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It’s been nearly a week since Alia started the lengthy, excruciatingly painful and strenuous healing process to draw Horig from Arthur’s lungs and repair what she can of Arthur’s most recent injuries. Days and nights of fever and unrest have slowly melted into short walks and longer naps. Arthur was even able to walk the entirety of the courtyard today (before he had to sit down and catch his breath for several minutes). And while Arthur is certainly breathing better and finally able to keep solid food down, it’s not enough to assuage John’s fear of his friend suddenly dying in his sleep.
John has been floating around Arthur’s slumbering mind for a few hours now, occasionally shifting to rest his hand on their chest when Arthur stops snoring, worried their heart may have stopped.
The darkness around him flickers a deep crimson, as if a candle is being held close to Arthur’s face, casting silhouettes of the small veins that spider-web through the thin skin of the eyelids resting against the wet sclera of their eyes.
John sets his hand on Arthur’s chest again and waits until he can feel the thump thump thump thump of his rabbit heart — which beats perpetually fast even while at rest — irrevocably damaged after months of stress and overexertion.
He splays his hand out wide to stretch his fingers, wiggling them one by one before settling back onto Arthur’s chest. He starts to slowly brush his thumb back and forth across Arthur’s sternum — the motion almost meditative — until he feels a small lump just inches below the left clavicle. He starts feeling out its size and shape before slipping his thumb under the collar of Arthur’s loosely buttoned shirt. Hmmm , John nearly hums aloud, accidentally brushing over Arthur’s left nipple before finding the lump again. Oh, right… One of the gunshot wounds. It’s raised and rough — The bullet to Arthur’s heart had left a much larger keloid scar than the other two had.
A sudden whoosh of heat creeps across Arthur’s face, and John swears he can feel it brush over him, sparking a microscopic surge of fear that flits across his mind and scurries down his arm like hordes of tiny beetles. That almost feels like… breath .
No, he nearly growls aloud to himself. No one is here. John is not letting himself indulge in ridiculous, unfound fears. Not tonight.
He quickly forces his mind away from the thought, moving his fingers down to explore the various textures of the marred skin spanning Arthur’s battered chest and torso, making sure to keep his pinky lifted just enough so as to not scrape anything with the coarse stub of wood. There’s a plethora of divots and hollows and lumps… So many things to explore and use to distract himself.
Arthur makes a soft sound in between snores and shifts subtly, causing John to pause his meandering.
John moves to rest his hand over Arthur’s heart yet again, focusing on the quick, even beats until the tempo syncs with his own… or what feels like his own.
Something warm slowly presses down on John's hand.
“John.”
The voice is deeper than usual. Husky with sleep and disuse.
John draws in a silent, airless breath as the man's voice rumbles through his mind. His incorporeal insides buzz as he tries to say Arthur’s name in response, but is unable to force it out, his nonexistent throat suddenly useless. What is making him feel so… exposed?
‘Are you asleep?’ John tries to ask instead, but is still incapable of speaking. Damn it, Arthur. You better open your eyes if you’re awake —
John flinches as Arthur shifts to grab his hand and slowly pulls him up to cup his cheek. A soft sound passes from John through Arthur’s mind as he moves, and it’s as if Arthur can feel John breathing inside of him, warmth blossoming across his cheeks and neck.
Arthur presses his face into John’s palm, making a contented noise.
“Arthur..?” John’s voice returns in a whisper.
Arthur makes another soft sound and nuzzles his cheek against John.
The warm, freshly shaved skin of Arthur’s face is so inviting and so… malleable. John wants to press his fingers into the soft flesh and hold him, but keeps his hand still, not daring to move in case Arthur is actually asleep. Or maybe…
No. Whatever the case, John is too enamoured to break the spell of gentleness and calm and… whatever is happening between them at this moment.
