The following is a work of fan fiction.  Storm is a copyright of Marvel 
Comics, and Dracula, well...I don't know - good trivia question: who owns 
the rights to Dracula?  No profit is being made from this, and it is an 
unauthorized use of the characters.  Anyway, I want you to picture Dracula as 
he appeared in Marv Wolfman's classic Tomb of Dracula, or as he appeared in 
X-Men 16something (drawn by Bill Sinkiewicz), which featured the XMen's 
confrontation with Dracula, and is where and when this story takes place.  I 
am filling the gaps in Dracula's visits to Storm as the X-Men were guests 
for three nights in the apartment of Misty Knight and Harmony Moore... 
but enough history!
	Before I can go on, this story is sexually explicit.  If you are a) 
offended by this, b) a brimstone and hellfire bible thumper c)a minor or 
d) my mom, sister or prospective employer I URGE YOU PLEEEASE NOT TO READ 
THIS!  I wish to remain anonymous.  

The Dance of Blood and Lightning


	"Logan! I feel so foolish, after all we've been through, to fall prey 
to a common mugger..."
	I shiver deeply.  I know that's not what happened, and yet my mind 
cannot come up with the source of my attack, and nor do I find myself 
able to tell Logan this...

*In her blood I taste:
	An ancient, noble house of Egyptian witch priestesses, who have had 
dealings with my kind before.
	The adulation and worship of an African village.
	A little girl afraid of enclosed spaces.
	Jazz music from the neighborhood of Harlem in this New York City.
	Winds, dancing lightning, hurricanes and gentle rain showers.
	A link to the Goddess of this world, She who is all things of Nature, 
and to whom I and my Kin are anathema.
	An emerging leader; a hero and adventuress; rare courage and beauty.
Her blood runs through my veins at dawn, and will be with me in my dreams.  It 
dances in my dead veins like a spirit, for surely it is possessing me.  There 
will be one only one word tonight in my daylight dreams, and that word will be 
Ororo.  Her scent was like sandalwood.*


	I'm weak and sick, and the dusk is approaching.  I would normally be 
flying naked to greet the sunset and replenish my links with this world, 
but can't do so tonight.  I am anxious and frightened and nervous, and I 
know that until the sun sets fully, I will not know why.
	I wish I could look at the sun, but it hurts my eyes, and Harmony 
Moore's apartment does not face it anyway.  My thoughts oddly turn to my 
deceased friend Jean, poor, dear Jean.  I imagine her inside the star 
D'Bari, thrilled and in ecstasy, consuming the star in abandonment of 
herself.  Why do I feel like I will soon face similar wantonness?
	Without even seeing it, I know that the sun has just dipped below the 
horizon.  Goddess no!  I'm afraid!  I'm in Cairo!  Kitty, Logan someone help 
me please....
	But why should I want such a thing?  My lord comes for me!


	*In mist form, I can tickle the spaces of locks, and of the areas where 
windows meet ledges.  She has invited me freely into this demesnes, and so I 
can easily slip in.  I am slightly angry; angry that I should be so anxious to 
see her, angry that I am thinking less of her blood than of her beautiful 
lioness body, angry that she is not merely one blood doll among the thousands 
that I have.  I grew to...love...Domini, but never was as possessed by her on 
sight as I am by Ororo.*


	I am shaking, and fevered.  But a slight chill presses upon my skin as 
I see his cruel red eyes from the mist.  I have one last fleeting, 
defiant thought of who I am, of my oath to the Goddess to uphold and 
defend Life.
	And then I am no longer myself.
	I open the window for my lord.  I let my gown fall to the floor.  
Nudity was nothing to me, I have never understood America's fear of it.  
But this night I do, as I am bathed in all that Americans openly fear 
and secretly love about being naked.  Damp air and mist caress my bare 
skin, and Goddess help me, I am not commanding the air and mist to do so.


	*I could have slipped in through the window, but it was important to me 
that she open it.  By all the gods of the Darkhold, I should be tearing 
her neck open, and not desiring to touch her!  I am gathering myself 
into material form, and I will have an erection.  I almost laugh.  That 
is an act that, though I am capable of, I rarely ever bother with.  It 
will always be eclipsed by the only climax that will ever truly matter 
to me.*


	His red eyes speak cruelty, rapacious lust and pain.  But they also 
speak of his own pain, not that which he has brought others.  There is a 
small corner of his eyes that could betray him the very small 
tendernesses he has to have held all these centuries.  
	But I'm yours in lust, need and pain if need be, my Dark Lord.  He 
takes my hand and says nothing.  His hand is smooth and cool, and a 
pleasant shock to my overheated skin.  My throat gets very tight as he 
leads me to the bed. 
	Clothes have never been a concern to someone like me.  But they matter 
to me tonight, as he is dressed in all his noble finery.  Tonight I am 
of the material and sensual; concern for the spirit is sadly a dead 
feeling in me.


