Chapter Text
John nudged the bedroom door open with his foot; it swung soundlessly on its hinges, but he didn’t go inside right away. Instead he lingered at the threshold, admiring the view in front of him.
Honeyed sunlight spilled across the room, painting everything soft and golden at the edges. A sea-salt breeze drifted through the open window, making the sheer curtains billow and cast wavering shadows against the floor. John could barely hear the low hum of the city, as though everything had been lulled to stillness by the late afternoon warmth.
And then the most dazzling sight of all: Arthur, lying languid on the bed, face tilted towards the sun. There was something a bit vulpine about him - in his lithe frame and auburn hair, in the sly smile that he turned on John.
“Is that for me?” Arthur shifted so that he was sitting up, nodding towards the tray in John’s hands.
“No,” John said, deadpan. “I was planning on eating it in front of you and not sharing.”
Arthur laughed, stretching his arms overhead and arching his spine. “As if you’d ever pass up an opportunity to feed me.”
John didn’t dignify that with a response, mostly because it was true. Months of running through the Dreamlands had made Arthur far too thin, so John was diligent about making sure he ate now that they were back on Earth. It helped that John actually liked cooking - it engaged the senses that he’d been missing for so long and it helped soothe his anxiety to know that Arthur was eating well.
He crossed the room and set the tray down on Arthur’s lap: it held a cup of fragrant black tea, a bagel covered with delicate strips of lox, and a small bowl of peach slices drizzled with cream and honey. Arthur made an appreciative noise, catching hold of John’s hand and pressing a kiss to the inside of his wrist, right where his pulse beat beneath his skin.
John sat down at the end of the bed, absently wrapping a hand around Arthur’s ankle. It was still a marvel to touch things freely: to drag his fingertips over Arthur’s sun-warmed skin, the hard jut of his ankle bone, then down to the calloused heel and tender arch of his bare foot. He pressed his thumb hard against Arthur’s sole, trying to soothe away the ache of too many nights spent tailing a burglary suspect around town.
Arthur let out a gratifying moan, his head lolling back against the pillows. “Mm, John…”
“Still feeling alright, sweetheart?” John studied Arthur carefully: the heat-fever had painted a delicate flush across his skin and given his eyes a beguiling shine. He didn’t seem distressed, but the asking was important to them both.
“Very alright,” Arthur replied, punctuating the words by sucking a drop of honey from his fingertip. His eyes were heavy and half-lidded, as though he hadn’t quite woken up from his earlier nap.
John shut his eyes, trying to listen for the words that Arthur wasn’t saying aloud. He had only a ghost of his former power, but it was still enough to sense the shape of someone’s mind. In the past he would find the fault lines in a soul, the places where a psyche might shatter if the right pressure was applied. He had been indiscriminate in his destruction, indifferent to oblation. Those minds had only existed to be broken, because he was King and it was his right.
Now, though…
Now he reached out – gently, always gently – and Arthur’s mind opened to him like a flower.
(– a melody weaving against his bones, soft as water – adagio, pianissimo – the sigh of wind through willow boughs, sunlight scattered across skin – honey thick on his tongue – ember-warm desire – wishing for the moment to hang suspended, amber-bound, to linger there just a few moments longer –)
John shifted further up the bed, taking Arthur’s right hand in his own. He had such large, lovely hands; there was grace in his fingers, whether they were dancing across piano keys or squeezing a pistol’s trigger. John massaged each joint, hypnotized by the flex of tendon and smooth roll of bone beneath flesh. Eventually he switched hands, lavishing the left one with as much care as the right.
“You know, I’m going to get terribly spoiled if you keep this up.” Arthur watched him work with a bemused expression, cradling the cup of tea in his free hand. It may have been phrased like a joke, but his voice was subdued, as though he felt the need to warn John away.
John just hummed in response, unsure how to describe the satisfaction he got from making Arthur’s body sing with pleasure. English was a clumsy language and he didn’t know how to flatten out his thoughts, to make them fit into the strict confines of grammar and syntax. How to explain that he had experienced eons of exaltation, and it all meant nothing against the revelation of finding someone to worship?