Arthur shifts and slowly pulls John's hand away, and John hates the instant pang of need that twists through him from the simple withdrawal of contact. Arthur must be waking up now, John thinks, telling himself -- rather pessimistically --that there was no way Arthur had consciously initiated such gentle and unprompted touch.
John must be imagining things; was just dreaming that Arthur had touched him first when in reality John had been the one to reach out. He tries not to dwell on it, but can’t resist reaching out again; his curiosity stronger than his will.
Arthur’s eyelids flutter briefly as John’s fingers clumsily graze across his cheek and Cupid’s bow. He grabs ahold of John’s wrist, his mouth opening as if he is about to speak.
The knee-jerk reaction to defend himself and vehemently deny what he’d done or to try feigning ignorance wrestles through John’s insides like dueling serpents, keeping him silent until a warm hush of breath caresses his palm.
John’s fingers straighten out as the curve of a familiar smile presses just under his pinky, moving its way down…
“...Arthur?” John barely forces out the name, a tidal wave of new and unfamiliar emotions swirling around him, accompanied by that yet-unidentifiable warmth he’d felt the other night.
Arthur presses a kiss into the centre of John’s palm, then tilts his head back, his bottom lip dragging across callused skin up toward the base of John's ring finger.
John sucks in an airless breath to suppress a gasp, trying to stay as still and silent as possible. He doesn’t know what this is, exactly, but he knows that he doesn’t want it to end yet… doesn't want Arthur to stop.
Arthur pauses, almost as if silently asking John's permission — the soft swell of his lips ghosting across John’s skin a promise of something more.
John waits for what feels like an eternity before slowly relaxing his hand, each muscle and tendon easing until the pad of his thumb fills the hollow under Arthur’s left cheekbone, the rest of his fingers hovering just over Arthur’s nose and eyes.
Arthur parts his lips and slides the tip of his tongue over the callus under John’s ring finger.
John’s hand tenses subconsciously, but anything resembling hesitation or ambivalence on his end is immediately discounted by the deep rumble of pleasure that flows into Arthur’s skull like warm, viscous honey.
John can feel the smile against his palm just before the firm muscle of Arthur’s tongue drags its way up the length of his ring finger.
Oh …
Arthur’s thin fingers curl around John's wrist to gently pull his hand down before guiding John's ring finger into the wet heat of his mouth.
“Fuck.” John all but chokes, his hand twitching as he forces himself not to clench it into a fist. The second knuckle of his ring finger presses the hard, ribbed roof of Arthur’s mouth before John can fully straighten himself out. John tries to apologise — to say something, anything — but all sense of language he has left disappears as Arthur presses his tongue to the underside of John's finger, perfectly molding to its shape.
“Mmm,” Arthur hums, pressing John harder against the roof of his mouth before slipping him back out.
John is panting now. The velvety dark he’d been floating in is suddenly replaced by the dim glow emanating from the hearth as Arthur opens their eyes.
John can see part of his hand from here, his ring finger glistening with Arthur’s saliva. The added visual triggers an intense wave of desire that pours into John with that odd, delicious warmth he is starting to recognise. That sense of pleasure… of hunger .
Arousal.
Jesus Christ.
John wants to shake himself by his incorporeal shoulders until some common sense takes over him.
“Arthur, I —“
“Shhh, John.” Arthur slowly turns his head to rub his mouth over the tips of John's fingers, spit smearing across his right cheek as he works his way from the wooden-ended pinky to the index finger.
John feels as if his phantom heart has stopped; the ghosts of each four chambers cease all at once as that damned smile parts into a warm hole made just for him.
“Oh, Arthur .”
Arthur moans around John's first two fingers, the vibration of his voice intertwining with the electric current of pleasure coursing through them.
Every hair across their shared arm raises as Arthur slowly pulls John in and out of his mouth, creating a steady, unhurried rhythm.
The feeling is fucking transcendent .
Warmth sizzles across John’s skin as Arthur works over him, both of them pleasantly surprised at the sounds and sensations they were drawing out of the other.