	*The sweet sandalwood smell fills my nostrils; I must kiss her.  I 
cannot retire to the sunlight without brushing her lips with my own.  
And sweet they are, as they meet mine, and I take her tongue inside me.  
Her body is as warm as a hearth.  I am having trouble breaking this 
kiss.  But break it I must, for now I am wanting only to drown in rose 
crimson copper.*

	His long lingering kiss drove me mad.  And now that his lips are 
brushing first my eyelids, then my throat and around to my neck, I fear 
that I'll burst into flames.  I turn my neck and offer it to him, and 
can think only of being penetrated by his teeth.  And when I think of 
that, wetness begins to flow from between my legs.

	*I broke the skin! I am not myself!  I taste her rich liquid as it 
splashes to me from her wounds...I am lost in a thousand opium dreams.  
The poet Coleridge could have written scores of poems if he could have 
tasted what I am feasting on right now.  Words would demean and make 
base the divinity I am communing with.  Her blood is the voice of her 
Goddess, to whom I am abhorrent, but tonight I sup on that Goddess as I 
do on Ororo's blood.
	In my delirium I was conscious of two things; her deep, throaty 
mewlings, and dampness that has seeped into my trousers from where she 
wrapped her legs to my thigh.*


	His first attack was brutal, yet irretrievably bound me to him.  This 
encounter is turning me into something I do not recognize.  It is as though 
he's me, and I am the atmosphere and weather patterns, and he is shaping me 
into a terrible, beautiful, killer storm.
	He slashes his wrist in a desperate motion with his perfect 
swordteeth, and roughly presses it to my mouth.  Blood is not yet to me 
what it is to him, my need is of a different nature, and beginning to 
form deep inside of me.  But I accept his offering, and draw great 
draughts of bitter, coppery blood.  It makes my skin glow ebon, and I 
feel my canine teeth lengthening and sharpening.
	He has recovered from his ecstasy.  His eyes won't show me any of the 
abandon he has experienced, and I suspect still experiences.  I know it 
is there, and I can twist it to my purposes.  So!  Enthralled and 
enslaved as I am, a small corner of me is defiant enough to demand from 
him, something that will anger and displease him.  I do not care!  He 
has created his toy, and now can he handle her?  I touch my tongue to 
the tip of my left canine.
	I rise, and plant a kiss on his lips.  He tries to twist away.  He 
can't! I have him!


	*She is impudent.  After kissing me, she presumes to rid me of my 
vest.  As if I craved the ungraceful, base act of copulation.  I...my 
breath comes in short gasps.  I grab her wrist.  I say no, that is not 
her place, she is to obey me.  She laughs, and flashes me her fledgeling 
fangs which are the fangs of a great cat in the Serenghetti plains.  She 
tells me she is as much a goddess as I am a god, and that she has made 
her offering to her god and so I must make my offering to her.
	And my erection persists against my trousers, and surely during the day 
when I dream of her I shall scream and never stop, for she is making me 
vulnerable, quite vulnerable, she is making me abandon myself.  And I 
would like to seek women who remind me of her, and tear out their 
perfect throats and be in control of all my rapture.  But there is no 
one like her in all the world.
	Tonight I will allow this.  I will have this, which is like the heaven 
I am denied forever.  I let my clothes fall to the floor.*


	My lovers have been few.  It is a gift I give in love, joy, happiness 
and deep friendship.  T'Challa never took me, but after our adventure 
during my journey from Egypt to Kenya we went into the desert night and 
played with each other's then-blossoming bodies.  Then there was my 
lover in the Kenyan village, a beautiful older man with whom I shared so 
much love.  And thinking of them now, I cry.  The beauty I experienced 
then is diminshed by my current cold, rapacious need which he has now 
brought into me, this absolute carnal sensation.  But that is the small 
corner of me chiming up yet again.  I laugh her down, and drink my 
lover's sensually gaunt, incandescently white naked body with my eyes.  
I will take from him.


