Archive of Our Own

It hadn’t been a lie. Not intentionally, but John always seems to be falling into them. When John called his “time out”—the moments away from Arthur—sleeping, it wasn’t entirely accurate. He didn’t have any other measure to compare it to, not one that fit into the reality Arthur understands. Even with all of the man’s experiences, the horrors and the holy, it’s hard for a mortal to wrap their head around a being so eternally present.

So, John does “sleep” in time out, in his own way. He lets his consciousness drift into a pleasant daze, like a body floating along a river. Submerged just enough under the surface to muffle out the stimulus of the world, muting sounds and blurring vision, yet aware of his own thoughts.

John wishes he could say that a current case, either real or imagined, was most prevalent in his dreams, but that would be another lie. He tried to guide his thinking in that direction, letting himself wander through clues and witness statements. Reminiscing on long hours spent in the car on stakeouts. Listening to Arthur’s fervent deductions.

Then there is Arthur’s self-satisfied laugh when he comes to a conclusion.

Arthur’s cheeky grin—which John swears he can feel on their face—when he speaks John’s name.

Completely unavoidable and fleeting glances at an unclothed chest or back or…

Once his mind settled on thoughts of Arthur, it was immovable. That was how John spent most of his evenings as of late. It’s been uncomfortable since their little experiment of letting John control their body.

Neither would acknowledge any tension following the switch, but John has noticed the distance. He has done his best to present as normal. It’s not like wanting Arthur is anything new for John, even if the desire has grown stronger and...different than before.

Arthur, on the other hand, has been reserved. Short responses in conversation. Limiting use of his left hand. Requesting John to go into time out when he bathes.

The last one hurt. When it was first brought up, John needed Arthur to repeat himself. And then again. Leaving him alone like that was an unfathomable ask. Privacy had been a strong concern for Arthur in the beginning, but they figured it out together, to the point where they simply existed. Up until a week ago, Arthur had no qualms surrounding nudity around John. He could spend an hour talking John’s ear off in the bath, recounting Faroe's accomplishments or rambling about his frustratingly strong opinions on everything as if they were sitting across from each other at the dinner table.

John’s day alone in the body only served to remind him how much Arthur meant to him. It was more than a fear of being alone, it was that Arthur was someone he wanted to be with, as much as he could. He feels himself spiraling further into the realm of cold, desperate longing. How was it possible to miss someone so much, when they were right in your reach?

“‘ohn.” Arthur’s voice is faint and hard to understand, but everything John needed.

“Arthur?” The world is hazy as John is ripped from time out. A nervous flutter stirs in him when the man does not respond. “Arthur, are you alright? Why—what—“

Arthur grumbles.

“Answer me!”

Arthur rolls over, and with it comes John’s hand, landing an inch from the man’s face. A long sigh wheezes out of him. It sounds like an attempt at speech was made, but was entirely incomprehensible.

“Are you…asleep?”

The next mumble comes nearly a minute after the question was asked, followed by a snort. Well, that’s a mystery solved.

“Fucking hell. How did you even bring me back if you were unconscious? What time is it?” The room is dark, save for the glare of white moonlight shining in through the window. John groans, “It’s the middle of night!”

Anger burns bright and fast in him, but dies out just as quickly. Arthur simply being alive was a blessing. The steady rise and fall of Arthur’s chest is enough to soothe all annoyance. The quiet whistle of Arthur’s nostrils as he breathes? Well, that was a treat.

Arthur could be cute when he wasn't being an ass.

John recalls the first time he got to experience this Arthur. Not the one with perpetual dark circles under his eyes, jolted to violent and terrified awareness at the sound of a pin drop. No, this was the Arthur he met after Larson, when they finally had a chance to rest. Still stubborn and hot-headed—John wouldn’t have it any other way—but capable of incredible kindness. John had already learned to love Arthur at his lowest. He was hopeless now, absolutely smitten.

“It’s alright,” John whispers, knowing no answer will come, but needing to fill the silence of Arthur’s absence. “You can sleep, I don’t mind. I’ll take care of you.”

John flexes his hand, testing his control. He flinches as the fingers move, along with his wrist. There was no opportunity for him to check in with Arthur about this, to ask for permission, but he has plenty of movement to shift his hand over to Arthur. Enough dexterity to run his fingers through Arthur’s hair, weaving them into the locks that curl around him invitingly. The rhythm returns to John immediately.

Playing with Arthur’s hair was nothing at first, merely an alleviation of boredom. It was something to do with his hand while stuck in an unmoving body, a habit picked up during the never-ending days spent in the hospital while Arthur was in a coma. John can’t deny what it means to him now. He lives for the sleepy whines as he combs down to the nape of Arthur’s neck. He would die for the slump of Arthur’s head against his palm as he pets along bristly sideburns.

John releases a shaky sigh. “I missed this.”

“John,” Arthur murmurs.

John freezes on Arthur’s scalp. Another snore assures him that Arthur is unconscious, keeping his affections safely hidden. What was another secret between them, really?

God, Arthur would be disgusted by him.

“No,” Arthur whispers again when John reels his hand back. Arthur’s lips remain parted after his last word.

John can feel it against his wrist, the shallow breath of Arthur’s exhale burning him like magma.