John growls softly — impatiently — wanting more of Arthur’s mouth. He gently curls his fingers against Arthur’s tongue for more purchase and tries to create his own cadence.
Arthur growls and slows his pace, grabbing John's wrist more firmly to limit his mobility.
John gives a small grunt of annoyance before trying to press further into Arthur’s mouth.
“Fuck!” He gasps in surprise as Arthur clenches around him with his teeth to keep him from moving — but instead of scaring John or forcing him into submission, the sudden pressure and shock of pain only encourage him, triggering something deep inside of him to fight back.
John curls his fingers down until his blunt nails press into the thick muscle of Arthur’s tongue, his knuckles nearly hitting Arthur’s uvula.
Arthur growls again before sucking hard , drawing John in all the way to the hilt. He’s not going to submit to John, either.
John properly moans this time, the pads of his fingers flush with the curve of Arthur’s tongue. He can feel the back of Arthur’s throat tense — the slick, supple ceiling of Arthur’s soft palette almost unbearably hot.
Arthur holds John there for what feels like eons before the gradual rise of saliva forces Arthur to swallow around him. The squeeze of warm flesh and muscle coated in spit threaten to drive John mad, his vision of the dimly lit room blurring into golden swirls of smoke.
Jesus Christ … Has John ever felt anything so… divine?
“Hnnn,” Arthur’s groan of John’s name is obscured by John's fingers. He forces his tongue between the two digits and starts to drag him out, John's knuckles and fingertips grazing across Arthur’s molars and canines.
John’s groan of protest turns into one of pain as it feels like Arthur’s incisors are going to rip his nails off.
Arthur swallows around what’s left of John in his mouth before releasing him with a wet pop .
Arthur hums and smiles at the comical sound, his amusement softening John’s disappointment.
“John?”
“Arthur?”
“Are you… I-Is this okay?” Arthur’s voice is soft — even timid — despite what had just occurred. As if he is only just now registering the diabolically salacious act he’d just performed.
John nearly scoffs at the absurdity of the question, his deep voice washing over Arthur’s mind with a tinge of playfulness: “I mean… It's a bit… odd ,” he laughs softly, “but not unwelcome,” he adds quickly, not wanting Arthur to be self-conscious or think he’s crossed a line.
Besides — what line was there to cross if they hadn’t made one? What would that line even look like? It’s not as if either of them could have predicted something like this happening between them…
And God , John can’t even begin to explain how fucking good that felt.
“Right,” Arthur nods to himself. “I suppose you’ve never…” he trails off, wiping his mouth with his right hand.
“I’ve had sex before, Arthur,” John says, matter-of-factly.
“Oh! Right! O-Of course, I just…” Arthur quiets. Wait, what? Did the King even have genitalia? This isn’t something Arthur has really considered before. Well… unless briefly pondering on just how many tentacles the King had and what each one could do was… ah, fuck.
“I just mean—”
“Not. As a human.” The emphatic voice is jarring, severing the raw suspense of their conversation.
Arthur and John jolt in unison and Arthur sits up frantically, his chest seizing with the immediate fears of ‘Intruder!’ and ‘Stranger!’ and ‘Oh god oh fuck we’re unprotected and exposed without a weapon,’ which is then doused in mere seconds as he realises…
Wait.
Arthur recognises that ridiculous voice.
“ Yorick! ” Arthur snaps, his voice cracking.
“Master?”
“Y-You…” Yorick was listening to us , Arthur shouts at himself internally, utterly flabbergasted. He feels like his head is going to explode. Jesus Christ! This whole time?!
Arthur is going to die of embarrassment; he’s sure of it. Nothing more mortifying than knowing someone — let alone a supernatural entity with the ability to see through many eyes — knew and had even heard him sucking his own fingers in order to pleasure an eldritch God. Well — a fracture of a God that just so happened to be sharing parts of him, but… Damn. He has no excuses here. He can’t bullshit his way out of this one.
