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Arthur, John noticed, is not one for casual kissing.
John likes casual touches. His hands around Arthur's waist to gently move him out of the way when they're making breakfast in the morning, a hand on his elbow to guide him in the proper direction on the street. Little things that John does when he can because he can.
Arthur does not do the same. He accepts John's touch easily as long as it isn't too outward in public, but his own actions are deliberate and thought through. Arthur’s touch carries intention.
When Arthur kisses John, it usually leads to a makeout session or sex. Comfort tends to be given through squeezing his hand or holding him close and reassuring him, because Arthur understands that John prefers being reminded of their time together more than any other form of intimacy.
Sex is enjoyable for John, but mostly because he likes Arthur. He probably wouldn't seek it out in strangers, just as he doesn’t touch. For him, it’s not the action as much as it is the person.
This means he doesn’t kiss Arthur often. Not because he doesn’t want to or doesn’t enjoy it, but because it doesn’t occur to him as much as other forms of affection do.
Intimacy that tends towards violence speaks differently to John because it requires a level of trust he can barely comprehend. Sex isn’t special to him the way it is to most humans, because why would it be? But letting someone hurt you, that he understands. Every living being wants safety, whether they realize it or not. John is no different. So in handing off that safety to someone else and letting them gently break it without actually breaking it at all– his heart quivers and swoops at the idea.
It'd been difficult to place enough trust in Arthur’s hands that he could make John bleed. But he wants to return what Arthur gives to him, and he wants that closeness that is indescribable even for his poetic tongue, so he gave it.
Arthur, for his part, was patient. He seems to understand how much weight the action of letting oneself be made prey has– and he most likely does, having done so himself.
One thing John observed from their nights together ( truly together, not just in company but in action) was that while he favors using his teeth, Arthur uses his nails.
John uses his hands to hold Arthur in place while he bites. Arthur does the opposite, wrapping his jaw around John and threatening to tear flesh open with his teeth if John tries to escape the nails dragging into his skin. Arthur often ends up bruised from the pressure of John’s bites, with scraped skin when his jaw aches with unmeasurable want. John’s body gets covered in scratches so rough they pierce skin. One morning after, John looked in the mirror and saw thin lines of red trailing down his back, blood clotted in spots Arthur dug his nails in especially hard.
He doesn’t know what meaning to parse from that, if there is any at all. Arthur doesn’t comment on it, so John didn't bring it up either.
Maybe John just likes how the taste of Arthur’s blood lingers in his mouth, iron with a strange sweetness. He falls asleep with his tongue enveloped in the memory of Arthur.
Once Arthur choked John.
He'd said he wanted to try something new. His hands had wrapped around John's neck gently, his thumbs pressed into his skin. He'd asked if John wanted to try too, and then he asked if he was sure because he was nervous.
John had registered what Arthur was asking. The hands wrapped around his neck were firm and warm, and Arthur was sitting in his lap and his lips were bloody from John biting them, so he said yes (and then said it again with a laugh because if Arthur saw the blush on John's face he probably wouldn't have needed to ask a second time. Arthur doesn’t seem to fully grasp how much of an effect he has on John.)
Arthur had pressed down slowly at first, listening for John's reaction. John felt the way his airway grew smaller, how he had to put more effort into breathing. He'd circled his hands around Arthur’s wrists in a lax grip, letting him continue.
Arthur squeezed until John was gasping for air, taking in as much as he could and wheezing it back out in faint whimpers. His thumbs dug into John’s throat, nails imprinting onto his skin. John’s hands tightened in their grip, but still he made no attempt to stop Arthur.
Arthur’s eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted and swollen from previously exchanged kisses. He looked mesmerized by John’s response. His cheeks were touched pink, his hair disheveled. John drank in the sight as much as he was able to in the moment.
He held them there until John coughed, unable to exhale properly. Then he let go, letting John’s head fall into his chest. John was left desperately gulping in air, one hand on his neck and the other on Arthur's upper arm for stability.
John didn't realize how alive it would make him feel. Arthur choking him left him aware of how human he now is, how much his soul is rooted in his body. There'd always been a separation before. Arthur, always the one to bring him back, had tied John so thoroughly to his body that his senses felt as if they were on fire, nerves working overtime.