Arthur doesn’t know what he’s saying. He doesn’t mean it. He had no idea John is even here with him, and yet John blooms under the thought of Arthur wanting his touch.

Shame stabs into his core.

John is a weak, impulsive creature. His sole focus is on the brush of Arthur’s lips against his skin. He wants to take. He wants everything Arthur has. No one would be able to resist, knowing what it felt like. John drags his fingertips along Arthur’s bottom lip, mystified by the delicate skin. He immediately recoils.

“I’m sorry. Fuck, I—,” John stammers. “I’m sorry.”

John forces his hand under one of the pillows, and shuts their eyes tight enough to see stars dance behind his eyelids.

He does not open them again until light blossoms in his vision, and he feels Arthur stir.

“Arthur?”

“Good morning,” Arthur yawns. He stretches out wide, arm and leg touching opposite ends of the bed. A content grunt follows, and John prepares himself to help Arthur sit up.

The man flops back onto his side with another loud yawn.

“Hey! Don’t fall back asleep.”

Arthur groans, rolling back into the pillow, “But it’s nice. It’s warm and so fucking comfortable. Just give me five more minutes.

“We have—”

“We won’t be late to work, I promise.”

“Arthur.”

“Please, John. I can put you back in time out if you want to…to…” Arthur launches himself to his knees, sitting back on his heels. “Why are you here?”

“Rude,” John scoffs. “You can answer that for yourself, but if you insist on me telling the story, I will. You see, about a year and some months ago you—“

“Oh, hush up, I don’t need you sassing me at the crack of dawn,” Arthur hisses. A shame, because John would welcome a return to their usual back and forth. “You know what I mean. I was asleep. I—I didn’t call you.”

John isn’t sure if he can frown, but discontent buzzes within him nonetheless. There was a tilt to Arthur’s voice, an urgency that makes John defensive.

“Well, you must have, because I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Huh?” Arthur tenses, like prey backed into a corner.

“You were the one who—” John exhales. Words are methodically chosen, spoken slow and careful. “At some point in the night, you brought me out. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

Arthur goes quiet. “How long were you here?”

John hates this. He hates all of this. Arthur’s voice is unreadable, and therefore out of John’s reach. The fear in the man’s tone has John aching to provide comfort. But how can he when John is the one he’s afraid of.

“A few hours, probably. You were out the whole time.”

“Oh.” Arthur shifts. His body uncoils as he steps out of the bed, standing up tall. “Okay. I’m sorry you were stuck by yourself. I’m sure you’re ready to get up and start the day.”

“Longer than you have, that’s for sure.” John chuckles, hoping it conveys the lightheartedness he wants it to. Except that Arthur remains painfully silent, leaving John more in the dark than ever.

*****

Arkham winters will kill John one day. Even with the glove covering his hand, cold prickles the skin, leaving him shivering. Maybe if Arthur had warmed him up in a coat pocket, they wouldn’t be fumbling with the goddamn keys so much.

“What is taking so long?” Arthur huffs. His hand joins John’s by the door handle, feeling around for their apartment key.

“In case you haven’t noticed, it’s fucking freezing and it’s hard to concentrate.”

“That’s exactly why I’d like to be inside, dumbass,” Arthur grumbles. He rips the keys out of John’s shaky hand and aligns it with the lock.

“No, that’s wrong,” John reprimands. “That’s for the office. And that’s the car. You need the other one.”

Arthur speaks through gritted teeth, “Well, I can’t see that, can I?”

“That’s why I was doing it!” John reaches to pull the keys back, the golden glint of the apartment key taunting him with the promise of warm freedom. “Just give it to me.”

“No!” The tone sounds like a petulant toddler refusing his dinner. Arthur slams his hip against the doorway, blocking John’s advance, and practically falls over the threshold when he finally gets the door open.

There are no more words left, not ones that don’t involve insulting everything Arthur Lester stands for, so John growls.

“Calm down. We made it inside.” Arthur quickly shucks off his shoes and coat, opting to throw them in the direction of the couch. John can only pray Arthur forgets where they are and trips on them later.

John keeps his mouth shut. It had been like this all day. Car trouble, which Arthur was eager to blame on John, did make them late to work. They missed a meeting with a client, tripped their way down the stairs, and fucked up about everything else they possibly could in the span of eight hours.

So, John does his absolute best to keep the peace. He lets Arthur’s irritation slide without comment, and continues to do so while the man stalks to the bedroom. The thought of a nice, hot bath soothes him, until he realizes he would not get one.

Arthur had asked him for space. Privacy.

Not John.

John wants to curl up inside Arthur, dig his nails into the man’s heart, and never let go. Arthur undresses, or attempts to, silently and with one hand. Unaware of the other soul inside him slowly falling apart.

“Arthur?” John whispers.

Arthur curses under his breath, struggling to undo his tie. “Not now, John.”

“Can I…do you need help?” John reaches up tentatively. He always asks now, where he never did before.

“I’m fine!” Arthur snaps. He lets go of the tie, still knotted at his jugular, and rubs at his eyes.

“Can we talk?”

John’s vision returns when Arthur slumps onto the bed. John doesn’t know if it’s Arthur’s heartbeat in his ears or his own, but it’s the only sound that passes between them for agonizing seconds, until Arthur says, “You start.”

“I—I don’t know.” Part of John hopes that Arthur would take over, despite broaching the conversation himself. The man waits patiently for John to gather his thoughts. “I’ll start by saying I’m sorry.”

