she crouches beneath the bed, hands over her ears.
The mother, Lady Radley, is not so naïve as to think she could ever be Dorian Gray’s one and only, but in this moment she’d like to believe it. While he’s ripping open her corset and throwing her onto the bed and taking her more forcefully than anyone ever has. She is enchanted by him, as she has been since the day they met at Henry’s party. This is the reason she can’t stop herself even though she knows he does not care, that he is only making love to her because he can and because he has had too much champagne and is aching for a spend. That is Henry’s influence. She opens her eyes wide, taking in every inch of Dorian Gray’s nude, youthful, astonishingly handsome form and doesn’t think of Henry and his immorality. She can only think of Dorian inside her.
I break, you don't. I was always set to self-destruct, though.
He cannot respond for a moment. The shock and ardour are too great, great enough to be painful, and it takes him until Dorian pulls away and looks at him curiously before he allows himself to kiss back. But when he does, he kisses with his whole heart and soul. Dorian kisses his neck and pushes Basil to the floor where he watches, hypnotised as Dorian unbuttons his trousers and joins him, kneeling, elegant as a swan and ten times more beautiful.
Basil tongues every inch of Dorian’s body as they shed their clothes, licking his silken skin until the boy’s forehead is stippled with sweat and his eyes are bright with need. He wants to make Dorian feel like he never has before, so he can be the only one Dorian truly loves. The boy is everything Basil wants, everything he would like to believe he deserves. He is close to tears when Dorian is lying before him, trembling thighs spread wide and inviting.
“Don’t cry, Basil,” Dorian says softly when their bodies are connected. It is the first time in months that Basil has heard tenderness in that voice, and this is why he can’t help but sob into Dorian’s shoulder, as Dorian’s back arches and he moans while Basil moves into him. Basil is quite sure no one else has ever seen that look on Dorian Gray’s face – that look of wonder and gratitude which makes it clear this is truly making love. That their union isn’t meaningless.
They come together, Dorian’s teeth grazing his neck with a low, sweet sound as wet warmth spills between them and Basil exhaling fiercely, ecstatically. When he moves away, Dorian’s skin is gleaming with his tears.
A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it.
They’ve been drinking absinthe before, which makes reality bend and stretch and manipulate itself before them, and smoking until they’re dizzy, happy and sick. Henry’s beard scratches Dorian’s smooth cheeks when they kiss in the armchair, and he enjoys knowing he can have the boy, who is straddling his lap, fingers fumbling to unbutton Henry’s shirt. Henry really rather loves this creature he has moulded into who he longs to become. When he touches Dorian, it is like touching everything he has ever wanted to be, like an especially debauched act of self-love.
Knowing he is the only person Dorian doesn’t feel at least a little contempt for, he lets the boy kiss his chest and remove his trousers and then takes him in the chair. Dorian’s mouth tastes of wormwood, and they are drunk on wormwood and each other and the effect each has had on the other’s life. Henry has given Dorian the power to live life to the fullest and in return, Dorian has given Henry back his youth and proved him right even if he does not practice what he preaches, and he reflects on this as he grasps the boy in his hand and brings him off hard and fast.
“Do you love me, Harry?” Dorian whispers from somewhere far away, but the words come out sounding unlike a question.
“I do.” Henry replies, not meaning it the way Dorian had, “And you love me,” he adds, and that is definitely not a question. Of course Dorian loves him. Worships him, even. Because he made this boy. Made him beautiful and depraved and glorious with it. They are two perfect creatures not meant for this world, from some higher existence sent down to teach the world that right is wrong and wrong is right. Nothing and no one can ever stop them.