[Sweethearts Week] Joushaken
Title: Joushaken
Genre: Dark fantasy
Characters/Pairings: UK/US with a few mentions of other characters
Rating/Warnings: NC17 for sex and language
Words: 9,396
Summary: England, a centuries old vampire, goes to visit his new favorite person.
Notes: My exposure to vampire media is limited to the Underworld series, that one movie with the crazy vampire queen and The Dresden Files, and my research into vampire literature left me with the impression that I could pretty much pick and choose which traits I wanted my vamps to have. I'm gonna stick pretty close to how Butcher portrays them, specifically the White Court. And if I get any comments about my vampires' lack of sparkles or hear the dreaded 'T' word uttered in any way, shape or form, I might just have to slap a bitch.
That being said. Enjoy. XP
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Arthur Kirkland made his way through the darkened streets of the city, taking the back alleys when he could and keeping his eyes peeled and his senses cleared for any signs of danger as he flitted in and out of shadows. His destination was the same tonight as it was every Tuesday, Friday and Saturday but he never took the same route twice. Contrary to what a few of his closer associates believed, it wasn't out of fear, or any sense of impending threat should he accidentally fall into routine. It was merely habit, engrained into him over centuries of bloodshed, violence and treachery, from less stable times in his long and complicated life, and not something easily erased from memory. The modern day was at once more and less complicated than his memories of the past. There were various and sundry new ways to go about killing, betraying or brutally disfiguring someone, but motives seemed to all be of a similar breed nowadays.
The sun had been down for a few hours now and Arthur could hear the night life beginning to awaken in full, the creatures of the dark stirring from their rest to prowl the streets, alone or in groups, depending on their prerogative. The smells of the inner city were strong, almost overwhelming in their abundance, but Arthur had learned to block the meaningless ones out, to focus on those that might give him information or warning, and as he came around the corner of a tall building, the stench of death assaulted his nose in a wave of red. It had a particular and unavoidably noticeable scent, death, and in Arthur's experience, usually assaulted one's senses abruptly, like running into a brick wall. Uncomfortably sudden and dangerous if you weren't prepared.
He slowed to a stop, inhaled deeply and let the scent wash over his senses, sing through his veins and kick his adrenaline into overdrive as the need to hunt and feed became a nearly overpowering urge within him. He let the thrill run its course, savoring it as he let out an exhale shaky with pleasure, and opened his eyes as he felt the last dregs of that rush fall from his fingertips.
It was close. He followed the scent, careful not to let it get to him like it had moments before. It led him slightly off his path, but he didn't mind overly; he wasn't in that much of a hurry tonight. And what he found made him glad he'd taken the time to investigate.
The vampire Arthur came upon was young in every sense of the word; likely turned in the past few months, and young as a human when it had happened. He couldn't be more than a year old, because he was behaving like a petulant teen high on the incorrect assumption that he was invincible, that nothing could touch him, that the world was his for the taking. Young and stupid. The worst combination, and one that he was witnessing with increasing frequency as of late.
The vampire had chosen to take his victim in an alleyway not far off from the main street and was so absorbed in his feeding that he hadn't even registered Arthur's presence yet. The woman in his embrace was boneless, with a glazed look of pleasure in her eyes, but the scratches and wounds on her arms and neck told Arthur that she hadn't been willing. It was sloppy, distasteful, and completely lacking in any sort of propriety. Fucking young vampires had no manners, thought they could take whatever they wanted, wherever they wanted. What they failed to realize was that there were still hunters out there, just looking for an easy kill like this, not to mention other supernatural creatures that wouldn't give a moment's thought to taking out an enemy, immediately threatening or not. Arthur was tempted to just end the brat's life, because he could give a fuck less if the boy lived or died, but the affront to Arthur's sense of dignity for their kind was slightly more unforgivable.
Just because he was a blood-sucking monster who had lived through centuries of violence, death and hatred didn't mean he couldn't also be a gentleman. Didn't anyone have manners these days?
Arthur could have killed the boy himself, quietly and with nothing more than a flick of his wrist, but he was a firm believer of second chances. So, instead, he grabbed the kid's neck, felt his enhanced power flow through his arm and into the fingers pressing painfully into skin. The boy choked on his meal, gasped and finally detached from his victim's neck, letting her slump to the ground as he froze in Arthur's grip.
“Imagine how easily I could have killed you just now,” Arthur said lowly, keeping his tone conversational with barely an edge of reprimand.
“Why,” the boy choked out, “didn't you?”
“Oh,” Arthur hummed, tightening his fingers marginally and listening as the vampire's breath came out sticky with blood. “I suppose I'm too much of a sentimental old man for my own good.”
Arthur heard the boy's breath hitch, felt his throat begin to give under the strength of his grip. He sighed and threw the vampire into the wall, probably harder than was necessary, but the boy would heal. The vampire turned as fast as he could with the disorientation of suddenly being able to breath again mixed with the abrupt end of the euphoria of feeding, and faced Arthur fully, back against the wall as he tried to gain his bearings. Blood dribbled from the side of his mouth, likely from his interrupted meal, and his neck and shirt were covered in it. His pupils were dilated, an effect of being a creature of the night, enhanced by feeding on human blood.
Arthur scoffed and wiped his hand on his trousers, as if he'd touched something vile. “This is unseemly,” he told the boy. “You're such a disgrace, I almost wish I had killed you.”
Arthur watched as the boy's cheeks flushed in shame, his eyebrows swooping down as his eyes became calculating, wary. “What are you, a hunter?” the boy spat, hand shaking as it hovered near his hip.
Arthur moved, faster than the boy would know how to follow, given his obvious lack of training and experience, his apparent youth. He took the boy by the throat again, slammed his back hard against the wall as his other hand went to unarm the kids' only weapon, a knife hidden in a sheath at his side. He gripped the handle of the knife firmly as he put more pressure on the boy's throat.
“Has your sire taught you nothing?” Arthur hissed, striking with the knife he'd taken and embedding the blade into the boy's shoulder to the hilt. Arthur waited until the vampire's scream had choked itself off, until the boy was gritting his teeth in an effort not to show any more weakness, to continue. “Use your goddamned senses,” he whispered.
He watched as the boy narrowed his eyes and made a concentrated effort to do as Arthur said, focusing through the pain. After a few silent moments, the boy's eyes widened marginally and Arthur grinned, allowing his fangs to show.
“Va-vampire,” the boy stuttered, and Arthur eased his grip, took his hand off the hilt of the blade still embedded in the boy's shoulder.
“What's your name, boyo?” Arthur asked, scowl back in place.
The younger vampire let out a ragged, uneven exhale, sucked it back in sharply before gripping the handle of his blade. He pulled it out quickly, muffling his scream with a low grunt as he took a moment to meet Arthur's gaze. “Peter,” he said lowly, and Arthur almost expected a smart remark afterward, a scathing comeback or something rebellious. But it seemed the young vampire was properly cowed, remaining silent.
“And your sire?” Arthur asked. The boy had behaved inappropriately, dangerously even, but it was more the fault of his sire than his own, and Arthur was not above reprimanding a negligent parent. There were few things Arthur hated more than those who refused to take responsibility for their actions.
Peter scowled furiously, jerked his head to the side and was silent. Which was all the answer Arthur needed.
“You'll be dead within a week if you continue on like this,” Arthur said, gesturing to both the boy and his recent meal.
Peter threw him a glare. “I can take care of myself, old man.”
Arthur grabbed a handful of the boy's hair and jerked him forward, bending his head back at an angle that forced the young vampire to focus almost entirely on his balance. “I should slit your throat and walk away,” Arthur growled. “Any other vampire would have done it already. I'm offering you something you will not find elsewhere.”
Arthur released the boy and stepped back. Peter regained his balance, glanced to the side and then back toward Arthur. “Chi Res. building, nine o'clock on Sunday,” Arthur said, then turned on his heal and left, not bothering to wait for an answer.
Arthur had lived long enough that nothing really phased him anymore. There wasn't much that surprised him, wasn't much that he couldn't handle. He'd lived through most of the socially significant eras throughout the world; lived through the wild and riotous times of wealth and prosperity, and had struggled to survive along with everyone else through the recessions, the epidemics, the wars and the fallouts. He'd seen love and hate, had experienced them both on every possible level, and had come away from it all a lone and ill-tempered man.
He'd been changed centuries ago, by a man whose face he could no longer remember, but whose presence and power he would never truly forget. Faded though the memory was, he knew what it was like to be a young vampire, struggling in a world suddenly changed, shaded in tones of red and altogether more dangerous than he'd ever realized as a mortal. He'd reveled at first, excited with his newfound powers; the life he'd led previous to his change lending to a certain and particular lack of guilt in regards to the cost for such gifts. He'd taken without remorse, held in check only by his sire and raised anew on the morals of his new family.
At first it had been exhilarating, and Arthur understood the urge, the desire, the need a young vampire might have to prove to himself that he still lived, that blood, or something like it, still pumped through his veins, that he could still laugh and cry and feel love and pain. But those were dangerous motives to behave foolishly, and Arthur had seen more than his share of younglings perish because they thought a mere change had made them impervious to death itself.
Arthur himself had sired few vampires. He had a handful of children and though he had taught and trained them as he had been, none of them had been in contact with him for a century at least. The hurt was old and dull, scarred over by others, a dark section of his soul that he kept covered. Lessons learned, broken bones and promises, lost loves and wounds made fresh by long time enemies, very little bothered him anymore. The vampire tonight, Peter, was in need of direction, a guide into the modern world of darkness, of predators and prey, a supernatural playground for those who knew how to play the game and a graveyard for those who didn't. Arthur was willing to help, would acknowledge that he might be in need of a similar distraction, but he wouldn't be disappointed if the boy didn't show.
He was used to it.
Arthur had learned to adapt. He'd struggled with his kind in the past and had lead them through to the future with a handful of those who had survived to be as old as he was. He'd lived in almost every country imaginable, in every level of wealth and poverty, returned to his homeland of England every couple of centuries at least. Right now he found himself in America, a place that called to him almost as strongly as his home's islands, and a place where he'd found a pleasant sort of rhythm to lead his life by.
Returning to his path for the night allowed for his thoughts to refocus on where he was headed, who he was going to see, and everything that had lead up to this moment in his life fell away in a soft blur, urging him forward in a way that was hard to describe. Detours like the one tonight had little effect on the path he was currently on, and Arthur was convinced that nothing could pull him from his intended destination. He'd felt like this only two other times in his long life, and each one had made a tremendous, cataclysmic impact on his life's story, had turned him in a new direction entirely unanticipated, had changed him in ways he would have never thought possible.
He was on such a route now, had been for months, and he was exhilarated by that warm tingly edge that danced at the periphery of his senses, the wealth of emotion that threatened to drown him whenever he saw the man who had started him on his current path. He would take care this time, as much as he could, and perhaps this would end well. Only time would tell.
But in the interim of now and wherever his life was currently taking him, Arthur was determined to enjoy it.