“If anything I should say that first. I’ve been the one lashing out lately.”

“It’s not that. Well, a little, because I have my own temper as well. But I want to apologize for what happened. For controlling the body.”

Arthur tilts his head in confusion. “Why are you sorry for that? I’m the one that introduced the idea.”

“I thought we were fine. We talked about it afterwards, and we were good, but things haven’t been the same since.” John talks faster, everything spilling out of him at once. He knows this isn’t true. That this isn’t the source of their distance, but he can’t bear the reality. “I don’t want to take over this body, Arthur. I want to be here, but I like sharing it with you.”

“I know that, you only reassure me of it every day.”

John doesn’t stop. “You’ve been anxious! It’s like you’re afraid of me. We don’t talk and you don’t let me help you. Christ, I feel like you recoil every time I touch you!”

At least the touch that he’s awake for. Guilt nestles in John’s heart. He’s invasive. A parasite, stealing glances and soft touches, taking more than he ever deserved.

Arthur flinches. “John, I—”

“I don’t understand why else you would be like this,” John lies, as if this isn’t all his fault. Of course Arthur would have picked up on John’s thoughts—his desires—and was horrified. The world gets hazy as tears sting their eyes. “I can’t—I can’t live like this. I miss you.”

“Hey!” Arthur cuts in. It’s unclear whether it’s conscious choice or instinct, but his hand finds John’s, the finger running along his knuckles. “Hey, don’t cry, please. It’s not you, okay?”

“It’s…not?”

“No, John, of course not. I can promise you it’s not what you think. I—I’ve been dealing with some things on my own.”

John swore to not pry into things Arthur doesn’t want to share, but he can still wonder. “This morning, you seemed worried that I was out while you were asleep.”

Arthur hesitates. “Yes. It’s nothing.”

“Please, I want to talk about this. I don’t want…I can’t keep making you uncomfortable.”

Is their face…warm? Everything is heated, now that John focuses on it. A pleasant contrast to the icy chill of the outside world.

Never has John been more thankful for detective experience. Hearing Arthur stammer in response gets the gears in his mind turning. The man wasn’t afraid of losing control, nor was it a matter of John doing anything at all (at least, that is what he claims). But there was an undeniable cageyness in Arthur’s tone. John the vibration of the bed in his leg as Arthur’s own bounces up and down.

The physical distance, the privacy during compromising times…

Oh.

“Arthur, you know I’m not judging whatever you do by yourself when I’m not here.”

Arthur wheezes, “What?”

“You know I’ve seen you in significantly more vulnerable positions.”

“John.”

“You’ve bled out around my hand, I think I can handle you touching your—”

“You need to stop talking!”

“Really, I’m surprised it hasn’t come up earlier.” John’s mind still races from earlier, lacking the filter he’s so carefully curated in the name of human decency. “If you wanted, I would help you—”

This time, John is not interrupted by Arthur’s voice, but by the same beckoning void that greets him every evening. He’s in time out. Arthur pushed him into time out. That fucking asshole.

While it wounds John’s ego to have been put away so easily, the quiet seconds force him to sit with how much he just overstepped. God, he was the asshole. The conversation had him feeling raw and honest, emotions slipping out before he could contain them. He had just propositioned Arthur like it was nothing. Like John doesn’t dream of him at night. As if the idea of Arthur in pleasure doesn’t make John ache.

John has spent the better part of their time together taking whatever chances he can to touch Arthur, anything to act on his unshaking love for this man and—

“If you do that to me again, I swear to God I will wring your neck,” John hisses the moment he sees the bedroom again.

“Sorry, I deserve that one. You were going too fast and…,” Arthur sits in the same spot, likely unmoving in the brief time John was away, but he sounds exhausted, “listen, I’m worried that I made things awkward between us. With…what happened after you had your day. When I kissed you. I breached a line in our relationship.”

Arthur was not as good of a detective as John thought. If Arthur thinks he’s the one crossing lines, he’s both blind and stupid.

“No.” John pauses, considering the best phrasing. "Maybe I have a different outlook on physical affection than you do. It’s just…us.”

“You say that like I haven’t done plenty to damage things with you. I won’t let anything I’m feeling ruin us.”

Anything that he’s feeling. That he feels?

“But would it? We are already intertwined, Arthur. We chose to bind our souls together, permanently. If…”

If he would have John. Would Arthur…want him?

“...if you think about it, this is just another aspect of that, right? I was rambling, but I meant it that I’m shocked it hasn’t really come up before. I’ve learned a lot more about humans since being with you, and I know that there are certain needs that arise.”

“So, that’s it then? Curiosity?” Arthur throws a dismissive hand up. “Are you telling me that we might as well?”

No, the man couldn’t possibly feel the same, and admitting to it could destroy everything they’ve built. And yet, John hopes.

“I…no, that’s not what I think. It’s so much more than that. I can’t even begin to describe how I feel.” Even without a stomach, John is nauseous. The room spins. “Arthur, I want you in every way that I can have.”

John waits for the fall out, a startled gasp or hurled insults.

Instead, Arthur gives a small chuckle. “Well, aren’t you a sap?”

John is the one that gasps. “Arthur!”