	*I remember little things about when I was alive.  I had a cruel life.  
I at least know that sex was something that men back in medieval 
Transylvania took without thought or feeling, much as I take blood.  I 
was never taught that a woman needed.
	Then I became a vampyre, and learned of the many things in the realm of 
the sensual, though it in no way diminished my selfish satiations.
	Enough.  I am not myself this night, I have accepted this.  I will 
justify no further, and make my offering to the goddess Ororo.
	So I take my hands, and stroke her face, the length of the long 
arms.  I raise a trail of gooseflesh as she twist and sighs in 
response.  I again explore her neck and tease it with my fangs, lightly 
pricking it.  She gasps in response.  I step back, and study her taught, 
muscled stomach, her ample hips, long legs, and the white triangle of 
her sex.  Her skin glows, and provides a delicious heat. 
	My mouth lowers itself to her perfect breasts and traces circles aound 
them, spiralling to her nipples.  My hands caress the length of her 
legs.  My erection persists, and instead of blood I am filled with 
thoughts of her yoni.*


	Goddess! He is so slow, it is so tortorous.  May he never stop...


	*I kiss her inner thigh, and slightly prick it with my fangs.  I 
take a light, flickering taste of her heat, and her fluid is pungent and 
sweet.  I make my tongue like a feather, and lick everywhere in her 
opening except her pearl, where she needs me most.  I hold her like this 
for a full minute, and then place my tongue squarely on her center of 
pleasure.  I keep my tongue still.  She growls, and furiously rubs her 
hips, waiting for my tongue to come alive again.*


	No!  Please, let me hold it until he is inside of me.
	It is time.  I grab him and push him down onto the bed with strength I 
did not feel I had.  He cannot believe this.  I take his cool, beautiful 
smooth penis and play with it, stroking and rubbing its underside in 
steady rhythm.  He gasps, and I lower my yoni down to him, and I part my 
walls with it...


	*I am completely buried in her smooth, wet living walls.  I am mad to 
make this lowly human climax.  I thrust my hips wildly and flash my 
fangs.  I bury myself to the hilt and furiously buck upwards.  I feel 
her bearing down, trying to cause desperate friction between her pearl 
and my shaft.  Her breath is coming in shorts screams, she is thrusting 
faster, and digging her nails on my chest.  Her long white hair drapes 
on me, and that is as sensual as anything else taking place.*


	And then my yoni explodes in a paroxysm, in crescending waves, all my 
nerves channeling sweet lightning, and so I make lightning rumble 
outside, in the air, to explode as I am exploding.
	But he is not finished, so I turn, and go on all fours, and he thrusts 
away at me...

	*And this position hearkens to a tender, bygone masculine pleasure, a 
wild abandon which made boys feel like virile men.  I once took a couple 
as they were engaging in this - I enjoyed watching the teenage boy 
thrust into his true love from behind.  In his eyes were the promise of 
adult manhood and pleasure.  I placed a glamour on them and drained them 
as they continued to copulate.
	And so she gives me this beautiful and very mortal communion, and I am 
mad to sink my penis into her and thrust away like an adolescent boy.  
And I do, and I do not catch myself repeating her name over and over 
again until pleasure and pressure cause my orgasm, and I spurt my seed, 
seed which will never, ever bear fruit...*


	At daybreak, the Storm I was will curse and rail, will beg to the 
Goddess to remain herself and in control, and struggle to hold on to all 
she values dear to her.  For the rest of this night, the Storm I am will 
revel in the magnificent feast of pleasure she has just experienced, and 
she will wrap her spent body with the deliciously cool smooth body of 
her newfound demon lover.  He gives me a black silk scarf, with an elegant 
monogrammed D, in order to hide my wounds.


	*I am Dracula, lord of all vampyres.  The experiences of my undeath 
defy description.  My heart is blacker than deep midnight.  It is a rare 
thing for light to exist and flourish in darkness.  Domini was one such 
light.  Tonight, Ororo has earned her place as a candle in the crypt of 
my heart.  For her, for tonight, I shall play the lover.  Tomorrow night 
is the third night, and she will become a mindless, ravenous blood 
drinker, and all this will be a thing of the past.  As dawn begins to 
threaten me, I kiss her farewell, and tell her that tomorrow we shall be 
together for eternity, and then I take to the brightening sky on bat's 
wings...*