AN: Beep boop, another vampire AU. Who could have foreseen this?
All jokes aside, I just really wanted to write more content for England/Francis. I love anything resembling sensuality between them, and this one-shot is chock full of it. So without further ado, please enjoy! I appreciate any comments left on this, and will be happy to respond to them!
He's heard the stories, of course, of the beautiful young men and women who had been careless enough to go out into the night, only to never return before the next dawn. It wouldn't be long afterwards when their bodies would be found, strewn sometimes beautifully upon the cobbled ground, peaceful looking even in death, and pale as the horseman himself.
That's why it was unwise to travel during the night. Best to keep your chores for the next sunrise, but some were simply foolish, believing themselves to be above such a fate. But fate had cruel ways of reminding them that they were not untouchable, that sharp teeth had business inside their necks as well.
What curious deaths, he thinks, standing near the group of crowding people, all of which were trying to feast their eyes upon the newest corpse littering the street. A woman, her scarf torn away, her neck barring a messy and blood-drenched bite; her face does not match the grisly scene, for her features are lax, almost even pleasant against the striking white of her lifeless skin.
Her hands are arranged in an array around her head, as if she were posing for a master of the arts, putting on display her beauty and finesse. It's dreadfully artistic and grim, and Arthur has to turn away lest he find himself appreciating the ghastly beauty of the scene any further.
The weather is dreadful, and the wind is harsh with the tang of water. He can feel the storm physically brewing, the clouds amassing into a single dark blanket, turning the afternoon into an early evening. He allows his booted feet to carry him elsewhere, heart thudding hard in his chest from witnessing the scene on the street, adrenaline telling him that if he's not careful, he'll be next. That's the newest craze, the very real and spreading paranoia that is gripping the city mercilessly.
As soon as the sun begins to set, the windows go closed, the curtains are drawn tight, and the sounds of locking doors can be heard through the wooden walls. Those who are religious pray to their gods for divine protection, hoping that whatever plagued the streets at night wouldn't find purchase inside their homes. Those who were unfortunate enough to be caught outside either succumb to their fear, or delude themselves into thinking the threat doesn't exist.
What was that saying about fate again?
The air is chilly and biting, the season edging closer to the Winter Solstice. Arthur pulls his dark green cloak closer to his body, cursing the leather curais he wore for not retaining any heat. He'd rather take snow than the awful drenching downpour of a storm, but this particular region seems to have an affinity for squalls more than it did snow.
There is one way to heat himself up, and as soon as the thought enters his mind, his feet are carrying him away. As he meanders along, he passes by the rushing squad of city officials, no doubt going to investigate the newest murder. Arthur nearly rolls his eyes at the futility of it all. Rarely ever did the attackers - monsters? creatures? - face any sort of retribution. The things that preyed upon the youth of this grand city left nary a hair or fiber behind when killing, seeming more like ghosts or concepts than real, physical beings. It baffled the authorities and the public alike, further instilling fear in the masses that not even their deaths would be avenged.
Arthur tries not to think much harder on it. The more he does, the more he can feel that creeping paranoia sinking into his bones, and the feeling is beginning to make him feel somewhat sick.
Just as the rain begins to arrive and drench everything beneath the gathered clouds, he steps beneath the offered shelter branching off from a lively tavern. A roof extends outwards, shielding him from the cold, biting chill of the storm, and Arthur takes a moment to watch the growing downpour, finding a strange sort of solace in the sound of the falling rain.
He's quick to shake himself out of his reverie, stepping with casual grace into the tavern. The heat from the hearth inside hits his face immediately, and the smells of cooking venison, potatoes and cream, and broth assault his nose. Along with those alluring scents is the tang of alcohol both on the air and the breath of the patrons. Arthur immediately feels the tension melt from his body, feeling more protected here in the masses than he did before.
The bar is a short stride away, and he saunters up to the barkeep with a polite sort of confidence, sitting prim and proper at one of the seats while the keep polishes off another glass mug. Arthur holds his hand aloft, calling for their attention, "Excuse me. What's your recommendation?" He motions towards the empty mug, clarifying his interest.