“ Fuck , Yorick! I can’t believe you just —“
“ GOD DAMN IT, YORICK!!! ” John bellows. He shoots his arm out over Arthur’s torso toward the edge of the bed, reaching for the open bag.
The action catches Arthur off guard, nearly toppling him over. He catches himself with his right arm, hand braced on the bedpost.
“John! Jesus Christ, you nearly knocked us off the bed!”
John ignores him and snatches the bag off the floor, yanking it up beside them by its worn leather strap.
“Master?” Yorick says again, the clack of his jaw muffled as John closes the bag, pulling the straps tight until the flap is secure.
“Shut up, Yorick.” John growls, the sound more of an exasperated grunt than a vocalised threat.
Arthur stares blindly to their right, taking in a deep breath as a cool breeze slips through the slitted, glassless windows of their room. Hm, smells like it’s going to rain , he thinks, his mind completely elsewhere for a moment as the mortification of being caught starts to fade with that surge of adrenaline.
A muffled, ‘Of course, John,’ sounds from the bag as John sets it back down a bit too hard, drawing Arthur’s attention back to the situation.
Arthur readjusts and rolls his shoulders back before lifting his arms above his head, making a show of stretching and relaxing his muscles to avoid commenting on what had just transpired.
“Arthur.” John’s voice is soft, unhurried.
Arthur breathes in through his nose, bringing his arms back down and flexing both of their hands. He doesn't say anything. He can’t.
John slowly links their hands together, wordlessly moving with Arthur as he stretches out their forearms. He resists the urge to speak again, barely able to keep himself from squeezing Arthur’s hand and jerking them to a stop.
Arthur swallows, lowering their hands until they settle in his lap. He gives John’s hand a squeeze before refocusing to where they had been cut off, muttering quietly: “Not as a human…”
“Not as a human.” John repeats, his tone soft but affirming. It’s still very blunt, but Arthur can hear the hint of a smile in John’s voice that fills his belly with a welcome warmth.
“Right, o-of course—”
“Not yet,” John adds, the words sounding more like a promise than a statement of fact.
Arthur’s posture stiffens, that pleasant warmth in his belly quickly spreading up his chest and down to his groin.
“Oh?” Arthur tries to sound nonchalant, as if this is a totally normal thing for an eldritch entity to be talking about at whatever ungodly hour of night it is with their complicated, potentially more-than-a-friend host.
“Y-Yes, well…” Arthur continues when John says nothing, hands fidgeting with the hem of the quilt as he pulls it back over his lap.
“You’ll have plenty of time to, uh, e-explore all of the things a body can do when we separate.” The word separate feels wrong, somehow, so he adds: “When we get you your own body.”
John’s incorporeal stomach drops, a mix of want and dread filling the empty space around him. Separate… Right… He can’t think about that right now… can’t tell Arthur that he doesn’t want to explore these things without him, even if it means never finding a way to separate themselves. Is that selfish..?
He pushes the ‘what ifs’ and anxiety aside and straightens himself out without responding, emboldened by the fact that Arthur had not yet denied him or shut him down. For now, he can have this — they both can.
“Arthur…” He whispers, drawing his hand up to hold Arthur’s chin.
Arthur lifts his head up a bit before settling into John’s touch. He closes his eyes, and John can almost taste Arthur’s anticipation. Finally.
John brushes his thumb over Arthur’s bottom lip.
Ah, yes . There’s that flicker of warmth wrapping around their shared consciousness. Maybe John really can get what he wants out of this — what they both want.
“Is this alright?” John asks.
Arthur’s tongue swipes across the pad of John's thumb in answer, igniting John’s entire being.
John sucks in a sharp breath and Arthur’s stomach flips, his insides reignited with want.
“Well,” Arthur pauses, making John’s immaterial stomach drop with dread. “I mean… It-It’s just your hand, but… well, I don’t know.” Arthur sighs. He feels utterly ridiculous. What the fuck is he even saying? And what the fuck did he just do? Jesus Christ.
