Without Pity
Wretched. The thought came to mind when he finally crawled miserably from his bed, the pain in his neck sharp and aching almost deliciously. With the back of his hand, he wiped sweat from his brow, breathing hard. The pain came back to assault him once more, twisting inside his entire body like a great basilisk. It poisoned him.
Groaning, he stumbled into the bathroom, shutting the door and leaning wearily against it. What a wild night. He couldn't remember half of it. Except for maybe green eyes and a supple body and suddenly searing pain.
"M-mon dieu." Francis whispered, touching his neck. His fingers came away sticky with blood and he groaned again, feeling nauseous. He didn't want to move. He didn't want to think. He just wanted to lay there until he came to – who? What? Crawling towards the bathtub and running a hot shower, he wracked his brain desperately for anyone he might be waiting for.
He came up with nothing.
The hot water scalded the wound on his neck, taking the blood with it as it cascaded over his abused body. He stood under the spray of it, eyes drooping, legs quivering to hold him up. Had he gotten drugged last night? High, perhaps? Had he just drunk that much? The searing pain returned whenever he tried to remember anything past a smile that was too sharp or eyes that were too green.
He remembered tight heat and long thrusts and tiny screams and then the insanely immense pain at his throat, crippling him with just the memory.
The pain was like a wall that he was forced to relive every time he tried to breach his memories. And he had no desire to attempt and cross it again.
Bonelessly, Francis slid to the bathtub floor, closing his eyes against the endless pain.
He watched in silence. They looked alike. The hair. The eyes. The smile, the walk. But they were so dissimilar. This one. His smile was cracked, his soul was fractured, his mask was in splinters. He wasn't pure. And Arthur wasn't sure he minded. He crushed the voice that told him he was a traitor.
It had been five hundred years. He was allowed to move on.
Arthur watched his newest obsession collapse under the weight of the pain, the poison of death that his bite brought still syncing with his system. He toyed with the idea of turning the mortal into a complete slave, a tool to fuck and bite whenever he felt like. Not nearly as fun as the events of the night previous.
Not nearly as crushingly stimulating as having this one, this Francis above him, smiling and telling him with all his body and mind and soul that he was adored, even for the one night. He had wanted to feel that again for so long. And, this creature, this human, so easily offered it to him that he had to take it.
Had to make it all his.
Green. Engulfing green swallowed him and drew him in, misting tentacles through the web of his mind. He couldn't resist moving forward, gulping down his drink as pale lips twisted up into a smirk, canine teeth poking at his bottom lip. "You have amazing eyes, mon cher." Francis started easily, drawing close enough to smell him. He got a hum of acknowledgment in reply, but didn't really notice. Not with those eyes staring at him. "Kind of hypnotic..." he murmured.
The green drowned him, drowned out everything, even the searing twisting convulsing pain in his neck. He regained his composure after a long moment, and he smiled charmingly, an arm wrapping around the slim waist to pull him closer. The smile he got was sharp. Too sharp.
Francis nearly collapsed with the pain again, trying not to think, trying to ease it away, panting as he leaned against the counter, smiling at his newest conquest as though nothing were wrong. Then he looked into those green eyes, and the pain wasn't as heavy. Just a dull throb and ache to tease at his frayed nerves, licking at his flesh like a heatless flame. Swallowing everything.
"I want to go home with you tonight." His conquest purred, lips moved slowly against the other side of his neck, and he found arms around his shoulders. A slim body pressed against his, and he repressed any memories that may have surfaced with those words, with the easy touch. He didn't want the pain. Instead, he bent to kiss the soft lips.
He ignored the teeth, sharp, that clacked with his own.
"If I told you I had a fetish for blood, would you let me bite you?" The mortal froze, not quite in fear, looking up at Arthur from his place at his stomach, taking a moment to lay another gentle kiss above his navel before answering him.
"I serve only to pleasure my partners." he answered with his most charming smile. Arthur smirked, burying his disgust at the truthfulness of the statement. Not pure. Beautiful and so alike, but not pure. And somehow he adored it. He wanted to understand him, what made him different. He wanted to delve deeper into his mind and draw out all the black parts like poison until it lay on the surface, bare.