John’s neck was bruised the next morning and he had to button his shirt up completely. Usually, the way his collar sat tight around his throat was uncomfortable, but in that moment it only reminded him of the night before, of Arthur squeezing the air out of John and making him feel so grounded in himself.
Things didn't always work out, though.
Another thing John realized: Arthur had a strange fixation with hands. It wasn't surprising when he thought about it– for the longest time the only way to touch John was through his left hand.
Old habits die hard, John muses.
It had clicked for him when he had once tried to swipe the blood from Arthur’s bottom lip with his thumb. Arthur pressed forward, kissing the pad of it.
John paused in his movements, relishing the warmth and affection.
Arthur moved closer, opening his lips and catching his thumb in his teeth at the knuckle, biting down gently. His tongue experimentally swiped at the skin, tasting his own blood.
John had whispered his name, he remembered, causing Arthur to bite down harder.
He didn't think it would scare him the way it did.
John jerked his hand back and Arthur let go of it with a startle.
He had asked what was wrong, his hand reaching forward to find John's face and cup his cheek gently.
Though it was nothing like that moment in the forest, John had been stuck with the inexplicable fear that Arthur was going to bite his finger off.
The pain of the bite, the burning of the wound being cauterized, the wood infusing itself into his skin and beneath it– it all resurfaced, and John flinched away.
He was embarrassed and refused to explain what was wrong. He didn't want to admit a wound from so long ago prevented him from enjoying the moment. Instead, he brushed it off and tried to continue, but Arthur wouldn't have it.
It had caused an argument between them until John finally admitted what had caused his reaction. Arthur had softened, then, and apologized. He didn't let John argue, firmly telling him that he needed to speak up about things that made him uncomfortable.
It was a hard pill to swallow for John, but Arthur made him tea and gently explained to him that becoming distressed over seemingly harmless things was something everyone dealt with in one way or another, and John would have to accept it and learn to not get embarrassed because it wasn't something to be ashamed of.
Arthur still has a strange fixation with John’s hands, but he’s a lot more gentle with them now. He learned how to avoid John’s discomforts and figured out what John likes so he gets flustered with the attention instead of scared.
John also has things he abstains from.
He thought about how much he liked Arthur trapped in his arms.
In his old body, he'd be able to envelop Arthur completely. This one sufficed, but it couldn't match what his godly form was capable of.
John wondered if tying Arthur up would have a similar effect. To have him bound and in John’s hands– where he could hurt; where he could care for.
He never brought it up. Arthur displays claustrophobic symptoms, and he'd already had enough negative experiences being tied up that John doesn’t think he'd be able to enjoy it.
Arthur allowing himself to be held down with only a performative fight is gift enough. John would take it gladly and treasure it.
There were also his scars. Arthur stopped John the first time he began tracing them, not liking the reminder he had them and how he did. John still traced them with his eyes– he couldn’t help it– but he let Arthur forget as much as he could, which already wasn’t much.
“John?”
Arthur's voice breaks him from his musings, muffled from where he lay on John's chest.
“Hm?” John hums, glancing down at Arthur. “What is it?” He continues trailing his hand up and down Arthur’s back, resisting the urge to press his palm firmly against the warm skin.
“Nothing, just– I thought you'd be asleep by now.”
“I'm thinking, that's all.”
“About what?” Arthur lifts his head, resting his chin on John’s chest. The moonlight filtering through the window casts a cool glow on his pale skin, highlighting his cheekbones.
You. Us. “Nothing. Am I keeping you awake?” John asks guiltily, pausing in his movements.
“No, it's fine.” Arthur shifts, his hand brushing John’s bitten collarbone. “Is it something good or bad?”
So he isn’t letting it go.
John folds. “Good.”
“That's… that's alright, then. Just don't stay up too late. We have a lot of work tomorrow.”
John rolls his eyes without any heat. “Of course, Arthur.”
They allow the silence of the night to make its presence for a few minutes.
John continues his ministrations, tracing random patterns onto Arthur's skin. Arthur returns to his previous position of pressing his cheek into John's chest, his hand sliding from John’s collar to his waist, tucking them into each other.
John feels his mind begin to wander where he can’t follow, sleep overtaking his consciousness. He lets his eyes slip closed.
“–thinking about?”
His brows furrow. “Hmm?” he asks, tongue clumsy from slumber.