He turned the last corner, walked out of a particularly narrow alleyway and onto the main street. The lights could be seen from blocks away, illuminating the night sky with a plethora of blinking colors, growing in density the closer you got to the heart of the city. Arthur liked to think that the reason he was so fond of his current place of employment was because it was on the edge of the city's frenzied night life. Like Arthur, the Death Valley Pub was old, worn, and resided on the fringe of today's youth, a splash of nostalgia mixed with a modern flair that was unavoidable given it's proximity to the heart of the city.
As he opened the door to the pub and stepped inside, eyes scanning the already crowded interior for a specific head of bright blond hair and blue eyes, he was willing to admit that there might be one other reason for his attachment to this place. He didn't see who he was looking for, but he felt him as the man sidled up behind Arthur, slipped strong arms around the Englishman's middle and licked a slow path from the collar of Arthur's shirt to his ear. Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, soaking in the presence of the other man.
“You're late,” the man murmured. Alfred Jones, an American and Arthur's current lover, was hardly the sort of person who should be saying that, and Arthur felt his mouth quirk at the edges as he opened his eyes and turned.
“I don't work tonight,” Arthur replied, sliding his hand across Alfred's abdomen as his fingers spread, enjoying the feel of muscle beneath cotton. “Also,” Arthur continued, stepping out of Alfred's arms. “You could be a little more subtle.” And the Englishman brought a hand up to surreptitiously wipe at the trail of Alfred's enthusiastic greeting.
“One of these days,” the American said, grinning. “I'm gonna find something that embarrasses you.”
Arthur gave him an unimpressed look before turning away and heading toward the bar. What the American had yet to realize was that many of the things he did - licking Arthur in public, forcing the smaller man to sit on the American's lap when there weren't enough barstools, using Arthur's cock like a microphone as he sang goddamned love songs to it during a blowjob - embarrassed the Englishman beyond anything Arthur might have imagined. With centuries of experience, however, he had gotten pretty good at hiding it, usually with scowls and a blustery charade of indignant growls. He'd had a friend once, from Japan, who'd informed him that there was actually a term for this, but Arthur had merely scowled through his blush and pointedly forgotten what it was.
Regardless, Alfred didn't seem to mind. The man was perpetually optimistic, an interesting contrast to Arthur's own pessimism and general lack of faith in humanity. It was a nice change, a different view and one that Arthur absolutely loved despite the fact that he regularly berated the man for his overt enthusiasm.
The pub was well on it's way to meeting maximum capacity, crowded and loud and barely lit by the low lights that hung from the high ceiling. Arthur made his way through the crowd, confident that no one would stop him, confident that his lover was only one step behind him. While he didn't exactly walk around with a bright neon sign proclaiming who he was, most of the denizens of this particular town knew of him. Most recognition came through his work, which mostly concerned his fellow vampires, and usually came with one of two responses. The majority were supportive, if not overly anxious to show it, but there were always a few vampires in every circle that blamed the ruin of their entire race on him.
Granted, said ruin had not yet come to pass, but most were insistent that it would and that it had all started when Arthur's company had started offering SPX to the mass public, a type of synthetic plasma that could sustain vampires who were unwilling to take meals that have a pulse. It had been the culmination of a century's worth of work, and continued to provide no small amount of income for Arthur and his partner, a German who'd had much the same motivation to see its creation as the Englishman. Some viewed it as a step toward humanity, others as a superficial mask that hid a vampire's true nature. Arthur didn't give a shit what they thought; only one person knew why he'd pursued it so religiously, and it would stay that way.
On the rare occasion he might bump into someone who recognized him and decided an expression of disagreement was best done with a fist to Arthur's face. But it happened rarely nowadays, and Arthur usually basked in his seeming anonymity. Most times, his age and experience were enough to deter the younger generations from starting something, whether or not they knew who he actually was.
Once he got to the bar, his thoughts turned to more pleasant topics as Alfred came up behind him, arm looped easily around Arthur's hips, and called to the bartender on duty that night with a loud shout.
“Antonio!” Alfred called, trying to make himself heard over the beat of the current song that was playing.
The pub, though English in origin, had been morphed into a hybrid of sorts. There was the bar, which took up a good sixty percent of the 'U' shaped room and sat smack in the middle, the first thing you saw when you walked in. There were tables set up between the door and the bar, and there was a smattering of booths and higher tables that swung around to the right, where a set of windows sat, the pub's name printed across them. To the left was an open space that was rarely open, usually filled by a crush of bodies bobbing and grinding to whatever music was playing that night, pressed up against one another under a reasonable set of colored and blinking lights. Arthur had been to other bars, dance clubs and such, where he'd almost had a seizure the lights blinked so fast. As such, he regularly threatened the life of the owner of the Death Valley Pub, stating that if he ever decided to put more blinking lights in, Arthur could not be held responsible for his actions.
Considering Arthur's age, race and power, it was not an idle threat, and normally, this might get him fired. But since he was currently sleeping with the owner, he managed to get away with it.
Alfred had won the bar in a bet, the parameters of which remained a mystery to Arthur and the rest of the staff. Hell, Arthur didn't even know the name of the previous owner, just that Alfred had taken a few liberties to make the place more inviting once he'd had the deed in his hand. Which was fine. All Arthur really cared about was that the beer was good and the company tolerable. The fact that the pub had functioned as a speakeasy in the twenties and thirties was a little known fact, and one that endeared the place to Arthur even more.
“Oi!” Alfred tried again, breaking Arthur from his thoughts. “Carriedo!” he called, pressing himself further into Arthur in an attempt to get within the bartender's earshot. Arthur wasn't about to complain, as it brought his lover's groin snug against his arse, and the feel of Alfred pressed so close along his back was a pleasure Arthur let himself indulge in for long moments before Antonio seemed to notice them.
Alfred held up two fingers and Antonio nodded with a grin and a wave. The barkeep didn't need to ask what Alfred wanted two of, since he'd seen Arthur next to the American and that meant they were drinking some of the beer and ale that Arthur had implored Alfred to import. The request had been mostly self-serving, but as he had explained at the time, there were plenty of Europeans looking for a place that sold good beer and if Alfred wanted those customers, he'd buy the ones from England. The American had taken only slight offense to Arthur brushing off his own nation's alcoholic beverages, but Arthur knew it was all a charade, or rather a certain loyalty to his country perhaps. Alfred drank plenty of foreign beers and Arthur got the impression that he'd just been to lazy to actually buy them for his bar.
Needless to say, it had been a success and Alfred's pub now carried a variety of American and foreign drinks, much to the Englishman's pleasure. Arthur's current favorite was Old Suffolk, an old ale that gave him a pleasant buzz and one hell of a hangover, and when Antonio slid their respective drinks down to them, he was amused to see Alfred had the same thing. Sometimes he wondered if Alfred had taste buds at all, since the man seemed capable of eating or drinking just about anything, with little concern as to what he was putting into his stomach. Arthur didn't exactly mind, though because he didn't make faces at most of Arthur's culinary abominations. Any time he made food, it was basically like eating charred pieces of what used to be categorized as food. But Alfred wouldd shovel it down nonetheless, much to Arthur's delight.
“Drinking on the job?” Arthur asked him, taking a drink of his own.
Alfred followed his lead, glancing around the pub, at the constantly moving bodies on the dance floor, the tight groups of people speaking with each other around the high tables, the few couples who'd come together sitting in the booths. Most of the patrons were some sort of supernatural being or another, but there were also a few humans, those who had powers of their own or those who either liked the company by choice or more sinister reasons. Generally speaking, it was a dangerous place to be, a dangerous crowd to associate with, and if you were mortal, you generally didn't do it willingly or without a very good reason. Despite this, the pub was already full and noisy as hell, and for a moment Arthur wondered if his question had gone unheard.
Alfred finally turned back to him and grinned. “I do what I want.”
Arthur was unpleasantly reminded of his earlier run in with the young vampire and his smile slipped slightly, brow furrowing as he brought the bottle to his mouth again, but paused before taking a drink. After a moment, he pushed the memory and the accompanying worry to the back of his mind. Not worry for the boy's well-being, he told himself. Worry for what the kid would do to his and Alfred's relationship, should he choose to take Arthur's advice and become his adoptive brother, of sorts. There really wasn't a word for it - pupil, student, apprentice? None of them really fit - but he was sure it would put strain on his other commitments.
His relationship with Alfred was still relatively new. They'd only been seeing each other for little under a month, but considering all the time they'd spent dancing around each other, arguing and fighting over little things in a wayward and dysfunctional attempt at expressing their feelings, they'd been together for almost three. It had started with Arthur's employment as a bartender, and he was loath to see it end because he'd taken on the responsibility of some other vampire.
Then again, Arthur thought as he watched a wayward drop of ale escape Alfred's bottle, watched the man run his tongue along his lip to catch it before humming in pleasure, he wasn't required to watch over the boy constantly. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Besides, he saw Alfred at least three times a week through work alone. It wasn't as if he'd be completely estranged from the man if he had to spend a little more time with a young vampire.
“You okay?” Alfred asked, overly loud so as to be heard over the din of the pub.
Arthur blinked up at him, frowning in confusion. Alfred gestured toward Arthur's bottle with his own. “You haven't had more than a sip,” the American explained. Arthur looked down at his bottle with an amused look.
“I swear it's the real thing,” Alfred continued, leaning in close to Arthur's ear so he wouldn't have to yell. “I didn't like, switch the labels or anything.”
Arthur glanced back up at his lover, rolled his eyes and smacked his hand against the back of his shoulder as Alfred laughed. No, Arthur thought. The last attempt at fooling Arthur into drinking shitty American beer by switching the labels had ended in a three day fight; Alfred probably wouldn't attempt it again. Arthur smiled and took another drink, remembering the make-up sex that had lasted almost as long as the fight itself, and thought that maybe it hadn't been so bad. Certainly worth the pain his taste buds had gone through.
With that thought in mind, he stepped closer to Alfred and slipped his hand around the American's back, dipping his fingers beneath the waistband of his jeans to feel smooth, warm skin as he brought the bottle to his lips again. He took a drink, enjoyed the slightest of shivers that ran up Alfred's spine at the contact and hooked one of his fangs on the rim of his bottle as he contemplated his lover.
Alfred was dressed slightly better than he was normally wont to do. His usual outfit consisted of little more than a t-shirt and jeans, usually well worn and, Arthur assumed, chosen for comfort. If the American wanted to impress, the jeans wouldn't have holes in them. Tonight, however, he wore dark, well fitted jeans with no rips or tears, along with a button up shirt and a vest over it. His belt offset the color in his shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to the elbows. It wouldn't win him any fashion awards, granted, but the vest had been a gift from Arthur, an attempt to persuade the man to dress better, and the Englishman was pleased to see that he was wearing it. And with the casual way the American wore it - almost as if the shirt had been made to be wrinkled, the vest made to be left undone - Arthur was even more pleased at the prospect of taking it off. His fingers drifted lower.
“If I didn't know any better,” Alfred said, turning to look at Arthur. “I'd think you were trying to seduce me.”
