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"My servants have returned this evening to deliver supplies."
Jonathan blearily lifts his head from the book he's pretending to read. He and the Count have been sitting across from each other for an hour now, and he has spent the whole time staring at the book, as if clutching it in his hands will keep him safe from unwanted advances. As if anything can.
"Oh," he says, unsure what reply is expected of him. Dracula is pretending to read, too, turning the pages at regular intervals as if counting the seconds until it's time for him to believably move on. Jonathan waits to see if he will give him some clue as to what to say.
It's a long time of the Count pretending to read and Jonathan staring at him before Dracula speaks again. "I trust," he says without looking up from the page, "that you will avoid causing a scene this time."
Jonathan gulps. He remembers crying out to the Slovaks last time, begging in any language he could speak for them to help him. Their laughter still rings in his ears. "There will not be, sir."
"Still…" Dracula shuts the book, meeting Jonathan's eyes with a gleam that makes Jonathan's stomach churn. "…It is best to be safe. You must earn my trust, my good friend. Come here."
Jonathan's whole body feels heavy. He imagines himself refusing, simply melting into a leaden puddle on the armchair, too useless to even molest. But there is no sense in resisting, so he closes his book, stands, and walks over to Dracula, standing with head half-bowed deferentially. Dracula loves it when he is deferential.
Dracula begins working at the knot on his own cravat, unwinding it while Jonathan watches dully. Jonathan doesn't realize what he's doing as he ties a thick knot in the middle, and only when Dracula stands and starts to bring the cravat toward Jonathan's mouth do the pieces click into place.
He involuntarily takes a step back, then freezes, terrified that his disobedience might incur wrath. Instead, Dracula just looks amused, like a man trying to get a dog to do a trick. "Now, now, Jonathan Harker, submit to this, as a favor to me."
Jonathan imagines some alternate version of reality where he could spit in his captor's face for such mockery. It is not this universe. Here, he simply stays still. Here, he feels Dracula's cold fingers pressing at the hinge of his jaw, and he lets his mouth go slack. The knotted cravat is large in his mouth, prying his mouth open, feeling silky against his tongue, tasting faintly of soap and the iron-like scent of the Count himself. Jonathan shivers.
The Count ties the cravat snugly around the back of Jonathan's head, drawing the gag into his mouth further. He chokes once, then focuses on breathing through his nose. It's easier than taking a cock in his mouth, he reminds himself, even as the fabric chafes against the corners of his mouth.
He wonders how long he will have to wear this.
He doesn't dare close his eyes as long as he's facing his captor; Dracula does not like that. He works his lips, trying to get the wad of fabric more comfortably seated in his mouth, and at last bites down on it, inhaling past it with a faint gurgling sound.
Dracula kisses him over the gag, cold lips pressing against the edges of the fabric. Jonathan's gotten better at reading his face, he thinks absently, for it's no surprise when the Count turns him around and pushes him face-first over the arm of the nearest chair. Jonathan braces himself on the cushion, feeling Dracula's fingers wrap around the back of the gag, jerking it more tightly into his mouth. He chokes, but doesn't struggle. This is easier, when he doesn't have to look at him; he starts reciting laws in his head, stares at the weave of the fabric in the chair cushion, only vaguely feels the Count tearing at his clothing and pulling his trousers down, touching him with wetted fingers only for a moment before pressing his cold body against and inside him. Jonathan makes a gurgling sound through the gag, working on it with his teeth even as Dracula tugs on it. It's uncomfortable, but also grounding; the sensation in his mouth is something to focus on, something that will take him away from what's happening elsewhere in his body. The explosion of sensations rippling through him feels more distant, like it's happening to someone else; only the fabric in his mouth is real, scraping against his mouth as his drool begins to soak through and drip onto the cushion.
At last it is over, with his captor's seed dripping from inside him and his own seed painting the side of the chair. Dracula pulls him upright by the back of the gag, and speaks in a cooing voice, though Jonathan can't quite make out the words; he's swimming in his own head, feeling faraway. The Count picks him up, cradling him against his chest, and carries him to his room. He tucks him into bed with many gentle kisses. Jonathan's jaw is clenched, his teeth still latched onto the knot in his mouth.
Then Dracula is gone, and the room is silent once more. For a while Jonathan lies in a sort of numb fear. Did the Count say he could remove the gag? If not, what would the consequences be? But his jaw hurts enough to risk it, and he reaches up, trying to undo the knot behind his head. It is impossibly tight, and he is nearly crying in frustration by the time he finally manages to budge it enough to wrench the whole thing over his head. He spits out saliva and bile, wiping his raw face and chafed lips, and feels the familiar ache of his jaw.
Dracula does not materialize to punish him for removing it, though he keeps it close at hand, just in case. He never knows what will set off a punishment.
He lies in bed, his jaw quivering with tension that he tries to massage out. The gag was not necessary, of course: he knows now that none of Dracula's servants will help him, and every day, he grows a bit more silent.