He kissed Arthur’s fingertips, hoping that touch would convey more than speech. Arthur tasted of salt and honey, with the faintest trace of gunmetal beneath it all.
Arthur sighed and sank back against the headboard, apparently resigned to John’s fussing. He was more alert now, the dream-glaze fading from his eyes. A slight smile played on his lips before it was smothered, like he suddenly felt guilty for enjoying himself. Well, that simply wouldn’t do.
John picked up the dinner tray and set it on the floor; the dishes could be dealt with later. “Shirt off, turn over.”
Arthur pulled a face – the one that meant you’re so goddamned bossy – but obeyed nonetheless, pulling the linen shirt over his head and tossing it to the side. He twisted, turning onto his stomach and resting his head on folded arms, peering up at John with one eyebrow raised.
John reached over him and picked up the small vial of oil that had been resting on the nightstand, taking a moment to warm it between his hands. The sweet scent of almonds filled the air as he spread the oil across Arthur’s skin, starting at the small of his back and working his way up in long, slow strokes.
“John-dear,” Arthur said, voice muffled by the mattress and the barrier of his arms. “Not that this is a complaint, but were you still planning on fucking me at some point?”
John let his hands fall still, palms flat against Arthur’s back. “Eventually. I’ve been told that patience is a virtue.”
“And I doubt there’s a soul on Earth who would call me virtuous.”
He could feel Arthur’s heart racing, the heavy beat of blood beneath his skin. They were changing the script of what usually happened during Arthur’s heats – and even if it was a good change, unfamiliarity led to anxiety. He wasn’t used to being cared for. Of course he would try to rush John on, to get past the pain his body had come to expect.
John leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the nape of Arthur’s neck. Arthur inhaled sharply, because kindness broke him open in a way that cruelty never could. John tilted his head so he could whisper into Arthur’s ear, breath hot against his skin.
“No one’s ever seen you like this, though, have they? Laid out so nicely for me, listening so well. None of them ever earned this from you.”
Arthur shivered beneath him and John pressed closer, his tongue flicking against the delicate shell of Arthur’s ear.
“You’re so good, sweetheart, you always have been. You just need someone who knows how to treat you right, hm?”
Arthur’s head jerked in an approximation of a nod; John rewarded him with another kiss at the curve of his jaw.
“That’s all I want to do, baby: treat you right. Do you want to hear what I have in mind, or shall we keep it a surprise?”
“Tell me, please.”
John stroked a hand along Arthur’s side, shoulder to hip, stopping just above the waistband of his trousers. “Well, first I’d touch you just like this, get you nice and relaxed for me…”
He brought his hand lower, reaching around so he could skim his fingers down the flat plane of Arthur’s stomach, dipping beneath the waistband, brushing against the thatch of coarse hair hidden beneath the fabric. “Then I’d open you up slowly – I want to watch you, Arthur, I want to see how your muscles tense and your body strains, how beautiful you look as I bring you closer to the edge – and then I’d keep you right there, just on the verge of coming, until you’re half-mad with it.”
He kissed Arthur’s shoulder, right where a patch of freckles formed a constellation against pale skin. “How does that sound to you?”
“It sounds,” Arthur replied, the words high and breathless, “like you’re a bloody sadist.”
“Oh no,” John let his voice drop into a playful growl, nipping at Arthur’s earlobe. “However will you survive?”
Somehow that was the thing that got Arthur to relax and laugh, his shoulders hitching as he tried to stifle the sound with a pillow. “Alright, alright, go on then. Show me what you’ve got.”
“Thank you,” John brought both hands back to Arthur’s narrow waist, starting to knead the muscles on either side of his spine. “Just focus on my hands and where I’m touching you, sweet thing. It’s not supposed to hurt, so tell me if anything feels uncomfortable.”
Arthur treated his body so roughly – he disconnected from it, acted like its only purpose was carrying his brain from place to place. Like his body wasn’t him just as much as his mind or the immaterial stuff of the soul. That attitude could be useful in an emergency, of course; it had kept him moving through pain that would have felled a lesser man. But they weren’t in danger now and John wanted Arthur to be in his body, wanted him to feel everything that John was doing to him.