"We've got some Firebrand to ward the cold off. They say it keeps you warm on a chilly night. Helps you sleep, too. Interested?"
"Pour me one, then." Arthur answers, and the keep is only too happy to fill him up a generous glass worth of the wine.
It's a strange color, red with a golden sheen to it that dyes it almost orange in the light. It smells of spice, makes Arthur's mouth water as it hits his tongue, and indeed, the burn he feels in his throat and stomach is not unpleasant, but rather comforting. The chill that had seeped into his clothing before seems to fade as the alcohol spreads through his veins.
It's not long before he's down to half a glass. The effects are already being felt, the room seeming to warm a few degrees, the colors and light blooming, making Arthur's vision go soft. He taps his glass, gaining the attention of the barkeep again. "S'this s'posed to be strong?"
The barkeep laughs, setting down their most recent polished glass in favor of gazing amusedly at Arthur. "It's Firebrand. There's a reason why it burns, you know."
"Of course," Arthur says slowly, debating whether or not it would be wise to continue drinking. As if to answer the question in his stead, he sees a bright flash of lightning outside, before the deafening crash of thunder soon followed. He nearly jumps in his seat, shaking his head as if to spell his annoyance, before chancing another sip of the Firebrand. "I'm in no rush, so it's not important."
"I wouldn't be either. Weather is going to get quite nasty tonight." The barkeep turns to the shelves lining the wall behind them, candlelight casting dancing reflections across the glasses mounted there. Arthur is briefly transfixed by the abrupt beauty of it.
So he stays, and he drinks, and he and the barkeep chat on and on about mostly nothing and everything. His glass gets emptier, and he knows he shouldn't ask for another, but he's a chatty drinker, and he loves the way the Firebrand makes him feel when he talks. Soon, he's trying to get up from his seat, and finding that his balance is nowhere near what it used to be.
It's strange, because he knows he's drunk, he feels the inebriation, but he still feels sharp enough to be coherent. It's a rather unusual situation, but Arthur doesn't mind it much at all.
That is, until he notices that the tavern has gone mostly empty, and that the barkeep is now putting away all of his items. Arthur glances around himself fuzzily, turning to pose a question towards the keep. "What's going on?"
"Oh, it's closing. I guess I should have mentioned, but I just wasn't thinking."
That presents a glaring problem, one that Arthur desperately hopes the next question will solve. "Are there any rooms for rent?"
"Sorry, no rooms here. We've got the kitchen and latrines, but that's it."
"No, no, wait-" Arthur begins, feeling the beginnings of apprehension starting to coil inside of him. "I can't go out there. Hell, I can barely stand for what it's worth. You have to let me stay-"
"Listen, I'm really sorry, but there's nowhere for you to stay here. I can't just let a stranger stay inside my business all night." The barkeep does extend to Arthur a pitying look, though it does nothing to help quell the fear building inside the blond. "Look, I doubt anything will happen. You're what, one person out of a couple thousand? Just try to go as quickly as you can. Don't stop to dilly dally around."
'But of course it will happen to me,' Arthur grouses internally. He has this sinking feeling inside of him that fate was not going to be so kind tonight. Call it intuition or whatever you wish, but something felt ill… off. He really, really did not want to go outside. However, the stern look now painting the face of the barkeep tells him everything he needs to know. With a sigh that struggles not to tremble, he lifts himself up and away from the bar, grabbing his cloak which laid draped over the back of his seat. Arthur swings it around his figure, trying not to stumble as he does so, and only manages to bump his shin once. It's better than he imagined.
He'll just run home. Run as fast as his wobbling legs and blurry eyes can take him. He'll arrive back at his home, do his nightly ritual of locking the place up, and then lie in bed and freak out about how stupid he was to let time get away from him that badly. Because that's what this all boils down to basically, is just irresponsibility and lack of management. He drank a little too much, and now he was paying for it.
Best to get it over with instead of standing there and silently dreading what he was about to do.
"Sorry," The barkeep offers once more, and Arthur has the distinct urge to tell him to shove it up his ass.