“The thought crossed my mind,” Arthur said, dragging his fingers from the far side of Alfred's hip across the top of his arse, the tip of his forefinger running slowly across the dip between his cheeks as he licked his lips, tongue sliding slowly across the tip of his left fang. Alfred had a thing for Arthur's fangs, and the Englishman had absolutely no qualms about exploiting that. The man looked good tonight, and there was very little on Arthur's mind other than going somewhere dark and private.
True to form, Alfred's eyes locked onto the motion of Arthur's tongue and the hand not holding his bottle threaded through the belt loops of Arthur's jeans. Alfred gave a gentle tug and Arthur followed the motion, stepping around the American so that they could press their fronts together. Alfred leaned his back against the bar and let his hand drift to settle in the small of Arthur's back, and though Arthur would never voice it, the warmth from that hand spread throughout his body in a pleasant hum, pooling deliciously just below his navel.
Arthur smirked to himself and took another drink, trying to decide if he wanted to finish his ale first and then have sex, or just skip straight to the sex. He glanced up at Alfred, considering asking the man for his point of view, but frowned when he noticed the American's eyes were trained rather intently elsewhere, on something behind Arthur. He turned in Alfred's grip, scanning the darkened figures of the patrons directly behind him. He found what Alfred was staring at almost immediately and his expression darkened into something between frustration and rage.
It was another vampire, this one louder and considerably more of a pain in the arse than anyone Arthur had ever met, with the exception of a particular Frenchman. He had white hair, a foul mouth and absolutely no filters whatsoever; Arthur had dealt with him multiple times before and each one had been an enormous headache. The last time they'd seen each other had been over fifty years ago and had involved a burnt down building or three, a lost pinky toe, a nightlong stay in the local county jail and the worst case of blue balls Arthur had ever experienced. Arthur had maintained the false hope that their paths wouldn't ever cross again.
Gilbert Beilschmidt was a good three centuries younger than Arthur and embraced violence like he'd been born to shed blood. The decades hadn't done much to dampen his enthusiasm for fighting and he had a penchant for finding trouble; the sort that landed him on the top of someone's shit list. And in this crowd, that meant more than just not being invited to the Christmas party. Arthur groaned internally, hoping the man would find the place dull and just leave, preferably without seeing Arthur.
But, as luck would have it, Gilbert seemed to take offense to something and he was throwing fists before Arthur could even warn Alfred about his tendencies to do so. The American was less than tolerant about fighting in his bar, and was often mistaken for a mere bouncer because of his efficiency in throwing out trouble, so Arthur wasn't surprised when he set down his beer and slapped Arthur's hip in a silent command for him to move. Arthur did so with only slight hesitation. Letting Alfred go in there would increase the chance of him being seen. On the other hand, Alfred was intent on stopping it himself and if he put his mind to it, Arthur would have trouble convincing him to do otherwise. So he stepped aside and let the American pass.
Arthur turned to lean his back against the bar, took a drink of his ale and settled in to watch. Alfred reached the fray in under two seconds, the regulars moving aside easily once they saw him coming, and the first thing he did was get Gilberts attention by grabbing onto his upper arm. Gilbert normally viewed that kind of action as an invitation to throw a punch and Arthur was not surprised when that was exactly how he responded, right fist rounding on Alfred's face quicker than most people, supernatural or not, could follow. And with more strength than most of their kind had.
Arthur was also not surprised when Alfred caught the man's fist in his hand with little more than a grunt at the impact. The Englishman smirked deviously into his bottle, tonguing the threads as he relished Alfred's show of strength, felt himself warm at the thought of having that strength focused entirely on him.
Alfred twisted Gilbert's arm behind his back brutally and mouthed something Arthur couldn't hear. His senses were much sharper than a human's, and vampires were no slackers in the supernatural community either, but with the music pounding through the speakers, the voices of crowd and the beating of hearts surrounding him, Arthur could barely make out what Alfred said when he was standing a foot away. Gilbert shouted something back and the two men who'd come in with him moved to intervene. Arthur leaned forward, eyes intent on his lover as Alfred used his foot to take one down and his free hand to send the other one into the first. His grip on Gilbert loosened marginally, but it was enough and the pale vampire swung out of Alfred's grip, rounding on him quickly. Alfred blocked the first punch, swept aside the second, but Gilbert's knee found his side and Alfred staggered. Arthur let his mouth slide from the mouth of his bottle, tongue swiping across his upper lip as he set the bottle down on the bar behind him.
Alfred regained his balance and threw his fist out so fast that even Arthur lost track of it for a second. It hit Gilbert in the chin, snapped his head back, and he took a few drunken steps backward, toward Arthur's position. Alfred said something again, calling for Gilbert and asking him to leave, no doubt; Alfred was an eternal optimist. But the vampire flipped him the bird and laughed, turning toward the bar as Arthur watched his two friends fall on Alfred from behind. Arthur's eyes tracked Alfred's movements as he took care of the two men as quickly as possible, but his vision was suddenly filled by a pair of deep red eyes, cutting off his view.
He blinked and raised his gaze, brows falling into his patent frown as he regarded his second least favorite vampire in the entire history of ever.
“Beilschmidt.”
“Artie,” Gilbert crooned, smirking as he crowded Arthur back into the bar, mouth coming perilously close to his own. “What a pleasant surprise, did you miss me?”
Arthur's lips lifted in disgust as he kept his gaze pinned to Gilbert's. “Hardly,” he answered. The boy was younger and weaker than Arthur, and the Englishman was not about to back down from him just because the boy was crude. Which wasn't to say he was opposed to the idea of someone else taking care of his problem for him, especially if that someone was a certain American.
“I wouldn't get too comfy, if I were you,” Arthur told him, smiling placidly, and enjoyed the brief look of confusion on his face before Alfred's hand closed around his shoulder and pulled Gilbert away from Arthur altogether. The American used the momentum of his tug to spin the vampire into the bar, hand forcing the man's head to smash into the bar, holding it there.
“Your first mistake was making trouble in my bar,” Alfred said loudly into his ear, using his strength to keep Gilbert pinned to the bar despite his struggles.
Arthur turned toward the vampire and leaned forward, giving Alfred a smirk before regarding Gilbert. “And I believe your last mistake was hitting on me,” he said, tonguing the ridge of his front teeth slowly before pulling back.
Alfred tugged the vampire off of the bar and grunted in agreement before shoving him through the crowd and toward the door. The other two had been taken care of by the actual bouncer working tonight, a Russian who Arthur avoided at any cost but who seemed to get along swimmingly with Alfred. Arthur picked up his ale and tipped his head back, downing the rest of it in two long pulls. When he finished, he slammed it back onto the bar, scowling briefly at Antonio's raised eyebrow before he picked up Alfred's bottle as well. He was about to drain that one too, when the American showed up and took it back.
“That's mine, babe,” Alfred said, and took a drink.
Arthur let his gaze sweep over him. That heat from earlier had not dissipated and it was beginning to pool just beneath his navel, sending little sparks up and down his limbs as he anticipated the return of his lover. Now that he was here, in front of him, Arthur had little desire to wait, and he eyed Alfred's bottle as he set it down again, saying something to Antonio. The man was completely oblivious most of the time and didn't seem to notice Arthur's state of increased interest, and if he wanted to finish his ale, he was going to have to do it a lot damn faster than that, because Arthur was tired of waiting.
Arthur took Alfred's bottle back again and tipped it into his mouth, downing the contents as fast as he could before letting it fall from his mouth with a pleased exhale, licking his lips as he let his gaze fall back to Alfred's, bottle clattering somewhere on the bar.
“Are you drunk?” Alfred asked.
Arthur shook his head, reaching out to wrap his fingers around the edges of Alfred's vest. “Just horny,” he said easily, though he was a feeling a slight buzz from the alcohol.
Arthur watched as recognition flashed through Alfred's expression, a slight widening of the eyes, a short intake of breath that was nearly silent in the roar of the pub. Arthur pressed himself against Alfred's front, could feel the heightened beat of his heart through the contact, tilted his head up slightly to look at his lover through his fringe, eyes half lidded. That was as far as he went, though, and it was all Alfred needed. The American turned to get Antonio's attention and must have mouthed something instead of trying to shout, because the Spaniard nodded with a grin just before Alfred turned back around.
“You owe me a beer,” Alfred said, then grabbed Arthur's hand and started making his way toward the dance floor and the stairway that ran along the side closest to the bar, leading down to an office.
Antonio was the only one besides Alfred who had a key to the office, and Arthur made sure to lock it again once they were both inside, turning to find Alfred tossing his set of keys onto the desk. It wasn't a large office, but the desk and the chairs and the general clutter of the room came together in a way Arthur could only describe as cozy.
One wall was taken up entirely by a bookcase which Arthur was slowly but surely stocking with his own library, pushing aside the knick-knacks and oddities that made up Alfred's collection of stuff. He had things from all over; a jeweled necklace he claimed came from France, a couple gold statues that were obviously Egyptian, and an entire two shelves were taken up by some sort of figurine collection that came from Japan. He had necklaces and rings, books so old it seemed they would fall apart if you opened them, chinese ink paintings and African drums. Arthur imagined he had something from every continent, if not every country, in the world, and that wasn't even a tenth of the stuff the office held. The other wall was filled with shelves and cabinets and small counter where Alfred kept his coffee maker and his electric tea kettle, his arsenal of sweeteners and his eclectic collection of tea.
The desk an the two chairs that sat before it took up much of the remaining space, but Arthur knew that there was a secret lever hidden in the bookcase that opened a small doorway on the opposite wall, right next to where the counter ended. The doorway led to another small room where Alfred kept a random collection of more stuff, some of it his collection, others merely things not in use in the bar, extra supplies and a chair that hadn't fit comfortably in the main office. Beyond that room led to a maze of underground tunnels, used during the prohibition to smuggle in goods, and perhaps as an escape route should any suspicion descend on the pub. Arthur had explored them extensively despite Alfred's teasing about being paranoid. You never knew when you'd need something like a secret tunnel escape below your favorite pub.
But Arthur had other concerns presently, and he walked slowly toward his American lover as Alfred turned and leaned back against the desk. When he was close enough to touch, Alfred spoke.
“You knew that guy?” he asked, and Arthur placed his lips against the underside of Alfred's jaw, snaked his tongue out to trace the bone. “The one I threw out?”
Arthur hummed, not really wanting to think about Gilbert when he had his American in front of him, pliant and willing, ready to be taken. “Yes,” he said, thoroughly distracted as his fingers found the hem of Alfred's shirt, tugged it up and out of his jeans. “An old acquaintance I'm not overly fond of.”
“He seemed...interested,” Alfred said, voice strained when Arthur bucked his hips into Alfred's, fingers working quickly on the buttons of his shirt.
Arthur pulled back and gave Alfred a slightly incredulous look. They both knew what he was, how old he was, and the history that implied. Alfred knew that there was no way Arthur had stayed a virgin for the hundreds of years that he'd been alive, and although Arthur was unsure of Alfred's age himself, the Englishman was sure that the same could be said for his lover.
“What?” Alfred asked, slightly petulant even with the smile on his face.