So he worked slowly, easing the mess of tension in each muscle until it went pliant under his hands. He dragged his fingertips along the ridges of too-prominent ribs, traced the subtle arch of the spine, pressed devotion into sharp-edged shoulder blades. He massaged the back of Arthur’s neck, his hand fitting around it as neatly as a collar.
John enjoyed this aspect of their relationship just as much as Arthur did, albeit in a different way. The heady rush of power and dark joy of possession – those ancient hungers were tempered slightly, made reverent by the respect he held for Arthur. He demanded nothing but savored whatever the man offered to him, the submission made sweeter when it was given willingly. For a few moments, Arthur would surrender control and become John’s: his to hold and caress and covet, his to protect from all harm.
(It gave him hope that he wasn’t entirely a monster. How could he be, when Arthur yielded to him with such deliberate trust? When the mere thought of abusing that trust made him feel utterly wretched?)
John settled back after he’d gone over Arthur’s torso several times; by then the shadows had lengthened across the floor and the air had cooled slightly around them. He tapped Arthur’s hip to get his attention. “There now, doesn’t that feel better?”
Arthur nodded slowly, blinking up at John. He looked a little dazed, his body so lax that it might have been boneless. If John concentrated hard, he could feel the soft blurriness that had come over Arthur’s mind, the way it rendered the world all warm and distant. The light caught Arthur’s eyes – green irises shot through with thin threads of gold, tiny scars etched by the impossible sights they’d witnessed – and John fell in love all over again.
He reached out to touch Arthur’s cheek, tracing a thumb over the curve of his smile. “Arthur, do you want me to keep going?”
Arthur shifted so that he was lying on his back, looping his arms around John’s neck and pulling him down into a searing kiss. “Yes.”
The arousal that had been simmering beneath John’s skin sparked into an inferno. The atmosphere between them grew heavy, the kisses they exchanged became fiercer and more urgent. Arthur was so softly devastating like this – he somehow managed to appear eager and shy all at once. He looked up coyly at John through dark eyelashes, a blush high on his cheeks, even while his clever hands undid the buttons of John’s shirt.
John wanted to devour him.
He shrugged off his shirt and helped Arthur wiggle out of his sleep trousers, their clothing flung to the floor. Arthur shone under the sunlight, every inch of bare skin illuminated, every mark and scar limned with gold. John settled between his legs, gently spreading Arthur’s thighs.
“Oh, sweetheart, you’re soaking wet,” John crooned, enraptured by the sight. He ran his fingers over Arthur’s sex, coating them in the viscous fluid. “I would suffer another thousand years of darkness, just for the chance to taste you.”
Arthur let out a sharp whine, one arm draped over his eyes. John laughed and pressed a kiss to his bent knee. He sucked small bruises onto Arthur’s thigh and then soothed them with kisses, the stubble of his five-o’clock shadow scraping against Arthur’s skin. He worked his way inwards, lingering deliberately just to feel Arthur squirm as John moved closer to his clit before pulling back again.
He slipped two fingers inside of Arthur, stretching him open slowly, luxuriating in the wet heat surrounding his hand. It was almost like being within Arthur again, the way he could feel every jump in his muscles, how every sensation shivered through his body. He curled his fingers, searching for that spot that made Arthur see stars…
Click, click, click.
It only took John a second to recognize the sound: Arthur snapping his fingers, the stop-signal used when he was unable to speak. He withdrew immediately, wiping his fingers clean and leaning back to give Arthur some space.
Arthur had gone stiff and silent, one white-knuckled hand twisted up in the sheets. John moved slowly, not wanting to startle him, until he was sitting up next to Arthur and running a hand through his hair. The gesture was second-nature by now, a steady grounding pressure to remind Arthur that his body was safe.
Arthur had eventually been willing to share more information about heats, how the body became hypersensitive and easily aroused, how every emotion felt more intense. It was a double-edged sword: when something was good, it felt wonderful, but when things felt bad…well, John had seen that first-hand in the Dreamlands. After so many painful encounters, Arthur seemed to find panic and pleasure only a hairsbreadth apart.
“Color?” he asked.
Arthur opened his mouth, but the only sound to come out was a desperate gasp for air. John could see the tendons in his neck straining, like he was trying to force out words that just wouldn’t come.