He tentatively opens the door, the bell ringing from the handle nearly making him jump. The night is cool and quiet, the storm having passed shortly before, the only sounds polluting the streets being the occasional hum of distant music. The air feels damp and slicing when the wind blows, and Arthur gathers his cloak as best as he can around his alcohol fevered body. He dreads to think of how he'd feel without the Firebrand warming him from the inside out.
There's no time to sit and think, however. He knows he needs to hurry home, hurry before something appears and turns his fears into a reality.
He begins running, and it's already incredibly difficult. The cobbled road sways in sickening ways, and his feet try to tangle with each other multiple times. Once, he nearly crashes into a lamp post, having to steady his weight against the body of it before continuing on. Arthur tries his best to stay out of the obvious open, sticking to alcoves and shadows in an attempt to hide himself. His heart beats furiously inside his chest, fear coursing wildly through his veins as his eyes flit about.
The night remained quiet, but the quiet served to unnerve him further. Noises alerted you to potential danger. Silence was the deadly blanket that lead to murder. Arthur was not keen on experiencing the latter.
Finally, he made it to the halfway point, the Rosewater Garden Park being the only thing that separated him from his home. The pebbled ground shone illuminescent beneath the cover of rain, distinct garden lamps shaped like various flowers lighting the way. Carefully trimmed hedges caged Arthur in the deeper he went, enclosing him in the simple little maze - if it could even be called that, it was quite straightforward. But still, the added cover did manage to soothe his nerves for a few minutes, making him feel protected.
And the greenery was beautiful, especially at night; a time where the garden's beauty could no longer be properly appreciated. Arthur allowed his emerald eyes to trail the lines of thorns leading to the roses dotting the hedges. The night sky was particularly clear tonight, stars shining a deep blue and bright white. Despite the chill from the remaining winds, for a moment, Arthur allowed himself to get lost in the allure of it all, standing in the middle of the hedge maze and staring up towards the darkened heavens for several minutes.
He had just noticed the chill biting at his nose, and was preparing to leave when a noise startled him into stillness. "It's pretty, is is not?"
In an instant, he's turning towards the source of the sound, heart nearly leaping from his chest once he notices the silhouette of someone standing near the corner of the hedges. Their body is bathed in shadows, but their voice stands out - soft yet masculine, lilting even. Maybe even melodic. Arthur finds it hard to believe that someone could possess such a beautiful voice. And the accent… so familiar, so peculiar. The way their words seemed to melt into each other, rolling off of this stranger's tongue like sweet honey, made his heart clench.
"I do so love Rosewater Garden at night. A shame I do not often get to enjoy it with others."
From that darkened corner in the garden emerges a striking blond figure. Arthur's voice catches in his throat once he takes in the sight of him, cheeks warming with attraction as the stranger's beauty washed over him. Cornsilk blonde hair is pulled into a loose tie, resting prim and neatly over his shoulder. Deep violet-blue eyes regard him with something akin to desire, though Arthur can sense something sinister about it. A dusting of fair facial hair lined the curve of their jaw, but it too was trimmed neat.
He too wore a cloak, though the inlaid gems and swirling silver designs detailing its edges spoke a different story. A white button up is covered by a silver and blue vest dotted with floral designs, and dark trousers ran the length of their legs, before tucking themselves neatly into his heeled boots.
Silence reigns supreme between them, Arthur feeling too stunned to say much of anything, his eyes transfixed by the otherworldly beauty of the man before him. He knows he shouldn't gawk the way he is doing, but it's hard to tear his gaze away, feeling strangely drawn to stare at the gorgeous stranger, as if transfixed or commanded to.
Maybe it was the Firebrand making him act silly, erasing all of his manners and etiquette in lieu of ogling this poor man. But Arthur can't bring himself to be ashamed, not when he's never laid eyes on someone so beautiful in his entire life.
"Ah, do you enjoy what you see?" The stranger asks coyly, and Arthur can physically feel his throat go dry.