Arthur's look melted into one of tolerant amusement before his eyes narrowed in want. Despite the fact that he regularly told Alfred that his jealously was misplaced and ridiculous, a pleasant shiver would run up his spine whenever Alfred's possessive streak showed itself. It was a guilty pleasure he would never admit out loud to having, but he couldn't deny how it made his heart beat faster, made his eyes narrow with desire.
He finished the last button on Alfred's shirt and let his hands spread over the American's bare chest, fingers curving down his sides slowly before one slide across to finger Alfred's navel. His other rose to grip at the back of the American's neck, pulling him forward as Arthur dragged his mouth from cheek to lips.
“Trust me, luv,” Arthur said, voice low and rough. “He's got nothing on you.”
Arthur went that final short distance and brought their lips together, fingers burying themselves in Alfred's hair as he breathed in the scent of his lover. Alfred melted against him, opening up beneath Arthur as his hands came up to grip at the Englishman's hips. Arthur tilted his head, deepened the kiss as his hips began moving again, thrusting against Alfred as his free hand trailed up a bare chest and began pushing Alfred's shirt off his shoulder.
They broke the kiss and Arthur gasped for air, head tilting back as Alfred's mouth trailed down to his neck, tonguing that spot where he was bitten so long ago and sending a jolt of desire spiraling down his spine. Arthur's hand carded up through Alfred's hair, pulling briefly, roughly, at the top before he decided to put the hand to better use, dropping down to push Alfred's shirt the rest of the way off and tossing it to the side. “Alfred,” he groaned, hands sneaking between them to start working on the American's jeans.
Alfred took the hint and pulled back, licking his lips before his hands gripped at the hem of Arthur's shirt. Arthur was forced to abandon Alfred's zipper as his shirt was tugged up and over his head, arms raised to help, and once it was off Alfred's mouth was on him again, tonguing his clavicle and the dip in between. Arthur's hands went back to Alfred's jeans, tugging them down his hips and grinning outright when he discovered Alfred wasn't wearing anything underneath. The jeans fell to the ground, pooling around Alfred's ankles, and Arthur took Alfred's cock in hand, thumbed the slit before stroking down, listening to Alfred's breath hitch as his forehead thumped against Arthur's shoulder.
“How,” Alfred panted, letting out a small moan as his hands tightened on Arthur's hips. “How do you want me?”
Arthur smiled, ran his tongue along the shell of Alfred's ear. “Just as you are, luv,” he said, hands abandoning Alfred's cock to sweep around his hips, palms curving around Alfred's arse as he pulled the American toward him. “Now where do you keep the lube in this sty?”
Alfred grunted and Arthur watched as he pulled back and shifted his feet, toeing off his shoes so that he could kick off his jeans. Arthur undid his own jeans, stepping out of his shoes more gracefully than Alfred's shuffle before shedding both jeans and boxers, tossing them over a chair. He turned to find Alfred sittin on his desk, clutter pushed aside so that he could recline back, hand reaching down to fumble with one of the drawers on the other side.
“It's not a sty,” he argued, voice strained as he stretched in his search.
Arthur ignored the argument altogether, instead focusing on the American before him, torso stretched gorgeously across the desk, cock standing at attention between two powerful legs spread to keep his balance. It was one of the best things Arthur had seen in the past decade, and he almost wished he could pause time and savor the image for the next century or three. Almost.
Arthur gave in to temptation and moved, dragging a hand from the curve of Alfred's knee up his thigh, pausing momentarily to grind his palm into the base of Alfred's cock and watch as the American lost his focus and fumbled with whatever he was doing, eyes closing as his breath hissed out in a strained exhale. Then Arthur moved on, fingers tracing the dip of Alfred's navel and the line in between muscle that led all the way up his chest before dragging his fingers back down.
Alfred found what he was looking for and straightened, sitting up and presenting the bottle of lube with a flourish. “Ta-da!”
Arthur snatched it out Alfred's hands and opened it. He was attempting to squirt a small amount onto his fingers when Alfred decided he wanted to touch and went straight for Arthur's aching cock, dragging his fingers up its length and causing Arthur to jerk forward and squeeze nearly half the bottle of lube onto his hand. Alfred laughed and bent down to kiss Arthur on the mouth and when they parted, Arthur gave his lover an exasperated look.
“Really?” Arthur asked, letting most of it drip onto the floor. Alfred just shrugged, smile still bright as ever, and leaned back, letting his weight fall onto his hands as he spread his legs. Arthur let his lips quirk up and wrapped his clean hand around Alfred's calf, tugging him forward slightly as he stepped in between the American's thighs. Alfred bit his lip as Arthur's fingers stroked over his entrance, let his head drop back as Arthur pushed the first finger in.
“Ar-Arthur,” Alfred called, legs straining as Arthur added another finger, stretching him slowly and meticulously. “Oh god, Arthur.”
When Arthur thought he was stretched adequately, he opened the bottle again and coated his fingers, hand working up and down his own erection a couple of times as Alfred raised himself up and watched, breathing hard from being worked over by Arthur's fingers, eyes intent on Arthur as the vampire lined himself up with Alfred's entrance.
He paused for a moment, listening to their hearts race, Alfred's blood pumping through his veins in excitement, breath falling from his lips in hurried pants. He could hear the distant beat of the music from the pub, the voices of the patrons all mingled together in a cacophony of muted sound.
“Arthur,” Alfred called, impatience lacing his tone. “Please.”
Arthur refocused, eyes falling on his lover, laid out on the desk with want clear in his bright blue eyes, hair mussed from their earlier enthusiasm, arms shaking slightly from the effort of holding himself up. Arthur let out a long exhale and pushed forward, eyes closing as the pleasure of having Alfred's heat wrapped around him sent bolts of desire streaking through his limbs. He could hear Alfred's breathing quicken, hear his breath hitch as Arthur slid in to the hilt, the tip of his cock brushing up against that spot inside him that would make him see stars.
Arthur didn't waste any more time, bending over Alfred as he set a rhythm, mouth descending on Alfred's nipple as the American's head tilted back, his weight fell to his elbows. Arthur brought one hand down to grip at Alfred's thigh, steadying his lover as he thrust in with as much force as he could, aiming for that spot and knowing that he found it by the way Alfred arched up into him.
Arthur licked a trail up to Alfred's neck, mouth settling over his pulse as the American began to buck up into his thrusts, Arthur's name falling off his lips with every breath. Time slowed as Arthur felt his lover's pulse beat steadily, loudly, taking over everything in his head, pounding through his ears, sending his senses into overdrive as he focused on his partner's life force and how easy it would be to sink his fangs in and drain him.
But he didn't. Never had, with Alfred, and likely never would. The temptation was always there, as it was with everyone, but Arthur had learned to control his hunger, especially around Alfred, especially during their more heated moments. They'd talked about it before, and the fact that Alfred trusted him implicitly not to bite in the one moment where Alfred was at his most vulnerable, it made Arthur's heart swell in a way it hadn't in a long, long time. And he would keep that promise, whatever it took.
So Arthur let the feeling wash over him, falling away as he focused his senses on the way Alfred made him feel, the mewls of pleasure and the half stuttered call of his name as he brought his lover closer and closer to the edge. He dragged his mouth away from Alfred's pulse, instead laying kisses unevenly over Alfred's chest, breathing heavily as he felt the heat pooling between his legs begin to overflow, his limbs shaking with effort.
“Arthur-! Uhm! Ohgod, right there!” Alfred shouted, arms finally giving out as he fell back to the desk, hands pushing at Arthur's shoulders as he arched into the vampire's thrusts.
“Shit,” Arthur swore, his thrusts becoming erratic, frenzied even as he tried to keep his aim steady. “Oh fuck!”
“Arthur!” Alfred yelled, body stiffening as he hit his peak, his release splashing across his torso as his limbs quaked with strain.
Arthur gasped at the feel of Alfred tightening around him and rose up, hands settling on Alfred's thighs as tipped his head back. He thrust once, twice, and went still, vision going white as his release hit him like a train, mouth open as Alfred's name got caught in his throat. His blood pulsed loudly and when his vision came back, he slumped forward, catching himself on the desk as his tried to calm his breathing. Alfred was spread out across the desk, languid and sated, a smile on his face as he caught Arthur's eye.
“Mmm,” Alfred hummed, wiggling his hips slightly. Arthur scoffed, but couldn't keep the smile off his face as he ran his fingers through the spend coating Alfred's chest, bringing them to his mouth to taste.
“It's really fucking sexy when you do that,” Alfred told him, and Arthur did it again, just to see Alfred bite his lip.
Arthur pulled out slowly, straightened, and offered the American his hand, pulling his lover up so that he was sitting on the edge of the desk, slumped forward against the Englishman. His head rested on Arthur's shoulder and the Englishman pushed irritably at him. “You're too heavy for me to hold up, Alfred.”
“Mmm,” Alfred answered, a lazy smile in his words. “Then take me to the chair, babe.”
Arthur grunted, pulling the American off the desk and guiding him toward the chair. “Don't call me that,” he grumbled, pushing his lover into the wide, cushioned chair.
“You love it,” Alfred told him, opening his arms in an invitation for Arthur to join him. The vampire didn't argue, because they both knew the truth, and climbed into the American's lap, settling himself comfortably before closing his eyes, head resting on Alfred's shoulder.
Alfred's arms came up and around him, tugging him closer and drifting fingers over his side, and it was in moments like this, when Alfred was overly affectionate and cuddly, that brought about Arthur's curiosity. They'd been together for months, and Arthur still didn't know what Alfred was. He'd never asked, and Alfred had never told him, for whatever reason. Maybe Alfred thought it was obvious, maybe he thought it didn't matter.
He was a giant contradiction, is what he was. He acted as though he'd only been alive for the twenty odd years his appearance dictated he was; optimistic, oblivious, somewhat naïve, and with a joy for life itself that Arthur had never seen beyond ten year olds. But he wasn't human, Arthur knew that much at least. Humans had a distinct scent about them, and Alfred smelled completely different, unlike anything Arthur had ever encountered.
Other than that, though, Arthur was at a loss. If Arthur bit him, tasted his blood, he would know instantly, but that seemed like cheating. No, he would just have to figure it out himself or wait until Alfred decided to tell him.
“Watcha thinkin' about?” Alfred asked lazily.
The fact that Arthur, as old as he was, hadn't ever encountered something like Alfred, sometimes worried him. He didn't like not knowing, didn't like the unexpected, didn't like being kept in the dark, especially when it concerned Alfred. He was much too attached to the man to let anything come between them.
“Babe?” Alfred called, more insistently.
Arthur shook off his thoughts and leaned forward, pressed his lips to Alfred's neck for long moments. Whatever he was, Alfred was his, and Arthur would just have to trust that the American would warn him if anything happened, if things went downhill.
“I'm fine, Alfred,” he murmured, hand coming up to rest above Alfred's heart. “Just thinking about you.”
They were together, and Arthur would fight anything and everything to keep it that way.
.END.
Why does everything I write plummet into the gutter halfway through? It's like I'm incapable of writing porn-free special relationship. OTL
Notes:
-If you're wondering what Alfred is, too bad. I'm not telling. But there are a few clues in the fic itself.