It hurt to see him like this, especially when Arthur was so brazen about every other opinion he held. This was a conditioned response, the memories of his previous heats like a choke-chain around his throat. Sometimes John would lull himself into sweet dreams by planning what he would do to those people, the ones who hurt Arthur, the ones who ignored the words no and stop…
But they didn’t matter. Arthur, here and now, was what mattered.
Arthur gave up on trying to speak, his shoulders slumping. Instead he took hold of John’s free hand, sketching three short lines onto his palm. A Y for yellow, a request to pause what they were doing but not stop things entirely.
“Alright. Can you tell me what you need?”
Arthur lifted John’s hand, using it to cover up his own eyes. John could feel the flutter of his eyelashes against his palm.
“Okay, that’s good, you’re doing very well. Close your eyes for me.” He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s temple. “I’ll be back in thirty seconds.”
He needed two items from the dresser on the other side of the room. First was a glass of water, poured from a pitcher that rested atop the drawers – it was a gift from one of their more esoteric clients, somehow charmed to keep the liquid inside ice-cold, no matter the temperature outside. The second item was a blindfold.
John crossed back to Arthur’s side, gently wrapping his fingers around the water glass. “Hold this, please. And lean forward a bit.”
Arthur obeyed, inclining his head so that John could fit the blindfold over his eyes. It was made from layers of black silk, all sewn together with thread that glittered a metallic gold. The colors contrasted fetchingly against Arthur’s pale skin – it always gave John a possessive thrill, seeing how fine Arthur looked in his colors.
Arthur relaxed slightly as John tied the blindfold into place, his breathing a bit steadier. Sometimes having his eyesight taken away made it easier for him to slip into a quiet headspace; it required him to slow down and focus, to pay attention to the world, to accept help. Even having John walk him through something simple, like making a cup of tea, could stop him from spiraling when his racing thoughts became too overwhelming.
“There we are,” John murmured, leaning back on the bed and tugging Arthur down to curl up against his side. “Comfortable?”
Arthur nodded, pressing the icy glass against his inner wrist. Drops of condensation rolled down his skin.
“Good. Drink your water.”
They lay there quietly for a while: Arthur sipping from the glass and John holding him, one broad hand sweeping lazily up and down Arthur’s spine. The city droned away outside their window, and the sigh of sea waves echoed up from the docks.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur was the first to break their silence, his mouth twisted in a frustrated grimace. “I started feeling anxious and – and I thought I could shake it off, but I just got…I don’t know. I got lost in my head.”
“You were uncomfortable and let me know that you needed to stop. I’m proud of you, darling, you did everything just right.”
Arthur’s silence took on a dubious quality, as if he disagreed with John’s assessment but didn’t have the energy to argue with him. Sometimes John wanted to stand him in front of a mirror, make him look at himself until he could see everything that John saw: the chiaroscuro of his soul, the beauty in his jagged edges. The boundless potential for both compassion and brutality, how he would fight and fail and still always try again. Maybe then he would realize that John didn’t love him because he was perfect; John loved him because he was so perfectly human.
But Arthur’s self-worth issues couldn’t be fixed in a single night and John knew better than to push him right now. Far better to focus on the immediate obstacle instead.
“Do you know what made you anxious?” he asked.
Arthur shook his head – which made sense, if John thought about it. He could have processed the anxiety if he knew what caused it, but give Arthur Lester an unanswered question and his mind wouldn’t rest until the mystery was solved. Useful for survival, terrible for relaxation.
Arthur leaned over John to place the glass on the nightstand and then settled back against his side. “Talk to me?”
“Of course,” John said. He took a moment to study the room and window, observing little details to monologue on. “The wisteria in the neighbor’s garden is blooming – the flowers hang in heavy clusters, a dark violet-blue like clouds gathering before a thunderstorm. The branches sway beneath the breeze and the older petals fall, drifting like snow in summer…”
“I can smell them,” Arthur mumbled, his lips brushing against John’s chest as if to make each word into a kiss.
“Yes, they always smell stronger at night and the sun is starting to sink towards the horizon. The light around us has turned to an orange-red, like it’s being shone through an amber prism. Can you feel it on your skin?”