“Arthur.” John moves to lay his hand on the centre of Arthur’s chest.
“Yes, John?” Fuck, Arthur curses at himself, here it comes … He royally fucked things up this time. John is going to tell him exactly that, and things will never be the same. Arthur had just sucked on his own fucking fingers for fuck’s sake! I’ve finally gone mad, he continues to berate himself. Truly mad! Because no sane man would ever —
“Show me.”
Arthur’s internal dialogue of self hatred and borderline mania stops along with his heart.
“What?”
“Show me.” John repeats. His voice is serious.
“John, I don’t know what you’re asking me.” Arthur forces his voice to stay steady. This moment of confusion feels like the only thing keeping his psyche from evaporating into nothingness, utterly mortified by this whole situation (despite how outrageously horny he is right now).
John huffs out an indignant sigh. He reaches up to hold Arthur’s chin and pictures the man’s face in his mind, imagining what he would look like if John had his own body and was able to look down at him.
“Show me how to fuck you.”
Arthur’s stomach drops.
“J-John, I —“
“ Listen to me .” John grips Arthur’s chin harder, tilting it up as if to force him to focus on where John’s face would be. Where it could be… one day.
A pathetic whimper escapes from Arthur’s mouth as the deep, ethereal rumble of John’s voice reverberates through his mind and flows all the way down his spine, warming his insides.
“I-I don’t know, John… I’ve never— I mean, I haven’t really had much experience with—“
“Don’t tell me you haven’t touched yourself before, Arthur.” John sounds impatient now. It sends a small thrill through Arthur, which surprises him.
At this point Arthur knows that their fights and tendency for exchanging harsh words -– petty or otherwise –- are more out of habit than genuine anger or conflict. Their emotions tend to war with each other when they're not in sync, but it isn’t always unpleasant. Things are never boring at least, that’s for sure. But everything about this has been just as surprising as it is absurd. Arthur is completely out of his element.
“No — I mean, of course I have, but I…” Heat blossoms across his cheeks. “I’ve just never really… tried much? I’ve never been with anyone other than Bella, and to be honest, I… I don’t usually feel the desire.” He sighs in frustration. “It’s hard to explain…”
Silence.
The sound of Arthur’s anxious heartbeat and the quiet breeze wafting in through the windows fill the empty space around him.
“John?”
A low hum at the back of his mind indicates that John is still there. The hand cradling Arthur’s chin shifts, the thumb brushing over his bottom lip.
“Okay, Arthur.” John presses the pad of his thumb against Arthur’s lips as if to shush him. It feels like a kiss.
Arthur closes his eyes and waits. Waits for John to move his hand. Waits for his cock to settle. Waits for…
“Here,” John says, starting to draw his hand away from Arthur’s face. “How about I try to, uh…” he stammers, all confidence suddenly lost to the void. It feels as if every ounce of his nonexistent breath has been sucked out of him.
Arthur snorts to break the tension and playfully shoos John’s hand away. The rejection immediately fills John with a burst of rage that crowds into their mind amongst the tangled mess of all the other unexpected and challenging emotions they’ve accumulated tonight.
Arthur breathes in sharply and stares blindly up at the ceiling, pushing down the anger that is not his.
“John, it’s fine. Look — I’m embarrassed enough as it is. Let’s just… forget this ever happened. Yeah?” Arthur’s voice cracks on the last word. He doesn’t know how he could be even more flustered than he was before. Jesus…
“ No .” John growls, grabbing Arthur’s hand.
“ No? ” Arthur says, incredulous. “John, this isn’t—“
“You don’t think I can do it?” John's voice is dark, but there’s a hint of insecurity there. He sounds desperate.
“This has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me,” Arthur looks down at their hands for John to see. “I promise, John.”
Silence again.