-kasumicc, this is for you, haha.
Genre: Dark fantasy
Characters/Pairings: UK/US with a few mentions of other characters
Rating/Warnings: NC17 for sex and language
Words: 9,396
Summary: England, a centuries old vampire, goes to visit his new favorite person.
Notes: My exposure to vampire media is limited to the Underworld series, that one movie with the crazy vampire queen and The Dresden Files, and my research into vampire literature left me with the impression that I could pretty much pick and choose which traits I wanted my vamps to have. I'm gonna stick pretty close to how Butcher portrays them, specifically the White Court. And if I get any comments about my vampires' lack of sparkles or hear the dreaded 'T' word uttered in any way, shape or form, I might just have to slap a bitch.
That being said. Enjoy. XP
--
Arthur Kirkland made his way through the darkened streets of the city, taking the back alleys when he could and keeping his eyes peeled and his senses cleared for any signs of danger as he flitted in and out of shadows. His destination was the same tonight as it was every Tuesday, Friday and Saturday but he never took the same route twice. Contrary to what a few of his closer associates believed, it wasn't out of fear, or any sense of impending threat should he accidentally fall into routine. It was merely habit, engrained into him over centuries of bloodshed, violence and treachery, from less stable times in his long and complicated life, and not something easily erased from memory. The modern day was at once more and less complicated than his memories of the past. There were various and sundry new ways to go about killing, betraying or brutally disfiguring someone, but motives seemed to all be of a similar breed nowadays.
The sun had been down for a few hours now and Arthur could hear the night life beginning to awaken in full, the creatures of the dark stirring from their rest to prowl the streets, alone or in groups, depending on their prerogative. The smells of the inner city were strong, almost overwhelming in their abundance, but Arthur had learned to block the meaningless ones out, to focus on those that might give him information or warning, and as he came around the corner of a tall building, the stench of death assaulted his nose in a wave of red. It had a particular and unavoidably noticeable scent, death, and in Arthur's experience, usually assaulted one's senses abruptly, like running into a brick wall. Uncomfortably sudden and dangerous if you weren't prepared.
He slowed to a stop, inhaled deeply and let the scent wash over his senses, sing through his veins and kick his adrenaline into overdrive as the need to hunt and feed became a nearly overpowering urge within him. He let the thrill run its course, savoring it as he let out an exhale shaky with pleasure, and opened his eyes as he felt the last dregs of that rush fall from his fingertips.
It was close. He followed the scent, careful not to let it get to him like it had moments before. It led him slightly off his path, but he didn't mind overly; he wasn't in that much of a hurry tonight. And what he found made him glad he'd taken the time to investigate.
The vampire Arthur came upon was young in every sense of the word; likely turned in the past few months, and young as a human when it had happened. He couldn't be more than a year old, because he was behaving like a petulant teen high on the incorrect assumption that he was invincible, that nothing could touch him, that the world was his for the taking. Young and stupid. The worst combination, and one that he was witnessing with increasing frequency as of late.
The vampire had chosen to take his victim in an alleyway not far off from the main street and was so absorbed in his feeding that he hadn't even registered Arthur's presence yet. The woman in his embrace was boneless, with a glazed look of pleasure in her eyes, but the scratches and wounds on her arms and neck told Arthur that she hadn't been willing. It was sloppy, distasteful, and completely lacking in any sort of propriety. Fucking young vampires had no manners, thought they could take whatever they wanted, wherever they wanted. What they failed to realize was that there were still hunters out there, just looking for an easy kill like this, not to mention other supernatural creatures that wouldn't give a moment's thought to taking out an enemy, immediately threatening or not. Arthur was tempted to just end the brat's life, because he could give a fuck less if the boy lived or died, but the affront to Arthur's sense of dignity for their kind was slightly more unforgivable.
Just because he was a blood-sucking monster who had lived through centuries of violence, death and hatred didn't mean he couldn't also be a gentleman. Didn't anyone have manners these days?
Arthur could have killed the boy himself, quietly and with nothing more than a flick of his wrist, but he was a firm believer of second chances. So, instead, he grabbed the kid's neck, felt his enhanced power flow through his arm and into the fingers pressing painfully into skin. The boy choked on his meal, gasped and finally detached from his victim's neck, letting her slump to the ground as he froze in Arthur's grip.
“Imagine how easily I could have killed you just now,” Arthur said lowly, keeping his tone conversational with barely an edge of reprimand.
“Why,” the boy choked out, “didn't you?”
“Oh,” Arthur hummed, tightening his fingers marginally and listening as the vampire's breath came out sticky with blood. “I suppose I'm too much of a sentimental old man for my own good.”
Arthur heard the boy's breath hitch, felt his throat begin to give under the strength of his grip. He sighed and threw the vampire into the wall, probably harder than was necessary, but the boy would heal. The vampire turned as fast as he could with the disorientation of suddenly being able to breath again mixed with the abrupt end of the euphoria of feeding, and faced Arthur fully, back against the wall as he tried to gain his bearings. Blood dribbled from the side of his mouth, likely from his interrupted meal, and his neck and shirt were covered in it. His pupils were dilated, an effect of being a creature of the night, enhanced by feeding on human blood.
Arthur scoffed and wiped his hand on his trousers, as if he'd touched something vile. “This is unseemly,” he told the boy. “You're such a disgrace, I almost wish I had killed you.”
Arthur watched as the boy's cheeks flushed in shame, his eyebrows swooping down as his eyes became calculating, wary. “What are you, a hunter?” the boy spat, hand shaking as it hovered near his hip.
Arthur moved, faster than the boy would know how to follow, given his obvious lack of training and experience, his apparent youth. He took the boy by the throat again, slammed his back hard against the wall as his other hand went to unarm the kids' only weapon, a knife hidden in a sheath at his side. He gripped the handle of the knife firmly as he put more pressure on the boy's throat.
“Has your sire taught you nothing?” Arthur hissed, striking with the knife he'd taken and embedding the blade into the boy's shoulder to the hilt. Arthur waited until the vampire's scream had choked itself off, until the boy was gritting his teeth in an effort not to show any more weakness, to continue. “Use your goddamned senses,” he whispered.
He watched as the boy narrowed his eyes and made a concentrated effort to do as Arthur said, focusing through the pain. After a few silent moments, the boy's eyes widened marginally and Arthur grinned, allowing his fangs to show.
“Va-vampire,” the boy stuttered, and Arthur eased his grip, took his hand off the hilt of the blade still embedded in the boy's shoulder.
“What's your name, boyo?” Arthur asked, scowl back in place.
The younger vampire let out a ragged, uneven exhale, sucked it back in sharply before gripping the handle of his blade. He pulled it out quickly, muffling his scream with a low grunt as he took a moment to meet Arthur's gaze. “Peter,” he said lowly, and Arthur almost expected a smart remark afterward, a scathing comeback or something rebellious. But it seemed the young vampire was properly cowed, remaining silent.
“And your sire?” Arthur asked. The boy had behaved inappropriately, dangerously even, but it was more the fault of his sire than his own, and Arthur was not above reprimanding a negligent parent. There were few things Arthur hated more than those who refused to take responsibility for their actions.
Peter scowled furiously, jerked his head to the side and was silent. Which was all the answer Arthur needed.
“You'll be dead within a week if you continue on like this,” Arthur said, gesturing to both the boy and his recent meal.
Peter threw him a glare. “I can take care of myself, old man.”
Arthur grabbed a handful of the boy's hair and jerked him forward, bending his head back at an angle that forced the young vampire to focus almost entirely on his balance. “I should slit your throat and walk away,” Arthur growled. “Any other vampire would have done it already. I'm offering you something you will not find elsewhere.”
Arthur released the boy and stepped back. Peter regained his balance, glanced to the side and then back toward Arthur. “Chi Res. building, nine o'clock on Sunday,” Arthur said, then turned on his heal and left, not bothering to wait for an answer.
Arthur had lived long enough that nothing really phased him anymore. There wasn't much that surprised him, wasn't much that he couldn't handle. He'd lived through most of the socially significant eras throughout the world; lived through the wild and riotous times of wealth and prosperity, and had struggled to survive along with everyone else through the recessions, the epidemics, the wars and the fallouts. He'd seen love and hate, had experienced them both on every possible level, and had come away from it all a lone and ill-tempered man.
He'd been changed centuries ago, by a man whose face he could no longer remember, but whose presence and power he would never truly forget. Faded though the memory was, he knew what it was like to be a young vampire, struggling in a world suddenly changed, shaded in tones of red and altogether more dangerous than he'd ever realized as a mortal. He'd reveled at first, excited with his newfound powers; the life he'd led previous to his change lending to a certain and particular lack of guilt in regards to the cost for such gifts. He'd taken without remorse, held in check only by his sire and raised anew on the morals of his new family.
At first it had been exhilarating, and Arthur understood the urge, the desire, the need a young vampire might have to prove to himself that he still lived, that blood, or something like it, still pumped through his veins, that he could still laugh and cry and feel love and pain. But those were dangerous motives to behave foolishly, and Arthur had seen more than his share of younglings perish because they thought a mere change had made them impervious to death itself.
Arthur himself had sired few vampires. He had a handful of children and though he had taught and trained them as he had been, none of them had been in contact with him for a century at least. The hurt was old and dull, scarred over by others, a dark section of his soul that he kept covered. Lessons learned, broken bones and promises, lost loves and wounds made fresh by long time enemies, very little bothered him anymore. The vampire tonight, Peter, was in need of direction, a guide into the modern world of darkness, of predators and prey, a supernatural playground for those who knew how to play the game and a graveyard for those who didn't. Arthur was willing to help, would acknowledge that he might be in need of a similar distraction, but he wouldn't be disappointed if the boy didn't show.
He was used to it.
Arthur had learned to adapt. He'd struggled with his kind in the past and had lead them through to the future with a handful of those who had survived to be as old as he was. He'd lived in almost every country imaginable, in every level of wealth and poverty, returned to his homeland of England every couple of centuries at least. Right now he found himself in America, a place that called to him almost as strongly as his home's islands, and a place where he'd found a pleasant sort of rhythm to lead his life by.
Returning to his path for the night allowed for his thoughts to refocus on where he was headed, who he was going to see, and everything that had lead up to this moment in his life fell away in a soft blur, urging him forward in a way that was hard to describe. Detours like the one tonight had little effect on the path he was currently on, and Arthur was convinced that nothing could pull him from his intended destination. He'd felt like this only two other times in his long life, and each one had made a tremendous, cataclysmic impact on his life's story, had turned him in a new direction entirely unanticipated, had changed him in ways he would have never thought possible.
He was on such a route now, had been for months, and he was exhilarated by that warm tingly edge that danced at the periphery of his senses, the wealth of emotion that threatened to drown him whenever he saw the man who had started him on his current path. He would take care this time, as much as he could, and perhaps this would end well. Only time would tell.
But in the interim of now and wherever his life was currently taking him, Arthur was determined to enjoy it.