“It’s fine, really. I accept you and all your poetic sentiments, John.” Arthur laughs again, high and bright. “It’s fun to hear you flustered.”

“You’re deflecting,” John grumbles, ignoring the flutter that Arthur’s joy stirs inside him. “You always have a hard time when I’m sincere with you.”

“Fuck, it’s like you can read my mind sometimes.” Arthur’s tone softens as his hand winds up back in John’s, squeezing lightly.

“Does it make you feel better that this is new to me as well?” John brings a hesitant hand to Arthur’s cheek, stopping right before he makes contact.

Arthur nods, leaning into the touch.

“I love you.” John lets out what can only be described as a whine. He keeps his hand on Arthur’s cheek, lost in the warmth of the man’s skin. He traces fingers along the sharp angles of Arthur’s jaw, thumb wandering to the place that John has needed so badly to feel again. Arthur’s lips part around him. The kiss is slow and soft—a welcoming of John’s presence.

His mind was right to fixate on this. He knew Arthur could be gentle, but to experience the light brush of his lips was something else entirely. He was wanted.

Suddenly, there’s teeth. Arthur nips at the tender flesh of John’s thumb, sending an unfamiliar sensation through him. It’s not…pain. The graze of Arthur’s teeth could not even be called a bite, certainly not enough to harm, and yet John feels a jolt piercing through his senses like a dagger.

“Arthur,” John whispers. “Are you sure?”

Arthur nods again, hastily, opening his mouth and inviting John in. John brushes his thumb across the flat surface of Arthur’s tongue, tentatively pressing down. Arthur sighs into it, letting John guide him, opening his jaw wider.

He is going to take everything from Arthur.

The thumb is removed, quickly replaced with more fingers. Arthur moans around them, closing his lips to suck them deeper.

“Holy shit, that feels so good.” John’s skin is on fire. A combination of tongue and teeth light up his nerves, his hand twitching against Arthur’s cheek.

If only he could keep Arthur here forever. John would exist solely in this moment, listening to the sounds of Arthur’s breath hitch as John nudged the back of his throat. Delighting in the wet heat of Arthur’s tongue running under his fingers.

“How are you so fucking good at this?”

Arthur groans. John wants to hear an actual answer to the question, until he starts to imagine it himself, letting his mind wander to all the places he forbade it to before. Arthur on his knees, the smug grin being wiped off his face with a firm hand in his hair. Arthur opening his mouth wide, eyes glazed over with lust, taking a cock deep into his throat.

Envy draws John back. He removes his fingers from their new home, proud of the breathless heave of Arthur’s chest. Arthur stutters, “So, anything else you wanted to talk about?”

“I want this off,” John says, barreling past his love’s never-ending quips. His hand falls down to Arthur's neck, yanking the tie. Arthur gives an airy chuckle, but John catches the faint gasp that it attempts to mask. “All of it. I want all of you.”

“Be my guest.” Arthur assists with the knot, then helps to undo the buttons of his shirt.

The moment the shirt is off, John drags his nails across the exposed skin, all the way down to Arthur’s stomach. The sound that rumbles from John is animalistic. Predatory.

Arthur’s body tenses as he moans, “Jesus, John—“

“You made a good show of being embarrassed, Arthur.” John takes a detour from stupid trouser buttons to palm the real goal—the hardness between Arthur’s legs. “I should have known you were a whore.”

Arthur grinds up to meet John’s hand. “John.”

With the state of the two of them, it’s a miracle Arthur’s pants make it off at all. John keeps his hand firm against Arthur’s clothed cock, enjoying the way it pushes against Arthur’s underwear. Wetness already stains the fabric, so eager under John’s touch.

“Do you like it when I’m a bit mean to you?” John can’t help but laugh when Arthur’s cock twitches in its confines. “I can’t say I’m surprised, given the way you seem to enjoy provoking people. You could have fucked your way out of a lot of problems, I think.”

“That’s—fuck—that’s not it.” Arthur’s head falls back into a moan, taking away John’s sight. “What happened to my sweet, sensitive John?”

“It’s fun to hear you flustered.”

“Shut up.” The words have no bite to them. “I take it you’ve thought of this as much as I have, then.”

John’s cupped hand stops, midway through a stroke. “Wait, you’ve thought of this before? With me?”

“Ah, there’s my John,” Arthur sighs. He brings his head back down, giving John a full view of an absolutely devilish roll of his hips. “Your deduction was so confident earlier, I thought you had me all figured out! Of course I’ve imagined you like this.”

John could explode, too full of desperation and curiosity for one form to contain. How long has Arthur longed for him? What did he imagine? What did he do with those thoughts?

John quickly slips his hand into the waistband of Arthur’s boxers, pushing the fabric down to their ankles. He needs to see Arthur completely before his vision is ripped away again. “Did you touch yourself while thinking of me?”

Arthur hums mischievously.

John uses his leg to kick the garment off to the side. God, Arthur’s cock is perfect, a rosy pink to match the blush dusting his skin.

“Do you use my hand?”

Arthur’s composure breaks, words unable to find him, as John finally wraps around his aching cock and he whines. Not exactly the answer John was hoping for, but one he will be replaying in his end for all eternity. He’ll take it as a yes.

“I can tell you're not going to reveal anything more,” John tuts in mock disappointment, “but that’s alright. I’ll find out eventually.”