He tries once to clear it, feeling terribly awkward for having been caught staring. "My apologies. I just stopped for some fresh air. I'm actually heading home, and I should probably go. Again, sorry for-"
"Heading home?" Arthur nearly jumps out of his skin when the voice - which had been at least ten feet away before - now sang close to his ear. The man's suddenly close presence makes his skin prickle with gooseflesh, adrenaline pumping hotly alongside the wine in his body. Arthur tries to turn, is met with the ethereally beautiful features of the man's face, those violet-blue eyes gazing softly and almost… hungrily at him.
…Oh no.
No, no, no, no, no, no.
Arthur suddenly feels faint, feels as if his legs could fold beneath him. Of course, of course it had to happen to him, of course he couldn't just make it back to his bed safely.
Because one second, they were separate, and within a blink, this man had crossed the garden and pressed right up into Arthur's personal space. And now that Arthur can actually see him quite well, he's noticing a few unnerving things about him.
For example, his skin is so fair and pale that he can see the lines of bluish-violet veins running beneath it. He may be severely tipsy at the moment, but even Arthur knows that people don't normally look like that. He's thrown into even more internal turmoil when the man's lips spread into a knowing smile of its own, teeth stark white and canines looking just a little bit too long and too sharp.
He also notices that this man smells wonderfully good; floral and fresh and inviting. Arthur wants to press up against him and inhale his sweet, alluring scent, his mouth nearly watering at the appeal of it.
He must be doing a hideously poor job at hiding these impulsive wants, because the next thing he knows, his face is being cradled gently between the man's hands, his elongated nails carefully avoiding Arthur's fevered skin. "Oh darling, you should see yourself. The wine was a little too tempting, hm? I understand."
"N-No, I- I mean yes, I was stupid for that, but-" Arthur has no idea why he's even answering, why he's not trying to squirm away and run for his life. But honestly, he feels like he'd rather be here than anywhere else. Even in the biting cold, there was something about this man that demanded his attention, roused the desire inside of him, and left him wanting to surrender himself to this creature.
"I see recognition. You know what I am, don't you? Yet, you do not run. Are you that inebriated, or do I simply appeal to you that much?" One finger traces down the length of Arthur's cheek, soft and gentle and playful. It circles the outline of his lips, before moving to the curve of Arthur's jaw. Slowly, centimeter by centimeter, he leans further into Arthur's space, the coolness of his body being felt even through the barrier of his clothing.
Arthur swallows thickly, tries to ignore the way his pulse jumps at the trailing touch. His bright green eyes are drawn into those violet-blue hues, their depths hypnotizing and calming. Right now, he wants nothing more than to fall into this man's arms and let him do with him what he pleases.
"A little bit of both," He manages to whisper out.
"How foolish of you," The man whispers, his voice like silk to Arthur's ears. He leans closer, the length of his nose brushing briefly against Arthur's cheek, his voice finding purchase next to Arthur's ear. It's rich and soft, full of unsainted want, and it makes desire curl hotly inside of Arthur. "Walking all alone at night. So foolish. Someone might make you their dinner."
He feels the first brush of lips against his skin, terribly loving and inviting, cold and smooth. A facade for the sharp teeth that lie behind his lips. Arthur knows he should be frightened, which he is to a certain degree, but that fear is being overtaken by a lightheaded dizziness that he can't quite explain. Perhaps it was the Firebrand muddling his senses, making him more susceptible to bad decisions. He can still feel the heat of the wine coursing through his veins, his body hot in the midst of the cold, early winter.
This stranger seems to feel it too, his hands coming to cup Arthur's face, his voice a soft murmur next to his ear. "So warm," comes the low purr, those lips touching upon the curve of Arthur's jawline.
He should be yanking himself away, he should be screaming for help, he should be doing anything but sitting there helpless and allowing this to continue. Each second is a fight for his life, but there's no fight to be had - Arthur is drawn to this man like a moth to a flame, knowing that the embers will burn his wings, but unable to separate himself from him.
"You aren't-" He swallows thickly, knows he needs to push the words out before something terrible happens. "Please, don't." It's half-hearted and it shows with the tone of his voice. It's barely a protest, and the way Arthur's hands grasp at his stalker's arms seems to root the man in place more than convey that Arthur wants him to leave.