He turned the last corner, walked out of a particularly narrow alleyway and onto the main street. The lights could be seen from blocks away, illuminating the night sky with a plethora of blinking colors, growing in density the closer you got to the heart of the city. Arthur liked to think that the reason he was so fond of his current place of employment was because it was on the edge of the city's frenzied night life. Like Arthur, the Death Valley Pub was old, worn, and resided on the fringe of today's youth, a splash of nostalgia mixed with a modern flair that was unavoidable given it's proximity to the heart of the city.
As he opened the door to the pub and stepped inside, eyes scanning the already crowded interior for a specific head of bright blond hair and blue eyes, he was willing to admit that there might be one other reason for his attachment to this place. He didn't see who he was looking for, but he felt him as the man sidled up behind Arthur, slipped strong arms around the Englishman's middle and licked a slow path from the collar of Arthur's shirt to his ear. Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, soaking in the presence of the other man.
“You're late,” the man murmured. Alfred Jones, an American and Arthur's current lover, was hardly the sort of person who should be saying that, and Arthur felt his mouth quirk at the edges as he opened his eyes and turned.
“I don't work tonight,” Arthur replied, sliding his hand across Alfred's abdomen as his fingers spread, enjoying the feel of muscle beneath cotton. “Also,” Arthur continued, stepping out of Alfred's arms. “You could be a little more subtle.” And the Englishman brought a hand up to surreptitiously wipe at the trail of Alfred's enthusiastic greeting.
“One of these days,” the American said, grinning. “I'm gonna find something that embarrasses you.”
Arthur gave him an unimpressed look before turning away and heading toward the bar. What the American had yet to realize was that many of the things he did - licking Arthur in public, forcing the smaller man to sit on the American's lap when there weren't enough barstools, using Arthur's cock like a microphone as he sang goddamned love songs to it during a blowjob - embarrassed the Englishman beyond anything Arthur might have imagined. With centuries of experience, however, he had gotten pretty good at hiding it, usually with scowls and a blustery charade of indignant growls. He'd had a friend once, from Japan, who'd informed him that there was actually a term for this, but Arthur had merely scowled through his blush and pointedly forgotten what it was.
Regardless, Alfred didn't seem to mind. The man was perpetually optimistic, an interesting contrast to Arthur's own pessimism and general lack of faith in humanity. It was a nice change, a different view and one that Arthur absolutely loved despite the fact that he regularly berated the man for his overt enthusiasm.
The pub was well on it's way to meeting maximum capacity, crowded and loud and barely lit by the low lights that hung from the high ceiling. Arthur made his way through the crowd, confident that no one would stop him, confident that his lover was only one step behind him. While he didn't exactly walk around with a bright neon sign proclaiming who he was, most of the denizens of this particular town knew of him. Most recognition came through his work, which mostly concerned his fellow vampires, and usually came with one of two responses. The majority were supportive, if not overly anxious to show it, but there were always a few vampires in every circle that blamed the ruin of their entire race on him.
Granted, said ruin had not yet come to pass, but most were insistent that it would and that it had all started when Arthur's company had started offering SPX to the mass public, a type of synthetic plasma that could sustain vampires who were unwilling to take meals that have a pulse. It had been the culmination of a century's worth of work, and continued to provide no small amount of income for Arthur and his partner, a German who'd had much the same motivation to see its creation as the Englishman. Some viewed it as a step toward humanity, others as a superficial mask that hid a vampire's true nature. Arthur didn't give a shit what they thought; only one person knew why he'd pursued it so religiously, and it would stay that way.
On the rare occasion he might bump into someone who recognized him and decided an expression of disagreement was best done with a fist to Arthur's face. But it happened rarely nowadays, and Arthur usually basked in his seeming anonymity. Most times, his age and experience were enough to deter the younger generations from starting something, whether or not they knew who he actually was.
Once he got to the bar, his thoughts turned to more pleasant topics as Alfred came up behind him, arm looped easily around Arthur's hips, and called to the bartender on duty that night with a loud shout.
“Antonio!” Alfred called, trying to make himself heard over the beat of the current song that was playing.
The pub, though English in origin, had been morphed into a hybrid of sorts. There was the bar, which took up a good sixty percent of the 'U' shaped room and sat smack in the middle, the first thing you saw when you walked in. There were tables set up between the door and the bar, and there was a smattering of booths and higher tables that swung around to the right, where a set of windows sat, the pub's name printed across them. To the left was an open space that was rarely open, usually filled by a crush of bodies bobbing and grinding to whatever music was playing that night, pressed up against one another under a reasonable set of colored and blinking lights. Arthur had been to other bars, dance clubs and such, where he'd almost had a seizure the lights blinked so fast. As such, he regularly threatened the life of the owner of the Death Valley Pub, stating that if he ever decided to put more blinking lights in, Arthur could not be held responsible for his actions.
Considering Arthur's age, race and power, it was not an idle threat, and normally, this might get him fired. But since he was currently sleeping with the owner, he managed to get away with it.
Alfred had won the bar in a bet, the parameters of which remained a mystery to Arthur and the rest of the staff. Hell, Arthur didn't even know the name of the previous owner, just that Alfred had taken a few liberties to make the place more inviting once he'd had the deed in his hand. Which was fine. All Arthur really cared about was that the beer was good and the company tolerable. The fact that the pub had functioned as a speakeasy in the twenties and thirties was a little known fact, and one that endeared the place to Arthur even more.
“Oi!” Alfred tried again, breaking Arthur from his thoughts. “Carriedo!” he called, pressing himself further into Arthur in an attempt to get within the bartender's earshot. Arthur wasn't about to complain, as it brought his lover's groin snug against his arse, and the feel of Alfred pressed so close along his back was a pleasure Arthur let himself indulge in for long moments before Antonio seemed to notice them.
Alfred held up two fingers and Antonio nodded with a grin and a wave. The barkeep didn't need to ask what Alfred wanted two of, since he'd seen Arthur next to the American and that meant they were drinking some of the beer and ale that Arthur had implored Alfred to import. The request had been mostly self-serving, but as he had explained at the time, there were plenty of Europeans looking for a place that sold good beer and if Alfred wanted those customers, he'd buy the ones from England. The American had taken only slight offense to Arthur brushing off his own nation's alcoholic beverages, but Arthur knew it was all a charade, or rather a certain loyalty to his country perhaps. Alfred drank plenty of foreign beers and Arthur got the impression that he'd just been to lazy to actually buy them for his bar.
Needless to say, it had been a success and Alfred's pub now carried a variety of American and foreign drinks, much to the Englishman's pleasure. Arthur's current favorite was Old Suffolk, an old ale that gave him a pleasant buzz and one hell of a hangover, and when Antonio slid their respective drinks down to them, he was amused to see Alfred had the same thing. Sometimes he wondered if Alfred had taste buds at all, since the man seemed capable of eating or drinking just about anything, with little concern as to what he was putting into his stomach. Arthur didn't exactly mind, though because he didn't make faces at most of Arthur's culinary abominations. Any time he made food, it was basically like eating charred pieces of what used to be categorized as food. But Alfred wouldd shovel it down nonetheless, much to Arthur's delight.
“Drinking on the job?” Arthur asked him, taking a drink of his own.
Alfred followed his lead, glancing around the pub, at the constantly moving bodies on the dance floor, the tight groups of people speaking with each other around the high tables, the few couples who'd come together sitting in the booths. Most of the patrons were some sort of supernatural being or another, but there were also a few humans, those who had powers of their own or those who either liked the company by choice or more sinister reasons. Generally speaking, it was a dangerous place to be, a dangerous crowd to associate with, and if you were mortal, you generally didn't do it willingly or without a very good reason. Despite this, the pub was already full and noisy as hell, and for a moment Arthur wondered if his question had gone unheard.
Alfred finally turned back to him and grinned. “I do what I want.”
Arthur was unpleasantly reminded of his earlier run in with the young vampire and his smile slipped slightly, brow furrowing as he brought the bottle to his mouth again, but paused before taking a drink. After a moment, he pushed the memory and the accompanying worry to the back of his mind. Not worry for the boy's well-being, he told himself. Worry for what the kid would do to his and Alfred's relationship, should he choose to take Arthur's advice and become his adoptive brother, of sorts. There really wasn't a word for it - pupil, student, apprentice? None of them really fit - but he was sure it would put strain on his other commitments.
His relationship with Alfred was still relatively new. They'd only been seeing each other for little under a month, but considering all the time they'd spent dancing around each other, arguing and fighting over little things in a wayward and dysfunctional attempt at expressing their feelings, they'd been together for almost three. It had started with Arthur's employment as a bartender, and he was loath to see it end because he'd taken on the responsibility of some other vampire.
Then again, Arthur thought as he watched a wayward drop of ale escape Alfred's bottle, watched the man run his tongue along his lip to catch it before humming in pleasure, he wasn't required to watch over the boy constantly. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Besides, he saw Alfred at least three times a week through work alone. It wasn't as if he'd be completely estranged from the man if he had to spend a little more time with a young vampire.
“You okay?” Alfred asked, overly loud so as to be heard over the din of the pub.
Arthur blinked up at him, frowning in confusion. Alfred gestured toward Arthur's bottle with his own. “You haven't had more than a sip,” the American explained. Arthur looked down at his bottle with an amused look.
“I swear it's the real thing,” Alfred continued, leaning in close to Arthur's ear so he wouldn't have to yell. “I didn't like, switch the labels or anything.”
Arthur glanced back up at his lover, rolled his eyes and smacked his hand against the back of his shoulder as Alfred laughed. No, Arthur thought. The last attempt at fooling Arthur into drinking shitty American beer by switching the labels had ended in a three day fight; Alfred probably wouldn't attempt it again. Arthur smiled and took another drink, remembering the make-up sex that had lasted almost as long as the fight itself, and thought that maybe it hadn't been so bad. Certainly worth the pain his taste buds had gone through.
With that thought in mind, he stepped closer to Alfred and slipped his hand around the American's back, dipping his fingers beneath the waistband of his jeans to feel smooth, warm skin as he brought the bottle to his lips again. He took a drink, enjoyed the slightest of shivers that ran up Alfred's spine at the contact and hooked one of his fangs on the rim of his bottle as he contemplated his lover.
Alfred was dressed slightly better than he was normally wont to do. His usual outfit consisted of little more than a t-shirt and jeans, usually well worn and, Arthur assumed, chosen for comfort. If the American wanted to impress, the jeans wouldn't have holes in them. Tonight, however, he wore dark, well fitted jeans with no rips or tears, along with a button up shirt and a vest over it. His belt offset the color in his shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to the elbows. It wouldn't win him any fashion awards, granted, but the vest had been a gift from Arthur, an attempt to persuade the man to dress better, and the Englishman was pleased to see that he was wearing it. And with the casual way the American wore it - almost as if the shirt had been made to be wrinkled, the vest made to be left undone - Arthur was even more pleased at the prospect of taking it off. His fingers drifted lower.
“If I didn't know any better,” Alfred said, turning to look at Arthur. “I'd think you were trying to seduce me.”