“You can fucking try.”

Always running his mouth, isn’t he? John doesn’t discard his suspicions on Arthur’s masochism. He starts slow regardless, savoring the weight of Arthur in his hand and the soft whimpers that cross Arthur’s lips when he strokes. John can see where the fabric stain came from. The head of Arthur’s cock is slick with arousal.

John wishes he could taste, to experience all that Arthur has to offer. He has to settle for tactile exploration, running a finger teasingly along the slit. “I wish you could see how much you are dripping for me, Arthur.”

A stifled groan responds, which John assumes is from Arthur biting his lip. What a terrible thing for him to do, when John thrums with need.

“Don’t quiet yourself. I want to hear you.” John glides fingers back down to the base of Arthur’s cock, a ghost of a touch, just to feel the man squirm. “You were saying my name so beautifully earlier.”

“John.” Arthur attempts sternness, but lands somewhere in the realm of a plea.

“Just like that. Indulge me, Arthur. It’s not like I can see you.” It was the greatest curse of sharing a body. John was limited to what Arthur sees, barring him from witnessing the man’s face. Unless… “I want you to do something for me.”

“No.” Such a simple word comes out broken and breathless.

John squeezes, earning another whine. “You will. Turn your head for me, please.” John could ask nicely, when he wanted to, pitching his voice lower and softer, with the richness of crushed velvet. “There you go. Further to the left. That’s it. Oh, Arthur, do you know what I had you find for me?”

“What are you talking—oh god. Fuck,” Arthur cries. “John, John.”

John sees their eyes, golden and delightfully hazy, staring back at him in the mirror. It’s a floor length sheet of glass, held in a carved wooden frame. Something Arthur protested in buying in the first place, considering his own blindness, but John was so fascinated by it that he insisted. Arthur gave in.

“You are beautiful, Arthur.” John feels the rough edges of his tone dissipate at the sight. This is pure, genuine astonishment. It’s their body he looks at, but each spasm of the hips is wholly Arthur.

He was made to be admired—no, worshipped.

John establishes a rhythm with his strokes, catering to the blissful expressions on Arthur’s face. He notes how Arthur’s brows furrow with a flick of the wrist, or how he sighs when John’s thumb runs along the tip of his cock.

“Are you usually this sensitive or is it just me?” Either Arthur’s body is getting warmer, or heat has somehow risen through John’s own core. “You like it when I touch you, don’t you?”

“Jesus Christ, you’re a terror.” Arthur could take the sight away easily, if he wanted. Yet his eyes stay locked on their mirror, exactly where John told him to look.

Teasing. Appreciation. Commands. All of them bring about the same reaction in Arthur. John has not given up the puzzle this man has presented him with, and it takes every ounce of self control he has not to laugh when the pieces finally slot into place.

“Oh, come on, Arthur,” John coos. “My voice?”

Arthur’s jaw drops into a loud moan. “S—shut up.”

“No, I don’t think I will.” John moves his hand faster, enough to hear the slap of skin echo through the room. “I can see all of you now. What if I told you everything that I see?

I meant it when I said you are beautiful. Stunning, actually. Your eyes burn with desire. I don’t think I quite understood the phrase until now, but I can see the way they glaze over, singularly focused on your pleasure. On how good I can make you feel. Your hair is a mess, matted to your forehead and temples with sweat. I’m glad I was able to warm you up so well.”

“John,” Arthur whines. “Don’t—shit, John, don’t stop.”

A swell of pride rushes through John. The words come naturally to him, woven together like he was describing a room or crafting a poem. He could use them to make Arthur feel good.

“Your mouth is sinful, Arthur. Not a night has gone by where I haven’t thought about it, not since you first kissed me. It’s not fair how soft your lips are, or how easily you can take me down your throat. It looks even prettier now, moaning for me.”

What is it that Arthur always told him? That the world was better in the way he described it? John would make sure Arthur knew exactly how John saw him.

“I can tell how out of breath you are from the way your chest is heaving. Redness blooms across your skin. From excitement, yes, but you know what else? The marks I scratched down your torso. My nails etched gorgeous lines into your skin, showing my claim to you. You’re mine.”

Arthur’s hips snap up to meet John’s hand, over and over again. “Yours. Yours, John, oh my god.”

“You’re leaking so much, Arthur. Your cock must be aching for release by now.” An impish impulse flashes through his mind when Arthur nods. He could keep Arthur here, on the precipice, body shaking with pleasure and begging for more. He could tear his hand away, only to bring Arthur back to the edge again, and repeat.

“John, you feel so good. Fuck, this will never be the same again without you. I need you.”

So many good ideas to torment this man, all of which would be deserved, but John could never deny him. No matter how pretty he would be if John broke him, John would tear the world down for Arthur.

John wants to talk Arthur through his orgasm. He would keep singing his praises, or jab at how easy he is. Arthur does a commendable job keeping his eyes open, allowing John to witness him unravel, as he makes an absolute mess of John’s hand.

However, John is speechless, save for a moan vaguely resembling Arthur’s name. An unexpected wave of euphoria shocks his senses. The muscles John has control over tighten into a knot of pleasure until a familiar haze overcomes him, drowning out Arthur’s musical cries. John recognizes this weightlessness—the out of body experience—from time out, except he remains in the bedroom, rooted in Arthur’s slack body.