"You don't mean that," the pale blond draws back, fixes Arthur with a glittering gaze that has the warmer of the two almost sighing out his admiration. There's something so hypnotic about those azure eyes, that deep blue bordering on the faintest of violet. He feels like he could get lost in that stare forever, feels the desire to drop to his knees and profess his undying loyalty in an attempt to win this creature's favor.
So he nods dumbly instead, confirming the man's doubts, green eyes closing as it became harder and harder to stay steady on his feet. The alcohol must really be hitting him now, because he feels like his balance is slowly slipping, his legs losing strength the longer he stands there in the stranger's cold embrace.
Arms wrap their way around Arthur's midsection, steadying him, and a plethora of pleasant sensations wash over him. Such a crisp, mouth-watering perfume; skin so fair and cool that it serves as a balm to Arthur's own fevered skin; a presence so addicting that he wonders how anyone can interact with this man and not fall straight into his arms. He's breathtakingly gorgeous, a dangerous rose in an otherwise harmless garden, and Arthur finds himself not minding the potential pinpricks that may follow from touching him.
Those same cool hands slip under his cloak, slide across the thin leather of his curais. Arthur feels himself being pulled in, and he does not resist, does nothing to try and escape the prison he's being drawn into. His mind is terribly muddled, his body hot with Firebrand and desire.
"Mm, so sweet." comes the next caress of a whisper, the tone heavily saturated with less than pure intentions. Arthur tries not to whimper, tries not to shudder as a line of white hot desire courses through him. An arm disentangles itself from his waist, rises to smooth into his dull blond hair soothingly. Arthur leans into it, almost nuzzles himself against that delicate hand, silently begging for more. "Lucky me, finding you all alone before anyone else could. Lucky me, indeed."
"Were you-" Arthur pauses, trying to find his slurred voice amongst the squall of emotions swirling inside of him. "Were you tracking me?"
There comes a sharp smile from the man, canines a double-fanged display of his inhumane nature. His fingers skitter down, touch and trace the curve of Arthur's face as he regards him like a starving man eyeing a full course meal. "Yes, I was. I saw you leave the tavern, and when the wind carried the scent of you to me, I could not resist." He laughs, tinkling and gentle, as if there was nothing wrong with that statement at all. "All that wine, infused in your blood - how could I ignore something so wonderfully sweet?"
As if it wasn't already apparent enough that drinking had been a mistake, Arthur feels even more jaded at the revelation that it'd aided in this creature stalking him. It's becoming more and more obvious what's in store for him, and while his body fights between fleeing and melting into this man's arms, there's no denying the fear that is slowly beginning to strengthen inside of his heart.
He's going to die, probably. He'll end up like the rest of the bodies strewn across the street, found in the early hours of dawn as officials swept through the alleyways and crevices, looking for new victims. He'd be another face and name on an ever growing list of people, a story to safeguard others and deter them from traveling the streets at dusk.
Oh, how he wished he'd just gone home before the evening arrived!
A creeping wave of resignation washes over him, rendering him strangely content, as if there was no use in fighting what lay before him. Or maybe it was the alcohol again, watering down the severity of the situation in his mind - like he'd wake up perfectly fine tomorrow, and continue on with his life. He knows it's not in the books for him, however. His fate was sealed.
He at least wants to know one thing. "What's your name?" He whispers, his voice sounding foreign to himself.
"Oh?" Sharp, porcelain nails trail down the side of his neck, feeling the wildly beating pulse point there. "You may call me Francis." Francis pauses, presses the pad of his thumb into the pulse of Arthur's neck, his sharp teeth biting down wantonly into his bottom lip, as if he could barely restrain himself. "And you, dear? I think it's only fair you give me your name, since I gave you mine."
'As if it really matters,' Arthur thinks to himself, but there's really no harm in giving his name to this grimly beautiful creature, is there? At least he might be a memorable meal for him. "It's Arthur."