“John, I…” he whispers, all words leaving him as John's hand releases Arthur’s and smooths across their chest.
John rubs a small circle over Arthur’s heart before finding the hollow above one of Arthur’s clavicles. He presses into the dip with his first three fingers (keeping the wooden pinky lifted) and runs his thumb over the gentle curve of bone. He could grab ahold of it like a handle, he thinks, grip onto it and pull —
Arthur makes a soft sound, breaking John from that thought. John hums in reply and runs his fingers down Arthur’s protruding sternum, feeling his way down the length of it and back up to the hollow at the base of Arthur’s throat.
He repeats the motion a few more times, pressing a bit harder with each pass to get a feel for Arthur’s pain tolerance. He moves slowly enough to give Arthur a chance to stop him, but every pause earns him a soft whine from Arthur, spurring him on.
“Arthur,” he purrs, digging his knuckles into the soft flesh under the man’s Adam’s apple.
Arthur moans then immediately stills, surprising them both. The blush in his cheeks spreads up to his ears and down his neck, heating the skin under John’s fingers.
John lets out a small chuckle, the sound only furthering Arthur’s embarrassment.
Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and reaches out to his side to grasp the bedsheet.
Something cold touches his wrist, and he open his eyes out of reflex. It’s firm and sleek and — Oh! The dagger! The realisation sends another unexpected thrum of excitement through him, triggering a delicious twist in the coil of intestines that fill his belly. It must’ve fallen out of the bag when John yanked it up onto the bed…
Something for later, perhaps , Arthur thinks, fighting back the dark desire to grab the knife and show John something that Arthur knows he likes.
Instead, he tilts his head back and closes his eyes as John’s fingers work their way up his neck, the entity clearly undeterred as he was plunged back into darkness.
“ Yes ,” Arthur whispers. His erection strains painfully in his briefs, barely hidden under the heavy quilt that is covering him from the waist down.
John lets out a soft, inquisitive “ hmm ?”— his vocal equivalent to a head tilt. He moves up and down Arthur’s neck, trying to identify what area had triggered that positive response.
“ John .” Arthur moans as John presses down on the flesh above his trachea.
John gives another push, groaning as a full wave of Arthur’s arousal floods through John’s mind. That’s new...
Arthur reaches up and presses John's hand hard against his throat. He moans, cutting off any protest John was going to give about Arthur needing to breathe, especially after his lungs had just started to heal.
Arthur guides John’s hand into a v-shape to put pressure on his carotid arteries, but John just holds himself there, unsure how far Arthur wanted this to go. The thrum of life under John’s fingertips is hypnotising…
John’s cavernous mouth is suddenly flooded with the thick, salt-iron fluid of Arthur’s life blood. Ribbons of frayed tendons catch between otherworldly spears of teeth that slice through tender flesh and thick cords of muscle. Fatty adipose tissue melts on his impossibly long tongue as the blood sluices down his throat, and—
No.
No. That isn’t him. Not anymore. He doesn't want to hurt Arthur. Not like that… not ever.
He presses his fingers against the pulse in Arthur’s neck, growling as the man rolls his hips forward with a loud moan, their eyes opening wide. Jesus Christ . John can feel that — can feel Arthur .
“Arthur?” John nearly jumps when he feels Arthur pressing him harder around his throat. Their vision blurs, causing John to jerk his hand away.
“Arthur! You— We need to be careful. ” He grumbles, desperately fighting off that familiar, vicious hunger. A hunger that wanted to do more than hurt Arthur. One that wanted to tear him open again and again and pull him apart one nerve at a time.
Arthur growls, his voice a bit strained from being choked. He draws John’s hand back to where it was and wordlessly urges him to continue.
John reluctantly indulges Arthur, slowly attuning himself with Arthur’s heartbeat until he feels comfortable enough to hold it longer and longer and… a dark vignette ebbs at the edges of his vision. He loosens his grip but it’s too late— the room goes black.
Fuck.