“Holy shit, Arthur.” John flexes his hand, testing to see if he has the ability to move after that.

“Yeah?” Arthur slumps onto the bed, letting the blanket swallow them. He takes several deep breaths before speaking again. “Did that feel good for you? I thought I lost you there at the end.”

John gives a weak groan in reply, mesmerized by the feel of Arthur’s come on his fingers.

Arthur laughs. “Good to know. I wasn’t sure what to expect with that, honestly. I know I can be selfish, but I was hoping you would get something out of the experience.”

“What I get out of it is you, Arthur.” John sounds winded—is winded, like he had to run a mile through the snow—but he pushes through. “I had no idea I would feel anything physically, but I wanted it anyway. I—you just looked so nice. And you sounded heavenly.”

Arthur tucks his head into the pillow. John won’t let him hide from the praise. “You are wonderful, Arthur. I would like to do that again. Everyday, preferably. Multiple times, if you let me.”

“Just keep me chained to the bed, why don’t you?” Arthur sneers.

Christ, John would. He lingers on that fantasy, running through all the ways Arthur could pose for him. He would drag the mirror closer to the bed, for starters, then he would have to decide between Arthur on his back—arching into John’s hand—or on his knees. Oh, he could get Arthur to fuck into his palm, make him chase his pleasure in a desperate rut, using John for his own satisfaction. How many times could he get the man to come like that?

“My dear, did you lie to me?”

It takes a moment for the name to register. John liked the way the endearment sounds on Arthur’s tongue. He likes it a lot. Enough for him to discard the idea of a lie entirely, something that would otherwise send him into a guilty spiral. John only hums in a blissful daze.

“You told me something earlier, and I want to make sure you are planning on following through with it.” Arthur rolls over onto his stomach, reaching his arm out to his nightstand. “What was your wording, exactly? ‘I want you in every way that I can have’?”

Arthur’s rummaging piques John’s interest, drawing his attention back. “Yes, Arthur. Anything. Everything.”

“Good.” Arthur pushes a small jar into John’s hand. “You have promises to keep, darling.”

John sputters, processing the object in his hand and what Arthur is asking of him. It’s a common jar of petroleum jelly, nothing strange on its own, but in Arthur’s nightstand?

“You want—oh god, Arthur, can I fuck you?”

“You’re not going to hear me beg, if that’s what you’re waiting for,” Arthur remarks.

John is never going to be happier to prove Arthur wrong. This man has no idea what he is inviting.

“Sit up on your knees.”

Arthur’s limbs reach into a lazy stretch. A perfect mimicry of this morning, but so much has changed. The movement is not tired, it’s intentional defiance, no doubt to rile John up. “I like this spot, though. It’s comfortable.”

God, it’s working.

“Fine, stay here.” John has the jar open in a second.

Training himself to operate with one hand—sewing Arthur back together, futilely pressing into wounds that bleed too fast—was something John would not like to repeat, but he can’t deny the dexterity the training afforded him. Maybe he can delude himself into thinking it was all Arthur's skill to begin with. His fingers were naturally long and deft, built for the piano he loved.

Those fingers are now coated in an obscene mixture of lubricant and Arthur’s come. Arthur sighs as they trace around the rim of his entrance. Despite his stubborn talk, his legs spread wider, offering John better access.

“God, you really are my whore,” John purrs appreciatively. The same should be said for him, given how eagerly he spoils Arthur.

One finger slides in, followed immediately by another. Neither of them could be called patient men. Roughness, however, is naturally ingrained within them.

John is enraptured by the sensation of Arthur around him as he fucks his fingers in deep. Arthur is slick and warm, so greedy for all John could give. He tightens when the fingers curl just right, hitting a spot that pushes the most breathtaking sounds from his lips.

Even more maddening was how Arthur arches into a whine when John pulls out, his fingertips returning to tease the entrance.

“John,” Arthur warns, lifting his hips to chase the pleasure John took away.

“You said you wouldn’t beg.”

“Fuck, I’m not.” That lie wouldn’t convince anyone, not when Arthur rolls into John’s hand, his hole clenching uselessly around nothing. He wouldn’t beg for words, but his body knew what it wanted. “Just—do something. Why did you stop?”

“I want to see you again. Move so I can look at you in the mirror.” John presses a fingertip back inside, providing a promise of what Arthur could have if he would behave. He’d done so well with it earlier. “Please.”

Arthur huffs irritably. He’s unyielding.

“I thought so. I should consider myself lucky that you even listened the first time, hm?”

Another grumble.

John has given plenty of chances. Arthur seems to have forgotten John has other means to get what he wants, and an obstinate streak strong enough to rival Arthur’s own.There is a sudden rush of energy, audible with a quick rush of air, and John finally gets a view of Arthur again.

They both gasp when John projects, instantly winded by the strain it takes to maintain a form of his own. Arthur is loud beneath him, his intake of breath heavy and uncertain.

“Are you okay?” John reaches out using his own hand—large and sharp and so intentionally delicate—to pet through Arthur’s hair. “Is this alright?”

Arthur cries out, voice worn like a dying man on his last breath. “John, yes! Oh my god, fuck me. John.”

“I still can’t see you the way that I want.” John shifts his hands to the man’s waist, careful in his handling, and flips Arthur onto his back.

“Fuck, Jesus Christ.”