They rocked together, fitting perfectly, both sighing and moaning. Slim fingers gripped his hips, forcing him upward, stretching and filling and hitting things he had never experienced before. "C-come here." he whined softly, pulling the mortal in so that his tender flesh of his neck rested against his mouth. He could almost smell his own fangs on his skin. His obsession didn't still, breath hot on his ear, kept moving deeper and pulling him apart until his mind bent under the weight of his pleasure.
And suddenly, he bit down, felt blood gush into his mouth, sweet and rich and dark. Some escaped his lips, sliding down his chin. He swirled his tongue around the bite, listening to the groan of pleasure drenched pain. When the wound slowed in it's flowing, he bit again. The blood was so sweet and dark that he drowned in it, groaning softly at the taste. He was seasoned, like aged wine, rich in his taste, but most prominently, he was not pure. The dirt in his blood only seduced Arthur further.
He rode out the guttural screams, feeling the vibrations through his lips, bucking his hips to distract Francis from the pain. He was intoxicated by the taste and feel and sounds of his newest obsession, his newest mortal, his newest slave. After five hundred years, he deserved at least this kind of pleasure.
"That's quite a kick you have to your kiss, petit lapin." Francis mumbled, drawing away, a trail of glistening blood sliding down his pale neck. Arthur left it be. It made him look beautiful. His pallor was obvious. Even his lips lost their soft pink color, while Arthur gained it, his lips a more enticing red, his eyes a more enchanting green.
"Are you satisfied for the night?" Arthur mulled the question over. Was he hungry? No, that was the best meal he'd had in ages. Was he satisfied...?
"Not for you." Arthur whispered, pushing Francis down so that he was on top, appreciating a body that was so close to being the original, so alike, but didn't shine with the same light. "Not satisfied for you at all."
Torturous. Francis couldn't move. Not for the bite marks that littered the insides of his thighs, still sticky and dripping from his enthusiastic lover's fetish. The poison of the basilisk still writhed inside him, and he curled in on himself to hold it in, biting his lip to stifle his sounds of pain.
"You okay?" Arthur whispered against his ear, hand resting on his shoulder. Francis nodded weakly and turned, catching the soft red lips with his own to kiss, urging his mouth open to distract himself from the pain. He tasted a cool, unnatural flavor, old and sweet. Chilled fingers traced around the bites on his thighs, soothing, while the basilisk stopped writhing.
"Again." he mumbled, pushing Arthur back, rutting against him to forget. Anything to dull the pain. Anything to sap the pain from his body, let it leech into the air while he drank in everything about Arthur. If he had to go again and again and again to forget, then he would, even as the same pain paralyzed him.
The snake inside him twisted, coiling in his chest and wrapping around his body, a poison, changing him from the inside out.
He watched Francis sleep with mild fascination, petting his hair. He had taken too much blood from him, a mistake he'd made for the second time yet didn't regret at all. He slept on and off, waking up to scream weakly, violated with nightmares. The only bit of sun in the room was across the wall, and Arthur was thankful for the heavy velvet drapes. He wanted to stay. He wanted to contemplate his slave's utter lack of purity, yet how he remained so white.
In truth, he had seen Francis weeks ago, body moving slow and easy to the club music, eyes searching for prey. They looked so alike that Arthur had hoped in some naive part of his mind that they would be alike too, that perhaps he had been reborn. Despite his looks, Francis was nothing like him. Francis was broken.
But that only whetted his appetite for something, anything to distract him from his grief. Something like Francis that gave and expected nothing back. Something like Francis... but he didn't know what exactly Francis was. Sometimes, he sickened him with his infidelity. Other times, he pulled him in with the desire he exuded.
Whatever he was, he wasn't human.
It wasn't until a few nights ago that he had made a move, growled at him lowly. And Francis had adored him for the challenge, for his testiness, wanted someone who would kick and break him even more than he wanted love.