“Mhmm, yes. I should really be more careful, I burn easily.”
“I’ll admit, I envy the sun. It kisses you more thoroughly than I ever could.”
“Perhaps you’re just not trying hard enough.”
John laughed, smoothing back a strand of hair that had fallen across Arthur’s brow. “The dying light turns your hair to fire, it makes you glow. Did you know that you blush so prettily when you’re all heated up like this? You look like a sunset, Arthur.”
“Oh my god,” Arthur muttered, curling in on himself. Sincere compliments always made him fidget and shy away, a habit that John was trying very hard to break.
John clicked his tongue, a gently chiding sound. He slipped a finger beneath Arthur’s chin, tilting his head up so that John could see him fully. “Ah-ah-ah, sweetheart, don’t hide from me. I’m not done looking at you yet.”
Arthur sighed but went still, his body displayed for John’s inspection. John gave a pleased hum, running a hand along Arthur’s collarbone and down his sternum. “Your skin went darker when I mentioned you blushing – am I making your heart beat faster? Do you like hearing how handsome I find you? You know, sometimes I wonder if I could bring you off with just my voice.”
Arthur bit down on his lip – it stifled any noise, but he couldn’t suppress the quiver that ran through his body, the longing way he pressed himself against John.
John slid a leg between Arthur’s, rubbing his hip and encouraging him to grind down against John’s thigh. “Oh, do you like that idea, my love? We won’t do that tonight though, not when I can finally hold you in my arms. Just look at you, baby, the way you move against me, you’re so goddamn strong – but you don’t have to be strong right now, you can let go, let me take care of everything…”
Arthur hid his face in the curve of John’s neck; the blindfold was smooth and slippery against his skin. John could barely hear the soft little gasps that Arthur made, rolling his hips against John’s in a wordless plea.
“What’s your color, Arthur?”
“Green,” Arthur panted, clutching at John’s shoulders. “Green, John, just fucking touch me, please!”
And John did touch him – he pressed two fingers deep inside of Arthur, the motion slow but relentless. Two fingers became three; sometimes he brushed teasingly against Arthur’s clit just to feel him jolt at the unexpected sensation. It wasn’t quite enough to get him off, not yet – John let the pleasure come in waves, let it build until Arthur was shaking with tension before easing him back down, over and over again.
John didn’t speak, too busy nipping and kissing every bit of skin he could reach. He didn’t need to speak, because when he got Arthur feeling good – really good, good enough to forget himself – the man sang like a damn bird. The sounds fell unrestrained from his lips: gasps and cries that filled up the room, his moans and sighs sweet as a symphony.
John wasn’t even sure if Arthur was aware of the noise he was making – he didn’t dare bring it up, in case he became self-conscious and stopped. He treasured this vulnerable side of Arthur, the one so caught up in the ecstasy of touch that he ignored every stupid rule that society had put around sex. He was so gorgeous and unafraid when he was in that headspace, able to tell John what he wanted without an ounce of shame.
By the fourth time John left him right at the edge of climax, Arthur looked wrecked. His body was wrought with tension, limbs shaking. His lips were red and swollen from kisses, neck and shoulders blooming with bruises. His head was tipped back, exposing the sharp lines of his collarbone and the delicate hollow of his throat.
What a privilege to take him apart like this.
John ducked his head, blowing a stream of cool air over Arthur’s clit and fever-flushed skin. The man let out a ragged gasp, almost a sob, his muscles clamping down around John’s fingers.
John began to move a bit faster, pressing just a little harder against the slick warmth of Arthur’s inner walls. Arthur batted weakly at his wrist. “Close, I’m close,”
John didn’t slow down. He didn’t want to push Arthur any further for fear that sensitivity would turn to pain, or anticipation to frustration. “That’s alright, sweetheart, that’s good, you’ve been so patient while I had my fun. Tell me what you want – my hands, my mouth?”
“I want you, want you inside me, right now,”
The demand caught John by surprise, but he wasn’t going to doubt or deny Arthur’s wishes. He fumbled his trousers off, the fabric tangling him up in his haste – he could hear Arthur snickering, the bastard – and fished a condom out of the nightstand drawer. He rolled it down over his cock, all at once aware of the aching hardness and the arousal pulsing through his body now that he wasn’t focused solely on Arthur.