Arthur’s face flushes impossibly redder. John can see him better than he could in the mirror. The fine hairs of his brow, each freckle speckling across his skin, the worn in lines of age and worry.

John places a knuckle under Arthur’s chin, guiding his head up. “You’re so handsome, Arthur.”

John expects Arthur to try to conceal himself, burying his face in the pillow or covering his mouth with his hand, but he doesn’t. His eyes, unseeing as always, settle miraculously on John’s own.

“Please, John. I need—I want—”

John shushes, “I know. I got you.”

John knows their shared goal here, he can feel an ache in his core, the need to be inside Arthur again fills him with burning desire. But John would still stay just like this, appreciating Arthur, exploring his body with two longing hands, if he had the ability to. The weariness of his projection was already setting in, and Arthur has to be experiencing the same.

Weak and trembling legs fall open wider. One makes an attempt at wrapping around John, but needs assistance to complete the motion. John secures Arthur’s foot against his back. It brings their bodies closer, somehow more so than the spiritual tether that already connects them.

John hasn’t given much thought to his projected form before. He has a well defined torso and arms. After that the manifestation tapers out into shadowy wisps, cascading around them like tendrils, curling instinctively to their home—to Arthur. He presumably has a face as well, although he hasn’t checked if there are distinct features. There weren’t any with The King, but perhaps it would be different with Arthur. John chooses not to dwell on it. It wasn’t the part of him that important at the moment.

A coiled shadow lines itself against Arthur’s hole—which has been deprived of John for far too long—and pushes in.

Arthur whimpers, a wounded sound that makes John pause.

“N-no.” Arthur throws his arms around John’s shoulders. “No, no, please. Please keep going. Please.”

John allows the limp weight to drag him down, burying himself deeper inside. John puts every effort into softening his tone with vocal cords unfamiliar with such tenderness.

“You like it when I look at you.”

Arthur’s voice wavers. “Yes.”

“And you like my voice.” John rocks his hips in time with the statement, a shallow thrust to test Arthur’s comfortability.

The next reply is a loose moan.

Hands squeeze around Arthur’s waist. John forces himself to keep talking, or else he’ll only be able to focus on how small Arthur is under him. Arthur was strong, in spirit and body. John witnessed that everyday. However, in this moment, he was putty in John’s hands.

John groans, “Jesus, Arthur, then why haven’t we done this sooner? It’s like I was made for you.”

An unholy cry comes from Arthur at that. His nails dig into John, burrowing into shadowed, barely-corporeal flesh. It doesn’t sting with pain, but instead sends a shiver down John’s spine, encouraging him to move. He pulls his hips out and snaps back in.

“I think I’m right. Can you feel how perfectly I slot inside you? We were always meant to do this.” John is babbling. He would say the noise grounds him, preventing him from losing himself in the unrestrained moans of Arthur in his ear, but he knows this is not for him.

“You could have had me so long ago.” He can feel Arthur clench around him. “Even before I could project, I would have been happy to just use my hand to make you feel good. Fuck, I really would do anything for you. You know that, right?”

Arthur does not respond. He certainly makes sound, but nothing that indicates he is replying. There’s no snark or quips, not even a plea, just a collection of whines as John unifies them.

“Let me take care of you. God, Arthur, please let take care of you. Just like this.” John can feel his strength leaving him, all but collapsing onto Arthur. His eyes shut tight, but he welcomes the darkness, knowing it’s Arthur drawing him in.

He places more trust in his tendrils’ ability to be gentle than his hands, so that is what he wills to wrap around Arthur’s cock. His hips sputter desperately into Arthur, both of their moans growing in volume as they’re thrown rapidly into oversensitivity. Arthur comes, something John is acutely aware of—not by the rush of warmth coating their stomachs or by a change in Arthur’s voice, but the out of body daze that hits John like a punch. Enough for him to believe he’s in time out again, because he has no control over his limbs or the movement of his hips. It’s pure, blinding pleasure.

John blinks back to reality through shared eyes. His vision is blurry, the ceiling appearing fuzzy and miles away.

“Arthur.”

“Give,” Arthur wheezes, voice raw and quivering, “me a minute.”

John laughs softly, but he might have well stabbed Arthur through the heart with the way the man recoils.

“W–what’s that for?”

“Nothing. You’d only get upset if I told you.”

“You—you can’t say that!” Arthur whines. “Now I need to know.”

John brings a hand to Arthur’s chest, splaying out the fingers wide, feeling as much of the heartbeat as possible. “You’re cute.”

“I’m not cute!” Arthur flails, which John realizes is an attempt to sit up, but his core strength fails miserably. “I’m a grown man. You make it sound like…like I’m some pet to be fawned over!”

John resigns himself back to keeping the peace, because admitting that he would—does—fawn over Arthur would undoubtedly be impolite. Despite the intensity of their profession, which warranted utmost poise and responsibility, Arthur was an incredibly silly thing. When the man tries to get up again, unsuccessfully, he thumps a heavy foot against the bed in frustration.

He reminds John of the rabbits they see in the park during the spring, slamming their hind legs into the ground, and contorting their faces into a scrunch.

So cute, John thinks. 

“Can I request something?” John changes topics quickly, before thoughts of Arthur can derail him completely. “Can we take a bath?”