The first taste. The first taste of his blood had been like the ultimate high. So invigorating that he had drunk until Francis had been on the cusp between the change zone and hope for survival. He wanted to drink him dry, wanted and wanted and wanted. Yet somehow the image of him gasping desperately though the pain, the unimaginable pain, clinging to life, had left Arthur speechless.
So Arthur had left him in his bed with no memories, the taste still thick on his tongue, teasing him. Why break one toy to gain another when you could just keep the toy in good condition forever?
That day after the first taste, Arthur decided Francis would be his.
"Holy shit. The fuck happened to you, man?" Gilbert exclaimed. Francis smiled at both Antonio and Gilbert who eyed him with worry, their eyes boring into him. He moved towards the refreshments table at the corner of the break room, placing a cookie on a napkin and pouring himself some coffee, stirring in three spoonfuls of sugar mechanically.
Antonio drew closer to survey the damage, and Francis tried to beat back the pain, tried to hold himself steady and easily, fingers gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. It would be hard to fool him if he was shaking like a leaf. And fooling Antonio was a difficult thing to do. "What happened here, mi querido?" Francis leaned against the table, sipping his coffee to avoid answering.
Their eyes were too expectant.
"I got a new lover." Another sip. Look at them. They could pick out lies. "He bites."
Gilbert groaned. "Franny, that's not a love bite! It looks like you got mauled by a tiger!" Francis laughed gently, exasperating him further.
Antonio watched him carefully, green eyes narrowed. "Watch yourself, mi querido." he murmured softly. Francis just smiled, before Antonio flashed him a goofy grin of his own. Gilbert gave him a sharp look that meant much the same thing, before they both left Francis to his coffee.
He stared into it, watching his reflection on the black rippling depths. Then, with a sneer, he threw it away. It tasted like sand.
Within the depths of his coffin, a large thing, enough for two people, he contemplated his newest obsession. He imagined bringing Francis to the very same coffin, making love to him on the floor, drinking his dirty blood and savoring it's rich taste. He used to do that with the original, sleep until dusk wrapped in his arms, make love to him all night with out ever having to leave the comfort of the old wooden coffin.
Arthur shifted, pulling the silk sheets around his bare body, smelling musk and earth. He remembered that first taste. A taste that satisfied his thirst yet left him aching so painfully for more. It made his fangs throb.
Francis had beckoned him closer, slim fingers wrapped around a glass, smile sharp and almost lethal. And when Arthur laid the bait, Francis had bitten, kissing hard and fast and passionately, his very eyes screaming out adoration and need. Not the same need. Not the same eyes. Only in color and appearance were they alike. He wasn't pure.
Francis wasn't anything close to human.
They crashed into the mortal's apartment sometime later, fingernails scraping against skin, lips pressing against pulses. He screamed to have Francis inside him, pushing hard, leaving bruises on his hips. The scent of him was intoxicating and when the urge to bite welled up, he hadn't resisted.
He bit, and reveled in the initial scream of pleasure, and the secondary groans of pain, blood flooding his mouth and almost too much for him to gulp down all at once. But he did, pushing Francis down into the sheets, holding his neck closer, feeling slim fingers clench on his shoulders. His blue eyes closed, and he panted hard, heart thudding and pushing the blood into his mouth like an offering.
His whole body shook in agonizing ecstasy.
Arthur ran the memory over and over again behind his eyes, tasting it in his mouth almost as clearly as he still tasted his new lover. He decided then, in the dark of his coffin, that Francis wouldn't just be his.
He would be his forever.
Incessant. The work day tore him, broke him and kept breaking him, leaving shattered pieces that he struggled to gather. The pain pounded his entire body, flaming at his neck, his inner thighs, creeping up with a throbbing headache. The basilisk inside writhed and gnawed on his soul, until he had to put his head down on his desk and close his eyes. The pain he'd battled all day to ignore came back in full force, and he thought of Arthur's eyes and calmed.
Arthur's large enchanting green eyes, swallowing everything.
"Franny, wake up. It's not like you to fall asleep." Blue eyes cracked open, staring into scarlet but not seeing or comprehending. The pain receded like a toothache, constant. A cool palm pressed against his forehead and he sighed at the soothing temperature. "You have a fever. I'm sending you home, and you're not arguing with me.
