“Fuck,” Malachi hissed as the other man bit down, digging in ever deeper with his nails. Only once Arthur had agreed did he relent, lifting pressure off the wound to let it simply bleed. He’d worried over it, before – might have felt guilt creep down his throat the night after he left him there, uncertain if he’d even wake, or if it would be the death of him. He’d even considered visiting again, against all his better instincts, to help him stitch the awkward spot.

He hadn’t, of course. And now, angered again as he was (why did he feel so angry?), he was glad that he had not.

“You-” a hand around his neck and another kiss cut him off. Why was Arthur making him talk? Didn’t he know that words were useless little things compared to blood, and teeth, and tears?

Another frustrated sound ground out from his throat.

“Be quiet.”

Malachi’s hands occupied themselves, pulling at the buttons of his vestments. While they did, the priest hovered close, and kissed the tears from Arthur’s cheeks to leave red smudges in their place. If he could keep his mouth shut, then Malachi would not have to listen to his false praise scattered through the rest.

He shrugged his cassock down his arms in a reveal of his own bruised, bitten shoulders. The cut across his chest could be seen too – none of them gone. They had hardly even faded, as if the priest had irritated the flesh so they’d remain.

“What do you want?” he whispered, clutching handfuls of the doctor’s shirt. “Show me. Mark me again. Indulge in me, please,” like the whore I am.

At least he was an honest whore.