“Of course? Why are you—oh, right,” Arthur sighs. “I’m sorry I shut you out. I would very much like a bath with you. But only if you do something for me in return.”

Why would he even need to ask? He has to already know the answer.

“You have to get us there.” Arthur gestures a hand wildly at their uncooperative body. The moment John takes a sharp breath, Arthur adds, “Please, just this once. I trust you.”

The room feels empty without Arthur’s presence in it. He had to put Arthur in time out fast, or he would second guess himself. It’s simply…tucking Arthur in. Keeping him safe inside, while John carries them to the decadence of warm water. It’s a feat in itself to even stand, given the wobbliness of Arthur’s already too-thin legs, although John cannot deny the satisfaction of knowing he’s responsible.

The man is back in a blink, sitting in a tub with only an inch of water.

“You couldn’t have waited to bring me back until after the bath was full?”

“No.” It had already been too long as is.

Arthur hums noncommittally, scooping what little water he can in a cupped hand, and pouring it on John.

The hand tingles pleasantly. “Oh, do that again. That feels nice.”

Arthur obliges, silently dropping handfuls of water onto John’s palm. He stops for a moment, eyes still watching their hand, while the other reaches around the edge of the basin. It only takes a few pats for him to locate the soap.

“Arthur, are you…washing me?” John asks as bubbles are working into his skin, massaged in by Arthur’s thumb.

“Maybe.”

“Oh.” John’s voice cracks. “Why?”

“It’s my turn to take care of you.” Arthur says matter-of-factly. He lays John’s hand under the water, now up to their waist, to rinse off suds.

“You don’t have to. I—I wanted to help you. Not with the sex, I mean. But also yes, that was wonderful, but what I mean is,” John stumbles over the words, his heart too caught up on Arthur’s ministrations, “I missed bathing with you. It’s comforting. If you’re okay with it, I’d really like to wash your hair for you.”

“You can,” Arthur says. More soap is applied, along with a soft scrub along the bed of John’s nails. “When I’m done.”

“Arthur—”

“You asked why we didn’t do this before. Do you want an answer to that?”

It takes effort for John to recall, because a lot of things spilled out without his brain’s help, but when it does click, he’s even more surprised that Arthur remembers. He didn’t seem to be comprehending much of anything at that point.

“You have to know why we didn’t at first. We didn’t have a strong start, obviously. Even without our arguments, my body wasn’t exactly perceptive to…relaxation at the time.” Arthur pulls John’s leg closer, lathering soap on his calf. Nails scrape lightly along the surface of John’s skin. “Can you guess when I first realized I wanted this with you? I don’t mind telling you, but you have to promise to be…okay with it. I—it was when you came back to me.”

“Even then? We had so much going on with Kayne, and you’d just seen me as…The King.”

Arthur stops his hand as it reaches John’s knee. His thumb runs mindlessly along the bone.

“I’m not saying that judgingly, I’m just surprised. I would have thought it was after, when we actually had time to ourselves. Things are calmer now, even more than they were in New…York…” John trails off, realization lighting up in him. “You mean when I came back the first time? After Larson’s?”

Arthur nods.

Almost a year. A year. Since John came back to an Arthur that lied broken and bloodied in a cold mansion. John replays the memory of Arthur speaking his name—the elated relief of realizing John was with him again—every night since. He wishes he could say his feelings were born in that moment as well, but they came earlier, in a cruel and twisted cathedral of his own making.

“Oh, Arthur.” For once, John does not reach for Arthur’s hand. No, he curls his arm across the man’s chest, tucking his hand into the crook of Arthur’s neck.

“You want me to be sincere with you? I love you, John, more than I ever thought possible. And I know you care for me, but I didn’t expect this.” Arthur drops his head, resting his cheek against John. “I don’t…I’ve never done well with relationships, no matter what kind. I don't express myself well, and I can’t fuck this up. I can’t lose you, John.”

It’s unclear whose tears well up behind their eyes, it’s equally likely to be either of them, or both, overcome with the same ferocious love that weaves together their souls.

“You must know by now that’s not possible. Nothing can change this, not after what we’ve been through.”

“You are too good for me,” Arthur chuckles. “I am a selfish man. I would take everything from you, John, anything to have you all to myself.”

Of course he would, because John and Arthur are always more alike than John thinks. They are two sides of the same coin. “You make it sound like I’m some saint, as if I’m not already doing the same. I meant it when I said you’re mine.”

“A mutual agreement? How delightfully refreshing for us.” Arthur leans back against the wall of the tub, hand searching for another bottle. “We have each other then, don’t we, dear?”

John spots it first, and snatches up the shampoo the instant before Arthur’s fingers can find it.

Arthur huffs, “Prick.”

“Whore.”

Stealing Arthur’s motions, John scoops water into Arthur’s hair, watching as the wet curls fall into their eyes. He takes time to lather the shampoo into the scalp properly, pausing only to give occasional guidance. He was especially careful during rinses, making sure Arthur tilted back far enough to avoid getting anything in their eyes.

At a certain point in the bath, there’s no need for John to give directions anymore. They fall into sync, coexisting in tender silence.

Well, almost silence. Arthur sings contentedly during this process, absentminded enough for John to question whether it was for him, or just Arthur alone. He enjoys it regardless, now knowing how happy Arthur would be to have John play with his hair.