He guided Arthur’s hand to his cock, let him feel the latex; Arthur already took measures to prevent pregnancy, but the extra reassurance never hurt. He urged Arthur onto his lap, letting him control the pace as he sank down onto John’s cock. There was almost no resistance – Arthur was too wet and open for that – just a slow glide of exquisite warmth and pressure as he took John in.
“Oh, ” Arthur gasped out when John was fully seated inside him. He swayed forward, pressing his forehead against John’s, just resting there for a moment, their breath and bodies entwined. “Oh, John…”
John reached up to cradle Arthur’s face, stroking his thumbs across his cheekbones, crossing from skin to silk and back again. “Arthur, sweetheart, you feel so good – just take your time, baby, whatever you need, okay?”
Arthur rocked forward, slowly at first and then gaining speed. John matched his pace, the soft drag and press of Arthur’s body almost too much to bear – the way his thighs trembled beneath John’s palms, the ripple of his abdominal muscles, the noises he made…
John couldn’t stop the words from spilling out of his mouth, Arthur’s name made into a litany. Most-favored, beloved, adored; he wasn’t even sure if he was speaking English anymore, just that he needed to tell Arthur how wonderful he was.
Arthur’s whole body was shaking, the blindfold damp with sweat or tears. He was so close, he just needed one little push…
John pressed his lips against Arthur’s throat, tasting the salt of his skin, letting him feel the vibration of the words. “That’s it, darling, come on…take what you need, I’m all yours.”
The words sent Arthur over the edge: he cried out, slumping forward against John as all the tension left him. John could feel the rapid contraction of his muscles, a fluttering convulsion around his cock that brought him to climax right after Arthur. The world went white for a moment as pleasure crashed through him.
He came back to coherence a few moments later – the last of the sunset was fading from the sky, dusk closing in on them. The knot had swelled at the base of his cock, tying him and Arthur together for the next few minutes.
Arthur was collapsed against his chest, still shivering occasionally in the aftershock. Eventually his body would process the endorphins released during orgasm and his heat would end, but the sensitivity would continue for a few hours yet. John stroked one hand down his back, the other petting his hair. “Still with me, Arthur?”
“No. You killed me,” Arthur mumbled into John’s neck, the words a little slurred. “I’m dead.”
John huffed out a laugh. “Alright, Lazarus, do you want the blindfold off?”
“Yes, please.”
John picked apart the blindfold’s ties, gently pulling away the fabric. Arthur blinked as he lifted his head to smile at John, his pupils contracting as they adjusted to the light. He reached up, patting at John’s cheek. “Hi.”
John couldn’t stop his own grin, feeling more than a little drunk and silly. He leaned forward, kissing the tip of Arthur’s nose just because he could. “Hi.”
Arthur kept stroking over his scruff, apparently preoccupied by the texture. “I think this was what made me anxious.”
“What, the beard?”
“Mmm,” Arthur shrugged, snuggling back down against John’s chest. “It was mostly fine, really. I think when I felt it against my legs, it reminded me of something…unpleasant.”
John wrapped his arms around Arthur, holding him just a little bit tighter. “I’ll shave beforehand next time, we can see if that helps. You weren’t thinking about that the whole time, were you?”
“Oh no, you kept me quite well distracted.”
“That’s good,” John shifted carefully, reaching over to switch on the bedside lamp, the warm glow mingling with the indigo twilight. Sleep would take both of them down soon, but before it did he would make sure that Arthur felt safe and warm and loved. He ran his hands down Arthur’s body, watching for any signs of discomfort. “You’re alright? Nothing hurts?”
“I’m fine, love, don’t worry,” Arthur yawned as he spoke, mangling the words. John pressed a kiss to his forehead, pulling the sheet up over Arthur’s shoulders.
“Do you need anything? Tea, a bath? The still-beating hearts of your enemies?”
Arthur laughed, soft and content, and put a hand over John’s mouth before he could explain that it was a very sincere offer.
“Just you, you ridiculous man. I just need you.”