“I said,” Arthur repeats, “What were you thinking about?”
John opens his eyes. “Are you serious?”
“Am I not allowed to be curious?” Arthur snaps defensively.
“At this hour?”
“You're awake.”
“Because you woke me up.” He yawns, proving his point. “I was falling asleep.”
Arthur huffs. “Sorry,” he says, an afterthought. “Now answer my question.”
“Am I not allowed to have my own thoughts?”
He pokes John in the side. “If they weren't anything bad you'd have no reason to hide them.”
John frowns. “Arthur,” he says cautiously, sitting up against the bed's headboard, “why do you want to know so bad?”
Arthur slides off his chest and moves to sit up on his knees, John’s thigh bracketed between his legs. The blanket that was covering them is pushed back, and John’s eyes catch on a bruise from when he grabbed Arthur's hip and squeezed.
“I’m just– never mind,” Arthur says, turning away. “Forget it.”
“ Now you want to drop it?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“That’s obviously not true if you were this insistent on it.”
Arthur moves away, retreating to his side of the bed. “Just go to sleep.”
“Arthur.”
He tenses at the way John says his name. The moonlight only highlights his tension, following the curve of his bunched-up shoulders.
John softens. “Tell me,” he murmurs soothingly.
“... My marriage to Bella happened this weekend.”
He inhales sharply. “Oh.”
“I don’t know why that’s set me on edge. Things have been really good lately, and it was great, and I was– am happy. But now the memories are resurfacing and I keep feeling like something is going to happen. I guess I’m waiting for the other shoe to fall.”
Arthur’s rant tapers off, leaving a tense silence in its wake. John can’t see his expression, Arthur facing away with his back to him.
He wants to sigh and tell Arthur how much of an idiot he’s being. They’ve already had this conversation before, why is it such an issue? They’re happy, what more do they need to do? He doesn’t understand Arthur’s problem. It’s as if the man doesn’t know how to accept how little of an issue the nature of their relationship is.
But that would start a fight, which would just make things worse, and as much as that old, scared part of John pushes for it, he holds back.
Arthur has scars from before meeting John. It’s an obvious statement, but there were so many scars from after meeting him that John tended to forget about those early ones. (Most of them. He could never forget Faroe.)
John ignores the jagged parts of him that bristle at the feeling of distrust and reaches out to rest a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.
“This isn't then. It’s different.”
“How?” Arthur shoots back.
“Well, for one, I’m not human, nor do I entirely understand the rules you set around relationships,” John deadpans. “And I don’t care, either. This isn’t going to be like your marriage with Bella.”
Arthur’s shoulders slump. He leans his head into John’s hand, resting it at what must be an uncomfortable angle.
“I know,” he says.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
Arthur doesn’t seem eager to explain further.
John doesn’t prod, switching topics and finally answering his question. “I was thinking about how we show… affection, differently.”
Arthur hums, glancing at him. “What conclusion did you reach?”
“I didn’t.”
“I see.”
John shuffles forward, pressing a kiss to the back of Arthur’s shoulder, feeling him relax underneath his lips. “I like how things are now.”
“Me too.”
“Then stop worrying.”
Arthur huffs. “I’m trying.”
John hooks his chin over Arthur’s shoulder and looks down at his hands. He smiles at his accurate prediction: Arthur is pressing his thumb into the scar John inflicted.
“I’m sorry I keep bringing my marriage up,” Arthur apologizes. “It’s not proper.”
“She was important to you.”
“Yes, she was. Bella was a great friend.”
John lets the sentence hang in the air, sensing he isn’t finished.
Arthur reaches up to run his hand through John’s hair.
“I wish that was all we had to be. I think I loved her more before we got married.” He laughs self-deprecatingly. “How fucked up is that?”
John doesn’t answer; there’s nothing he can say. Relationships are the trickiest part of being human. He won’t pretend to understand the nuance in them, at least not when it comes to labels.
“Well,” he begins, choosing his words carefully, “it’s more than that. You were forced to be someone you weren’t. I think anyone would get sick of it.”
“I wasn’t sick of her. Just the situation. It was wrong.”
“I know.”
“I do miss her. She deserved way better than me, but she was still so kind.” Arthur takes a shaky breath. “She should have lived.”
“I’m sorry,” John whispers.
“I’m not the one who should be hearing that.”