He didn't register anything after that until he was being awoken by knocks at his door and a soft "hullo? Francis, your door was open." A voice so rough and warm and soothing that he wanted to seep into it, cool like fresh dirt and warm like the sun of autumn. He smiled into his pillow and strained his body to turn, breaths coming short and quick.
"In here, Petit lapin." he called, his voice a raspy purr. The sheets were cool, damp with sweat, and he could still vaguely smell Arthur's scent on the other pillow, heather blossoms and decaying leaves in an old forest.
Arthur entered silently, supple body leaning against the bedroom doorframe. He hung there for a moment, his gaze raking over Francis's form. Francis arranged his body to be aesthetically appetizing, eyes inviting. He earned a sharp smirk, long canines poking at lips he knew were delicious. He didn't want to think. He just wanted. He crooked a slim finger at Arthur and welcomed his weight on top of him, the lips on his.
"I missed you at the club this evening." Arthur moaned in between kisses, shirts already being tossed off, teeth clacking when they met, nipping at lips and throats. Francis smiled, fingers tracing Arthur's chilled skin, kissing his shoulders down to his slow beating heart.
"I was sent home by a colleague and only just woke up." He twisted them over, took a moment to enjoy the lustful pale expression Arthur showed him, kissing him deep and tasting peppermint. Pants followed shirts to the floor, scratching and kissing and licking exposed flesh.
This was the only thing he wanted.
"You look delicious." he murmured, gazing into tempest blue eyes and squeezing his eyes shut at the first waves of pleasure, body rocking with the one inside his. Francis didn't reply, panting against his shoulder, kissing wherever he could reach, praising his whole body.
He twisted his fingers in blonde hair, blinded under the weight of ecstasy, moving on instinct alone and feeling more than hearing their cries mingle. The urge to bite washed over him, and he didn't deny it, whining and smiling softly when Francis obediently pressed his neck to his mouth. A creature made only for the enjoyment of others. His lack of humanity was endearing.
The scent of his poison was strong, and his fangs throbbed in answer, ready to tear into flesh he'd grown addicted to in more ways than one. The urge to bite, taste his impure, seasoned blood was so strong that his fingers clenched on his mortal's shoulders, claws that he didn't know he'd unsheathed digging into pale flesh. He bit, nearly came at the feeling alone.
But the taste. The taste was a cruel kind of heaven.
Francis writhed in rapture diluted agony, muscles tensed and voice rough. He pushed him back, biting and drinking until he'd had his fill, leaving Francis just as pale as ever, the poison of death coursing through his body. He looked beautiful, his eyes fogged over, the near orgasmic feeling of death meandering across his skin, but not quite close enough.
He surfaced from a lake of enlightenment, the taste of dirty blood so sharp and precise, the image burned into his mind so breathtaking, he couldn't think. So he didn't. He rolled over, pulled Francis to him, and made them go again and again and again.
Excruciating. The pain mingled with the desire, the need and the basilisk twisted and churned inside of him, calmed only when he pressed his lips to Arthur's, tasting his old, sweet flavor. Rough fingers carded through his hair, traced around the bite mark on his neck.
"I want to paint that face you make." Arthur whispered lowly against his ear, nipping the lobe. Francis turned to him with a smile and a sultry glance, catching Arthur in another kiss, drawing circles on the sensitive skin at the small of his back.
"What face?" His query was just as low, matching the air of secrecy between them. He rubbed his fingers over Arthur's chest, and felt hands clench on his shoulders, heard a soft whimper.
"That face you make when I bite into you. The way you gasp, the way your lips part and your eyes close. Like you've hit nirvana." Arthur smirked, canine teeth glinting, eyes like liquid emeralds in the dim light, flashing like a cat's. "I want to keep it as my own. It makes me feel high."
They kissed slowly then, fire and heat smoldering beneath skin that itched to rub together. They created sweet friction, gasping softly, exploring and discovering and driving each other mad. Mouths met, nails scraped, tongues tangled. They didn't think, went slow and memorized each detail to hold forever.