“The thought crossed my mind,” Arthur said, dragging his fingers from the far side of Alfred's hip across the top of his arse, the tip of his forefinger running slowly across the dip between his cheeks as he licked his lips, tongue sliding slowly across the tip of his left fang. Alfred had a thing for Arthur's fangs, and the Englishman had absolutely no qualms about exploiting that. The man looked good tonight, and there was very little on Arthur's mind other than going somewhere dark and private.
True to form, Alfred's eyes locked onto the motion of Arthur's tongue and the hand not holding his bottle threaded through the belt loops of Arthur's jeans. Alfred gave a gentle tug and Arthur followed the motion, stepping around the American so that they could press their fronts together. Alfred leaned his back against the bar and let his hand drift to settle in the small of Arthur's back, and though Arthur would never voice it, the warmth from that hand spread throughout his body in a pleasant hum, pooling deliciously just below his navel.
Arthur smirked to himself and took another drink, trying to decide if he wanted to finish his ale first and then have sex, or just skip straight to the sex. He glanced up at Alfred, considering asking the man for his point of view, but frowned when he noticed the American's eyes were trained rather intently elsewhere, on something behind Arthur. He turned in Alfred's grip, scanning the darkened figures of the patrons directly behind him. He found what Alfred was staring at almost immediately and his expression darkened into something between frustration and rage.
It was another vampire, this one louder and considerably more of a pain in the arse than anyone Arthur had ever met, with the exception of a particular Frenchman. He had white hair, a foul mouth and absolutely no filters whatsoever; Arthur had dealt with him multiple times before and each one had been an enormous headache. The last time they'd seen each other had been over fifty years ago and had involved a burnt down building or three, a lost pinky toe, a nightlong stay in the local county jail and the worst case of blue balls Arthur had ever experienced. Arthur had maintained the false hope that their paths wouldn't ever cross again.
Gilbert Beilschmidt was a good three centuries younger than Arthur and embraced violence like he'd been born to shed blood. The decades hadn't done much to dampen his enthusiasm for fighting and he had a penchant for finding trouble; the sort that landed him on the top of someone's shit list. And in this crowd, that meant more than just not being invited to the Christmas party. Arthur groaned internally, hoping the man would find the place dull and just leave, preferably without seeing Arthur.
But, as luck would have it, Gilbert seemed to take offense to something and he was throwing fists before Arthur could even warn Alfred about his tendencies to do so. The American was less than tolerant about fighting in his bar, and was often mistaken for a mere bouncer because of his efficiency in throwing out trouble, so Arthur wasn't surprised when he set down his beer and slapped Arthur's hip in a silent command for him to move. Arthur did so with only slight hesitation. Letting Alfred go in there would increase the chance of him being seen. On the other hand, Alfred was intent on stopping it himself and if he put his mind to it, Arthur would have trouble convincing him to do otherwise. So he stepped aside and let the American pass.
Arthur turned to lean his back against the bar, took a drink of his ale and settled in to watch. Alfred reached the fray in under two seconds, the regulars moving aside easily once they saw him coming, and the first thing he did was get Gilberts attention by grabbing onto his upper arm. Gilbert normally viewed that kind of action as an invitation to throw a punch and Arthur was not surprised when that was exactly how he responded, right fist rounding on Alfred's face quicker than most people, supernatural or not, could follow. And with more strength than most of their kind had.
Arthur was also not surprised when Alfred caught the man's fist in his hand with little more than a grunt at the impact. The Englishman smirked deviously into his bottle, tonguing the threads as he relished Alfred's show of strength, felt himself warm at the thought of having that strength focused entirely on him.
Alfred twisted Gilbert's arm behind his back brutally and mouthed something Arthur couldn't hear. His senses were much sharper than a human's, and vampires were no slackers in the supernatural community either, but with the music pounding through the speakers, the voices of crowd and the beating of hearts surrounding him, Arthur could barely make out what Alfred said when he was standing a foot away. Gilbert shouted something back and the two men who'd come in with him moved to intervene. Arthur leaned forward, eyes intent on his lover as Alfred used his foot to take one down and his free hand to send the other one into the first. His grip on Gilbert loosened marginally, but it was enough and the pale vampire swung out of Alfred's grip, rounding on him quickly. Alfred blocked the first punch, swept aside the second, but Gilbert's knee found his side and Alfred staggered. Arthur let his mouth slide from the mouth of his bottle, tongue swiping across his upper lip as he set the bottle down on the bar behind him.
Alfred regained his balance and threw his fist out so fast that even Arthur lost track of it for a second. It hit Gilbert in the chin, snapped his head back, and he took a few drunken steps backward, toward Arthur's position. Alfred said something again, calling for Gilbert and asking him to leave, no doubt; Alfred was an eternal optimist. But the vampire flipped him the bird and laughed, turning toward the bar as Arthur watched his two friends fall on Alfred from behind. Arthur's eyes tracked Alfred's movements as he took care of the two men as quickly as possible, but his vision was suddenly filled by a pair of deep red eyes, cutting off his view.
He blinked and raised his gaze, brows falling into his patent frown as he regarded his second least favorite vampire in the entire history of ever.
“Beilschmidt.”
“Artie,” Gilbert crooned, smirking as he crowded Arthur back into the bar, mouth coming perilously close to his own. “What a pleasant surprise, did you miss me?”
Arthur's lips lifted in disgust as he kept his gaze pinned to Gilbert's. “Hardly,” he answered. The boy was younger and weaker than Arthur, and the Englishman was not about to back down from him just because the boy was crude. Which wasn't to say he was opposed to the idea of someone else taking care of his problem for him, especially if that someone was a certain American.
“I wouldn't get too comfy, if I were you,” Arthur told him, smiling placidly, and enjoyed the brief look of confusion on his face before Alfred's hand closed around his shoulder and pulled Gilbert away from Arthur altogether. The American used the momentum of his tug to spin the vampire into the bar, hand forcing the man's head to smash into the bar, holding it there.
“Your first mistake was making trouble in my bar,” Alfred said loudly into his ear, using his strength to keep Gilbert pinned to the bar despite his struggles.
Arthur turned toward the vampire and leaned forward, giving Alfred a smirk before regarding Gilbert. “And I believe your last mistake was hitting on me,” he said, tonguing the ridge of his front teeth slowly before pulling back.
Alfred tugged the vampire off of the bar and grunted in agreement before shoving him through the crowd and toward the door. The other two had been taken care of by the actual bouncer working tonight, a Russian who Arthur avoided at any cost but who seemed to get along swimmingly with Alfred. Arthur picked up his ale and tipped his head back, downing the rest of it in two long pulls. When he finished, he slammed it back onto the bar, scowling briefly at Antonio's raised eyebrow before he picked up Alfred's bottle as well. He was about to drain that one too, when the American showed up and took it back.
“That's mine, babe,” Alfred said, and took a drink.
Arthur let his gaze sweep over him. That heat from earlier had not dissipated and it was beginning to pool just beneath his navel, sending little sparks up and down his limbs as he anticipated the return of his lover. Now that he was here, in front of him, Arthur had little desire to wait, and he eyed Alfred's bottle as he set it down again, saying something to Antonio. The man was completely oblivious most of the time and didn't seem to notice Arthur's state of increased interest, and if he wanted to finish his ale, he was going to have to do it a lot damn faster than that, because Arthur was tired of waiting.
Arthur took Alfred's bottle back again and tipped it into his mouth, downing the contents as fast as he could before letting it fall from his mouth with a pleased exhale, licking his lips as he let his gaze fall back to Alfred's, bottle clattering somewhere on the bar.
“Are you drunk?” Alfred asked.
Arthur shook his head, reaching out to wrap his fingers around the edges of Alfred's vest. “Just horny,” he said easily, though he was a feeling a slight buzz from the alcohol.
Arthur watched as recognition flashed through Alfred's expression, a slight widening of the eyes, a short intake of breath that was nearly silent in the roar of the pub. Arthur pressed himself against Alfred's front, could feel the heightened beat of his heart through the contact, tilted his head up slightly to look at his lover through his fringe, eyes half lidded. That was as far as he went, though, and it was all Alfred needed. The American turned to get Antonio's attention and must have mouthed something instead of trying to shout, because the Spaniard nodded with a grin just before Alfred turned back around.
“You owe me a beer,” Alfred said, then grabbed Arthur's hand and started making his way toward the dance floor and the stairway that ran along the side closest to the bar, leading down to an office.
Antonio was the only one besides Alfred who had a key to the office, and Arthur made sure to lock it again once they were both inside, turning to find Alfred tossing his set of keys onto the desk. It wasn't a large office, but the desk and the chairs and the general clutter of the room came together in a way Arthur could only describe as cozy.
One wall was taken up entirely by a bookcase which Arthur was slowly but surely stocking with his own library, pushing aside the knick-knacks and oddities that made up Alfred's collection of stuff. He had things from all over; a jeweled necklace he claimed came from France, a couple gold statues that were obviously Egyptian, and an entire two shelves were taken up by some sort of figurine collection that came from Japan. He had necklaces and rings, books so old it seemed they would fall apart if you opened them, chinese ink paintings and African drums. Arthur imagined he had something from every continent, if not every country, in the world, and that wasn't even a tenth of the stuff the office held. The other wall was filled with shelves and cabinets and small counter where Alfred kept his coffee maker and his electric tea kettle, his arsenal of sweeteners and his eclectic collection of tea.
The desk an the two chairs that sat before it took up much of the remaining space, but Arthur knew that there was a secret lever hidden in the bookcase that opened a small doorway on the opposite wall, right next to where the counter ended. The doorway led to another small room where Alfred kept a random collection of more stuff, some of it his collection, others merely things not in use in the bar, extra supplies and a chair that hadn't fit comfortably in the main office. Beyond that room led to a maze of underground tunnels, used during the prohibition to smuggle in goods, and perhaps as an escape route should any suspicion descend on the pub. Arthur had explored them extensively despite Alfred's teasing about being paranoid. You never knew when you'd need something like a secret tunnel escape below your favorite pub.
But Arthur had other concerns presently, and he walked slowly toward his American lover as Alfred turned and leaned back against the desk. When he was close enough to touch, Alfred spoke.
“You knew that guy?” he asked, and Arthur placed his lips against the underside of Alfred's jaw, snaked his tongue out to trace the bone. “The one I threw out?”
Arthur hummed, not really wanting to think about Gilbert when he had his American in front of him, pliant and willing, ready to be taken. “Yes,” he said, thoroughly distracted as his fingers found the hem of Alfred's shirt, tugged it up and out of his jeans. “An old acquaintance I'm not overly fond of.”
“He seemed...interested,” Alfred said, voice strained when Arthur bucked his hips into Alfred's, fingers working quickly on the buttons of his shirt.
Arthur pulled back and gave Alfred a slightly incredulous look. They both knew what he was, how old he was, and the history that implied. Alfred knew that there was no way Arthur had stayed a virgin for the hundreds of years that he'd been alive, and although Arthur was unsure of Alfred's age himself, the Englishman was sure that the same could be said for his lover.
“What?” Alfred asked, slightly petulant even with the smile on his face.