"Oh, Arthur?" Francis leans forward again, his cold breath fragrant and pleasant against Arthur's dry lips. "Lovely, lovely. Arthur - what a pleasant name." Arthur goes stock still, can't even force a single muscle to move when the tip of Francis' nose brushes against his own. "Don't be afraid, Arthur. I promise, this won't hurt a bit."
"Please, don't- don't make it hurt," Arthur whispers weakly, fingers grasping at the intricate cloak framing Francis' body. Now the fear is really beginning to settle in, despite his alcoholic stupor, despite the charm this man commands over him. The idea that he wouldn't be alive much longer sets his heart hammering away, a detail which Francis seems to pick up on immediately.
"Oh dear, no. Don't be scared. It will all be alright." Francis hushes him sweetly, mouth trailing to the corner of Arthur's lips, his own brushing across Arthur's skin as if they were longtime lovers. Arthur tries his best not to chase it, tries not to lean forward and press his warm mouth against Francis' cool lips. "I'm going to take good care of you. Just as you will take care of me."
Arthur says nothing, has nothing good to say in the face of absolution. Instead, he nods very subtly, his head turning just the barest breadth towards Francis. Francis anticipates this, lets his mouth press softly against Arthur's as he steals a kiss from him. His lips part, his sharp teeth grazing across Arthur's lips, before sinking down gently into his bottom one, breaking the skin just enough to let a droplet of blood well to the surface.
Arthur tries not to gasp, does not allow himself to pull away as Francis closes his mouth over his bottom lip, sucks that thick droplet onto his tongue, and moans unashamedly at the flavor. He tries not to feel chagrin at the fact that he's terribly aroused now, despite facing down death. It's the alcohol, he tells himself; alcohol and adrenaline combining together to chase away any semblance of logic out of his mind.
His eyes have closed by now, blind to the world around him, except for what assaults his senses. When he feels Francis' tongue lick against his mouth, he's more than happy to deepen their kiss, to invite the other to ravage his own tongue and fill his mouth with the taste of copper. And Francis does. His two-tiered fangs drag across the tip of Arthur's tongue, creates small incisions where they press a little too hard. Arthur whimpers against his mouth, but finds himself feeling feverish amongst all the attention, pressing his body tightly against Francis and allowing his hands to slide across the back of his murderer in a desperate embrace.
Francis eventually does draw back, lips painted red - much like Arthur's own. He hums contentedly, wiping away a stray rivulet of blood that had begun to dribble down the corner of Arthur's mouth. "You truly are wonderful, Arthur. I am going to enjoy taking my time with you."
He nods, almost dumbly, again; content to receive whatever it was that Francis was going to do to him. Francis' kisses were intoxicating, deadly, and- oh lord, they were just wonderful, Arthur thinks. He's content to let Francis ravage his mouth as much as he wants, no matter how much it hurts or stings.
But Francis seems to have his eyes set on something else.
Delicate hands guide Arthur's head to cant to the side, exposing the curve of his neck. Francis trails his bloody lips from Arthur's own, leaving a crimson smear across his jawline as he finds his way to his neck instead, nose skimming right where his jugular beats hardest. Arthur's fingers dig into Francis' back, apprehension rearing its head once more. "F-Francis-"
"Shh," Francis chides him softly, before pressing a feather-light kiss to his neck. "I promised that it wouldn't hurt, didn't I?"
'It won't hurt,' Arthur chants to himself silently, trying to chase away the fear that settled inside of him like a heavy stone. 'I'm going to die, but it won't hurt.'
Francis' lips part, his teeth baring against the curve of Arthur's neck, his tongue leaving a damp trail across his skin as he mouths for a moment at Arthur's skin. Then, without warning, his teeth clamp down, his canines sinking deep into the flesh of Arthur's throat, before a burst of hot, beating blood washes over his tongue.
Arthur does not scream, but he whimpers loudly, his eyes screwing shut and his body tensing beneath the intrusion. It stings, it does hurt, but it's nothing like what he expected. Francis, on the other hand, moans softly, mouths and sucks hungrily at Arthur's neck, but without a hint of violence in the action. He's gentle, loving, almost adoring with the way he cradles Arthur against him, both preventing him from escaping and collapsing in one go.