He refuses to budge. “But you are. I’m sorry.”
Arthur doesn’t respond again.
“You should rest.”
He acquiesces. “Alright.”
Arthur lets John pull him back into bed, tucking his face into the crook of John’s neck.
His voice is slightly muffled when he speaks up again. “Can we…” he trails off.
“Can we what?”
“Later, can we visit Bella’s grave? I… I never gave her flowers.”
“Of course, Arthur,” John agrees immediately.
“Thank you.”
John wraps his arms around him, trying to provide as much comfort as Arthur is able to give him. He’s more full in his hold, time and steady access to food returning to him the weight he'd lost. Arthur returns his embrace, slipping his arm underneath John’s and looping it around his waist.
The nights are getting colder, but it’s so warm next to Arthur. John smiles, knowing he’ll have plenty of excuses for the two to stay bundled together in the winter. Suffocating jackets be damned, he is making tea and wrapping a blanket around them to share. How many cases can there be? It’s too cold for crime, John decides, and anyone would be a fool to waste their time trying.
Arthur once again breaks his line of thought.
“What’s your favorite thing that I do?”
“Hm?”
“You said you were thinking about the different ways we’re intimate.”
“Right.” John ponders for a bit. “I like it when you hold me.”
Arthur lets out a surprised laugh. “That’s it?”
“What’s wrong with my answer?” John frowns.
“Nothing! I just wasn’t expecting something so… soft.”
“Can I not be soft?”
“You can.” Arthur scratches softly at the base of John’s head. He melts, sighing appreciatively. “It’s very endearing, actually.”
John feels his cheeks warm. He grumbles some sort of retort under his breath that Arthur promptly ignores.
“What about you?” he asks. “What do you like the most?”
“I’m not sure. I like your bites, but you’re also a good kisser.”
“Am I?” John grins.
“Don’t let it get to your head.”
Too late.
“Hm…” Arthur continues. “There’s where you hug me from behind.”
“Oh? And here I thought you hated it, with how much you complain,” John teases.
“Shut up, you always do it when it's inconvenient.”
John cackles, knowing that’s a fight he just won.
“As I was saying,” Arthur sniffs, not letting John stew in his victory, “I like when you guide me in areas I’m not familiar with. It’s nice.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Not when you try bossing me around, then you’re just a prick–” John flicks him, “–but outside of that, I appreciate it. I wish I could return the favor, somehow. But that’s impossible.”
John takes that bit of information and files it away. They could try it at home. He’ll figure it out later.
“So that’s your favorite?”
“I didn’t say that,” Arthur objects. “I don’t know, John. I don’t have a favorite. There’s a lot.”
“That’s cheap. You’re avoiding answering,” John playfully accuses.
“Fine,” Arthur retorts, “I hate all of it equally, so I can’t have a favorite.”
“Oh?” John goes along with him, “So I should let go right now, then?”
“You can certainly try,” Arthur challenges, tightening his grip around John’s waist.
“I’d rather sleep. You know, like the multiple attempts I’ve made tonight to do so?”
“Fine, you bastard, I’ll be quiet.”
“I hope so, but I’m beginning to doubt you can be.”
Arthur scoffs. “Oh, you’re doubting it? I had to deal with you chatting away in my head all the time!”
“I didn’t have anything else to do,” John defends.
“Excuses.”
“You still haven’t stopped talking.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ– yes, yes, I’m sleeping.”
John snorts but lets the argument fall.
As much as John complains about it, the nights where Arthur has the energy to stay up and converse are some of the nicest. It reminds him of the times when they were still together, when Arthur would use his last moments of energy before sleep to entertain John. It didn't happen often in the Dreamlands, but after they reunited in Addison, Arthur became more curious about the hours John spent while he was asleep. He doesn't know what caused the man to be more aware of John's nightly solitude, but he appreciates the efforts made to give him company.
So Arthur claims to not have a favorite thing John does. A pity, because he would’ve taken advantage of it immediately to fluster Arthur.
Well.
He can still do that.
John goes against his own words and leans down to whisper in Arthur’s ear.
“I’m sure we can try everything until you decide what you like best.”
Arthur doesn’t deign that with a response, instead grabbing a pillow and smacking John in the face.
John laughs softly, knowing despite not being able to see that Arthur’s cheeks are pink.
They have much to explore.