Malevolent Vampire AU Fic: In Thrall

Kalgalen posted some fanart of their vampire AU where Arthur is John’s thrall, and. I lost it, I had to write something.

Pairing: John/Arthur

Rating: Ehhhh, teen probably?

Tags & warnings: Vampire AU, blood, blood-drinking, offscreen sex, subspace, possessiveness

***

In all his centuries of living, John has never experienced anything like this man. And oh, he never, ever plans to let him go.

Arthur waits in John’s arms, perfectly relaxed, perfectly patient. His eyes are closed and his face is smooth with the contentment of knowing that John has him, and the purity of his vulnerability, of his surrender to John, makes John ache with the totality of his possession.

This is the man made of piano wire. Who paces when he thinks, because he can’t stay still. Who John can see wake, because he goes from stillness to a vibration that fills his space with intangible energy. Arthur is fire and strung steel and the endless, ever-changing ringing notes that the universe strikes off his soul.

Arthur’s own blood is smeared over his neck from the freshly scabbed wound on his throat, down his collarbone and chest. Handprints of it in the size and shape of John’s hands wrap about the caps of his shoulders and his ribs, decorating him to match the streaks across John’s face.

John is done feeding. But he can’t let go. He can’t stop wanting, not when Arthur is offering himself so flagrantly.

John leans in to brush his lips ever so delicately against Arthur’s and watch the way Arthur yearns toward him. The willing tilt of his chin, ready to let John sink into him. The sway of his body, like a plant reaching for the sun. The little sound of need, of greed, that goes along with the way he melts against John’s chest.

His little sound of complaint when John draws back—but he subsides, under John’s gentle touch, just a nudge to his chest to show him he’s meant to stay where he is, not to follow John’s withdrawal. 

John swallows hard. “My god, Arthur, how can you live with yourself?” No, he can’t do it, he can’t keep his hands off. He reaches back out for Arthur’s face, to slide fingertips over those cheekbones like the sharp wild line of young mountains and that long graceful jaw and wraps his fingers around his skull till he can feel satisfied with his having again. Arthur simply tips his chin up, lips parting invitingly.

“You greedy, wanton little slag,” John growls, mainly to keep himself from moaning. Arthur hums against his collar bone, not arguing while John’s hands run down his naked back. 

He won’t argue, like this, but that doesn’t mean his will isn’t still in play. Oh no, he still wants. He’s all want.  He’s hypnotized, half by John and half by his own desire, his mind flipped inside out by the pain and ecstasy of John’s feeding from him so that all his formidable temper and inhibitions are sunk into the deep waters of his subconscious and all the selfish, sensual, shameless desires he keeps locked in that Pandora’s box of a body and mind of his are freed.

“You beautiful, fucking…” John could wrap his hands around that graceful throat right now and cut off his air and Arthur would love him for it. Moan for it with the last of his air, trusting him to be in control of his own aggression enough to let him go when he needs it, to mark him with a necklace of possessive, aching bruises and no more. “You stupid, stupid bitch,” John whispers in his ear, and then kisses it. “You shouldn’t trust me. You know better. You know me too well.”

John’s had thralls before. He’s known many, many thralls. None of them were like this. They obeyed because they had to; they trusted because their wills were crushed. They served because they’d lost the memory of how it felt to be free, except for the pain of it, and were too afraid to do anything else.

Arthur gives himself of his own volition. Because he’s a self-centered, lascivious little tart who, every single time, every goddamned time, decides all over again that what he wants is for John to take him in hand and make him a toy and use him till he loses the power of speech. 

And how can John resist that? Who could fucking resist that? Arthur wants to be pleasured. He wants to be adored. He wants to be loved, to be able to obey and trust that if he simply waits, if he’s good, then that pleasure and adoration will be poured into him through his skin and mouth and ears and eyes and every other sense he’s got so that he can simply float in John’s embrace, basking in the delight of his affections.

“I fucking love you,” John moans against Arthur’s mouth as he pushes him back into the soft blankets of the bed. 

“John,” Arthur sighs, barely more than a breath, head tossed back and throat bared like a supplication. His breakable human body rises up against John’s, trusting and demanding, as John sinks down to meet him.

He is keeping this man forever.