Arthur expects the pain, but he does not expect the creeping numbness which quickly overtakes him, leaving him pleasantly pacified and jelly-limbed in Francis' arms. And then, oh - the warmth, the tingling sensations, the sudden intense heat that floods him can only be described as euphoric .
His teeth had been sunk into his bottom lip in an attempt to stifle his whimpers, but his mouth parts on a moan that he can't hold back. Arthur tips his head back, giving Francis even more room to feed from him, which Francis eagerly takes. His grip on Arthur becomes cagelike, but not uncomfortable. Francis takes his sweet time draining Arthur slowly, relishing in the wine-addled blood that hit the back of his tongue, mouthing hungrily at Arthur's neck in the most sensual of ways.
'I'm so dizzy-' Arthur thinks, panic wanting to bleed into his thoughts, but it's held at bay by the wonderful sensations plaguing his body. He's both warm and cold, burning with a desire to let Francis do whatever he pleases, content to die in the arms of this otherworldly and ethereally beautiful man.
When his vision starts to become speckled with spots of darkness, he knows it won't be long. When the feeling begins to leave the tips of his fingers and extremities, he knows he doesn't have much time left. But he doesn't fight, just melts into Francis' embrace and sighs out his approval with a soft breath.
He does not expect to be conscious when Francis pulls his fangs free from him, but he's just barely coherent enough to hear the pleased and damp whisper beneath his ear, "So good . So, so good- Arthur, my dear, you are exquisite."
Arthur tries to speak, tries to convey anything, but his voice is lost. It's a weak mumble that contains no semblance of words, a barely there noise that indicates that he's barely hanging on. His legs have given out on him, but Francis holds him steady, preventing him from collapsing into a lifeless pile on the ground.
He barely registers the other licking up the smears of blood present on his neck, lathing his tongue over the bite wound, but it's enough to wean one last shudder out of him. It's too good, too much- Arthur can't describe why it feels so amazing, knows it defies the logic of everything he understands, but he doesn't care.
This was as good a death as any, he surmises.
His eyes begin to flutter, the strength to hold them open waning quickly. He turns his head, buries it into the crook of Francis' neck and hair, and lets himself rest, knowing that his end was nearing. He was comfortable though, content and strangely sated, and more than happy to fade in the arms of this magnificent creature.
His last glimpse of the waking world is of the star-speckled sky.
"Captain! Hold on, I think he's coming to!"
'Oh. Oh, dear lord, why does everything feel so heavy and fuzzy-'
"Hey, hey you- no, no. Stay with us. Captain, we need a medic over here!"
Arthur Kirkland opens his eyes.
"That's good! Yeah, keep your eyes open. Don't fall back asleep. Don't worry, lad, we're going to get you some help."
"Wh- wha…" He mumbles weakly, voice labored with effort.
"It's okay. You were attacked last night, but you're alive. Goodness, you're alive ." The man says it like it's a miracle, and once clarity begins to bleed back into Arthur's mind, he realizes that it might actually be.
He's alive. Somehow, he's not dead. He's alive, and his neck is throbbing fiercely and his limbs feel like leaden weights.
He's alive, though. He shouldn't be. He knows that much.
"Can you tell us what happened? Who did this to you?"
"N- I…" Arthur tries, and fails, to answer. He feels so incredibly out of it, so dizzy and weak that he's not sure he can even give the correct time and date.
Another voice chips in, "Give the poor guy some time. He's probably still out of it."
Well, thank goodness for that.
Still though, as the officials around him fuss and move him to a nearby medic, Arthur's mind is filled with the thought of Francis. Right now, it feels like nothing more than a dream, like a fantasy that had gotten too out of hand, a scenario from some sensual erotica that Arthur swears he's read before.
But he knows it's real, and can feel it with the way his neck throbs and his vision swims. Francis had fed from him last night, and yet… he lives.
But why though? Why when so many others had perished?
As the medic tends to his bite wound and administers an emergency blood transfusion, Arthur can only lie there and think with longing of the creature who'd somehow, for some reason… had chosen to spare his life.
'Lucky me.'