Arthur's look melted into one of tolerant amusement before his eyes narrowed in want. Despite the fact that he regularly told Alfred that his jealously was misplaced and ridiculous, a pleasant shiver would run up his spine whenever Alfred's possessive streak showed itself. It was a guilty pleasure he would never admit out loud to having, but he couldn't deny how it made his heart beat faster, made his eyes narrow with desire.
He finished the last button on Alfred's shirt and let his hands spread over the American's bare chest, fingers curving down his sides slowly before one slide across to finger Alfred's navel. His other rose to grip at the back of the American's neck, pulling him forward as Arthur dragged his mouth from cheek to lips.
“Trust me, luv,” Arthur said, voice low and rough. “He's got nothing on you.”
Arthur went that final short distance and brought their lips together, fingers burying themselves in Alfred's hair as he breathed in the scent of his lover. Alfred melted against him, opening up beneath Arthur as his hands came up to grip at the Englishman's hips. Arthur tilted his head, deepened the kiss as his hips began moving again, thrusting against Alfred as his free hand trailed up a bare chest and began pushing Alfred's shirt off his shoulder.
They broke the kiss and Arthur gasped for air, head tilting back as Alfred's mouth trailed down to his neck, tonguing that spot where he was bitten so long ago and sending a jolt of desire spiraling down his spine. Arthur's hand carded up through Alfred's hair, pulling briefly, roughly, at the top before he decided to put the hand to better use, dropping down to push Alfred's shirt the rest of the way off and tossing it to the side. “Alfred,” he groaned, hands sneaking between them to start working on the American's jeans.
Alfred took the hint and pulled back, licking his lips before his hands gripped at the hem of Arthur's shirt. Arthur was forced to abandon Alfred's zipper as his shirt was tugged up and over his head, arms raised to help, and once it was off Alfred's mouth was on him again, tonguing his clavicle and the dip in between. Arthur's hands went back to Alfred's jeans, tugging them down his hips and grinning outright when he discovered Alfred wasn't wearing anything underneath. The jeans fell to the ground, pooling around Alfred's ankles, and Arthur took Alfred's cock in hand, thumbed the slit before stroking down, listening to Alfred's breath hitch as his forehead thumped against Arthur's shoulder.
“How,” Alfred panted, letting out a small moan as his hands tightened on Arthur's hips. “How do you want me?”
Arthur smiled, ran his tongue along the shell of Alfred's ear. “Just as you are, luv,” he said, hands abandoning Alfred's cock to sweep around his hips, palms curving around Alfred's arse as he pulled the American toward him. “Now where do you keep the lube in this sty?”
Alfred grunted and Arthur watched as he pulled back and shifted his feet, toeing off his shoes so that he could kick off his jeans. Arthur undid his own jeans, stepping out of his shoes more gracefully than Alfred's shuffle before shedding both jeans and boxers, tossing them over a chair. He turned to find Alfred sittin on his desk, clutter pushed aside so that he could recline back, hand reaching down to fumble with one of the drawers on the other side.
“It's not a sty,” he argued, voice strained as he stretched in his search.
Arthur ignored the argument altogether, instead focusing on the American before him, torso stretched gorgeously across the desk, cock standing at attention between two powerful legs spread to keep his balance. It was one of the best things Arthur had seen in the past decade, and he almost wished he could pause time and savor the image for the next century or three. Almost.
Arthur gave in to temptation and moved, dragging a hand from the curve of Alfred's knee up his thigh, pausing momentarily to grind his palm into the base of Alfred's cock and watch as the American lost his focus and fumbled with whatever he was doing, eyes closing as his breath hissed out in a strained exhale. Then Arthur moved on, fingers tracing the dip of Alfred's navel and the line in between muscle that led all the way up his chest before dragging his fingers back down.
Alfred found what he was looking for and straightened, sitting up and presenting the bottle of lube with a flourish. “Ta-da!”
Arthur snatched it out Alfred's hands and opened it. He was attempting to squirt a small amount onto his fingers when Alfred decided he wanted to touch and went straight for Arthur's aching cock, dragging his fingers up its length and causing Arthur to jerk forward and squeeze nearly half the bottle of lube onto his hand. Alfred laughed and bent down to kiss Arthur on the mouth and when they parted, Arthur gave his lover an exasperated look.
“Really?” Arthur asked, letting most of it drip onto the floor. Alfred just shrugged, smile still bright as ever, and leaned back, letting his weight fall onto his hands as he spread his legs. Arthur let his lips quirk up and wrapped his clean hand around Alfred's calf, tugging him forward slightly as he stepped in between the American's thighs. Alfred bit his lip as Arthur's fingers stroked over his entrance, let his head drop back as Arthur pushed the first finger in.
“Ar-Arthur,” Alfred called, legs straining as Arthur added another finger, stretching him slowly and meticulously. “Oh god, Arthur.”
When Arthur thought he was stretched adequately, he opened the bottle again and coated his fingers, hand working up and down his own erection a couple of times as Alfred raised himself up and watched, breathing hard from being worked over by Arthur's fingers, eyes intent on Arthur as the vampire lined himself up with Alfred's entrance.
He paused for a moment, listening to their hearts race, Alfred's blood pumping through his veins in excitement, breath falling from his lips in hurried pants. He could hear the distant beat of the music from the pub, the voices of the patrons all mingled together in a cacophony of muted sound.
“Arthur,” Alfred called, impatience lacing his tone. “Please.”
Arthur refocused, eyes falling on his lover, laid out on the desk with want clear in his bright blue eyes, hair mussed from their earlier enthusiasm, arms shaking slightly from the effort of holding himself up. Arthur let out a long exhale and pushed forward, eyes closing as the pleasure of having Alfred's heat wrapped around him sent bolts of desire streaking through his limbs. He could hear Alfred's breathing quicken, hear his breath hitch as Arthur slid in to the hilt, the tip of his cock brushing up against that spot inside him that would make him see stars.
Arthur didn't waste any more time, bending over Alfred as he set a rhythm, mouth descending on Alfred's nipple as the American's head tilted back, his weight fell to his elbows. Arthur brought one hand down to grip at Alfred's thigh, steadying his lover as he thrust in with as much force as he could, aiming for that spot and knowing that he found it by the way Alfred arched up into him.
Arthur licked a trail up to Alfred's neck, mouth settling over his pulse as the American began to buck up into his thrusts, Arthur's name falling off his lips with every breath. Time slowed as Arthur felt his lover's pulse beat steadily, loudly, taking over everything in his head, pounding through his ears, sending his senses into overdrive as he focused on his partner's life force and how easy it would be to sink his fangs in and drain him.
But he didn't. Never had, with Alfred, and likely never would. The temptation was always there, as it was with everyone, but Arthur had learned to control his hunger, especially around Alfred, especially during their more heated moments. They'd talked about it before, and the fact that Alfred trusted him implicitly not to bite in the one moment where Alfred was at his most vulnerable, it made Arthur's heart swell in a way it hadn't in a long, long time. And he would keep that promise, whatever it took.
So Arthur let the feeling wash over him, falling away as he focused his senses on the way Alfred made him feel, the mewls of pleasure and the half stuttered call of his name as he brought his lover closer and closer to the edge. He dragged his mouth away from Alfred's pulse, instead laying kisses unevenly over Alfred's chest, breathing heavily as he felt the heat pooling between his legs begin to overflow, his limbs shaking with effort.
“Arthur-! Uhm! Ohgod, right there!” Alfred shouted, arms finally giving out as he fell back to the desk, hands pushing at Arthur's shoulders as he arched into the vampire's thrusts.
“Shit,” Arthur swore, his thrusts becoming erratic, frenzied even as he tried to keep his aim steady. “Oh fuck!”
“Arthur!” Alfred yelled, body stiffening as he hit his peak, his release splashing across his torso as his limbs quaked with strain.
Arthur gasped at the feel of Alfred tightening around him and rose up, hands settling on Alfred's thighs as tipped his head back. He thrust once, twice, and went still, vision going white as his release hit him like a train, mouth open as Alfred's name got caught in his throat. His blood pulsed loudly and when his vision came back, he slumped forward, catching himself on the desk as his tried to calm his breathing. Alfred was spread out across the desk, languid and sated, a smile on his face as he caught Arthur's eye.
“Mmm,” Alfred hummed, wiggling his hips slightly. Arthur scoffed, but couldn't keep the smile off his face as he ran his fingers through the spend coating Alfred's chest, bringing them to his mouth to taste.
“It's really fucking sexy when you do that,” Alfred told him, and Arthur did it again, just to see Alfred bite his lip.
Arthur pulled out slowly, straightened, and offered the American his hand, pulling his lover up so that he was sitting on the edge of the desk, slumped forward against the Englishman. His head rested on Arthur's shoulder and the Englishman pushed irritably at him. “You're too heavy for me to hold up, Alfred.”
“Mmm,” Alfred answered, a lazy smile in his words. “Then take me to the chair, babe.”
Arthur grunted, pulling the American off the desk and guiding him toward the chair. “Don't call me that,” he grumbled, pushing his lover into the wide, cushioned chair.
“You love it,” Alfred told him, opening his arms in an invitation for Arthur to join him. The vampire didn't argue, because they both knew the truth, and climbed into the American's lap, settling himself comfortably before closing his eyes, head resting on Alfred's shoulder.
Alfred's arms came up and around him, tugging him closer and drifting fingers over his side, and it was in moments like this, when Alfred was overly affectionate and cuddly, that brought about Arthur's curiosity. They'd been together for months, and Arthur still didn't know what Alfred was. He'd never asked, and Alfred had never told him, for whatever reason. Maybe Alfred thought it was obvious, maybe he thought it didn't matter.
He was a giant contradiction, is what he was. He acted as though he'd only been alive for the twenty odd years his appearance dictated he was; optimistic, oblivious, somewhat naïve, and with a joy for life itself that Arthur had never seen beyond ten year olds. But he wasn't human, Arthur knew that much at least. Humans had a distinct scent about them, and Alfred smelled completely different, unlike anything Arthur had ever encountered.
Other than that, though, Arthur was at a loss. If Arthur bit him, tasted his blood, he would know instantly, but that seemed like cheating. No, he would just have to figure it out himself or wait until Alfred decided to tell him.
“Watcha thinkin' about?” Alfred asked lazily.
The fact that Arthur, as old as he was, hadn't ever encountered something like Alfred, sometimes worried him. He didn't like not knowing, didn't like the unexpected, didn't like being kept in the dark, especially when it concerned Alfred. He was much too attached to the man to let anything come between them.
“Babe?” Alfred called, more insistently.
Arthur shook off his thoughts and leaned forward, pressed his lips to Alfred's neck for long moments. Whatever he was, Alfred was his, and Arthur would just have to trust that the American would warn him if anything happened, if things went downhill.
“I'm fine, Alfred,” he murmured, hand coming up to rest above Alfred's heart. “Just thinking about you.”
They were together, and Arthur would fight anything and everything to keep it that way.
.END.
Why does everything I write plummet into the gutter halfway through? It's like I'm incapable of writing porn-free special relationship. OTL
Notes:
-If you're wondering what Alfred is, too bad. I'm not telling. But there are a few clues in the fic itself.
-kasumicc, this is for you, haha.