There was a sort of enthrallment. Something that drew him in yet repulsed him. Something about the way Arthur looked like him like he was a meal, but the same expression was filled with pain. He was sure that he repulsed and enthralled Arthur in the same way.
"If I could take your life, and give it back, would you let me?" As on other occasions, his mortal froze, mulled the question over, and laid reverent kisses all over him while he thought, blue eyes dark with the contemplation.
"I'm afraid I don't understand you, Petit Lapin." he said simply, eyes curious. Their lips met in a gentle kiss, the air electric between them, fingers teasing lightly. He pulled away to stare into the swirling blue of his eyes, knew that it was today, tonight, or never.
He had to have what Francis so easily offered.
"Put some clothes on. I'll show you." Francis rolled out of bed, pulling on his pants and followed him out onto the balcony, the bite mark stark in the moonlight against his pale skin. He still moved slowly, and every bite had put him in more agony. Now would be the last time. He would have Francis forever.
"I don't understand, Petit Lapin." Francis said gently, leaning easily against the railing as Arthur lay sweet kisses on the tender flesh of his neck.
"If I could change you. So that you weren't what you are. Would you let me?" Francis watched him carefully as he drew away, tempted to reach for him and pull him closer. He stepped out onto the railing. Eyes open and watching all of Paris below him. Francis's jaw clenched, and he could hear his heart speed up, the sound thudding in the air.
"You're scaring me." Francis said so softly he didn't sound scared at all. His voice was gentle, pained, patient. He grasped Arthur's fingers lightly, trying to pull him back. Arthur stared hard into his eyes, saw adoration, and knew selfishly that he wanted it to be all his, forever. For as long as their immortal years would grant them, until the sun stripped the flesh from their bones and reduced them to ash.
He stepped off the ledge, ignoring Francis's scream of terror, and floated. A heart beat of silence drifted between them, and Francis let out a bark of laughter, eyes wide and disbelieving. He didn't recoil, didn't cringe in fear, just watched Arthur float above Paris.
"If I could make you mine, and mine only, for as long as this planet keeps turning, would you let me?" Tempest eyes drugged him, and he realized that he hadn't felt this for the original. He had loved him to be sure, like a man loves a dog or a child loves a doll. But he'd never before felt anything so destructive, and knew only that he wanted it.
After all, Francis wasn't very much human at all.
He pulled Francis into his arms, heard his mortal, his everything, let out a hiss of breath, the last he would take. He bit. Savored the darkness that flooded into his mouth, rich and dirty and sweet, and cradled Francis closer, drinking until Francis was ridged, eyes unseeing.
"If I could take away everything you've ever known, and give you a whole new world, would you let me?" Pale lips quirked into a smile, and his hand, cold and bloodless found his cheek. There was only one answer he wanted to hear. Only one thing, and he could put the past five hundred years of grieving behind him. They looked alike, but they were so dissimilar. Francis was cracked, and he wanted all of eternity to fix him.
"Yes."
He slit his wrist, letting the blood drain into Francis's mouth while he swallowed, lips wrapped around the cut and throat working. A drop escaped, running down his chin to his neck, and Arthur left it be. It made him look beautiful. Francis sighed when he pulled his wrist away, the final ecstasy of death, rebirth, un-life claiming him. He choked for a moment on air that he didn't need, eyes sliding shut as his body died.
The night wind blew as it always had, life in Paris carried on as it always had. The lights below the balcony glittered, and the Eiffel Tower was lit up on display. He wanted everything Francis had to offer. He wanted to show him Paris above the lights without the safety of a plane. He laughed to himself and held Francis closer, staring into nothing.
Francis wasn't pure. But he was white.
When Francis opened his wild eyes, brighter, more seducing, more wondrous than he had ever seen them, Arthur knew then that he was not Francis's god. It was much the other way around.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
pale warriors, death pale were they all;
They cried – 'La Belle Dame sans merci
hath thee in thrall!'
— La Belle Dame sans Merci, John Keats
Owari