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Tonight marks the celebration of a dreadful wedding. A champagne bottle pops open, and fizz dribbles down the side before pouring itself into waiting glasses. On a stage across from the tiered cake, a small orchestra fills the air with melodies. Waiters divide to plate and serve the long awaited entrees. In spite of the unity, each half of the family keeps to themselves. Eyes glance at the other side, and pale lips mutter the latest gossip. Curling lips grumble their own rumors, and everyone is one twitch away from calling the whole event a farce.
Truly, tonight celebrates a dreadful wedding. A topic that both bride and groom can agree upon. Shoved in their uniforms and coached on their vows, they fulfill a necessary evil.
Francis Bonnefoy, bachelor of his vampire clan, swirls the wine glass resting between his index and middle finger. Dead eyes scan the crowd as the dance floor remains untouched. Spoon in hand, she brings a sample of blood stew to his lips. Not the worst he has ever tasted, but certainly not helping the tense atmosphere.
“I suppose we’ll have to consummate our marriage before our families tear each other apart.” Sitting exactly ten inches away, her husband finally speaks. The comment makes the Fremchman want to soak his blond fur in merlot.
Arthur Kirkland, also a bachelor, cuts into his pork medallion. The werewolf clan spent days deliberating which of the Kirkland brothers would be sacrificed. The eldest is too brash and feral, evident by his piggish guzzling of the provided whiskey. Perhaps he drinks in solidarity, or perhaps it be in jealousy. Arthur rolls his eyes when he gets a stuck out tongue. Alasdair just wants to be a wedding crasher, it seems.
Next in line would be the Irish twins, and the first born was promising at first. However, he coddles his twin’s clingy behavior. The inseparable pair spent their childhood as each other’s best friend. No bride wants a groom and his lingering brother in her home.
The fourth brother, although rather cute, was too…odd. His magical fixation and habit of convening with the dark forces that lie beyond the invisible barrier of the world makes for a terrible groom. One demon summoning ritual would have been a declaration of war.
That left the clan with none other than the youngest Kirkland, Arthur. As it turned out, the man was the most refined out of the litter. A true domestic with regular grooming, strict manners, and the presence of clothes on his furred body. Albeit the most boring choice, it was also the safest.
Arthur takes his first bite of dinner. The meat is tender, and the strip of bacon wrapped around it is chewy. Just the way he likes it. At least the meal follows what he envisioned his wedding would be like as a boy. If only he was eating a vampire rather than marrying one.
Bride and groom, together in unholy matrimony, with the begrudging blessings of their families, conclude the war. The struggle between vampires and werewolves has come to a peaceful end. No more castle raids, den burnings, nothing. Neither side can afford to squabble in these troubling times anyways. With hunters on the rise carrying stakes and silver, a peace treaty was proposed. By who, no one seems to recall. Each side claiming the other one gave in and surrendered their young as a peace offering. Regardless, the couple sit before the clans, faces devoid of newlywed joy.
“Let me guess, you’re going to drool on my face and rut my thigh for eight seconds?” How could his family allow this? To marry her off in the name of conflict resolution is criminal. Where is his court of suitors? Their silent escapes to the garden and suave voices pleading to be his betrothed? The hand written love letters spritzed with their signature scents to invoke a yearning so great it drives them mad?
Gone. Thrown away like an old toy from the attic. It makes Francis want to step onto a balcony at noon. Her stew is abandoned in favor of another wine pour. A cousin offers sympathetic eyes. Traitors, all of them.
“That’s what the feral werewolves do. Domestics just have sex.” Plates are lifted from tables. A new song begins, but it sounds like the one from the start of the ceremony. It seems that now is the time to cut the cake. The couple stand in unison and find themselves at opposite sides of the dessert. Their proximity is forced by silent gestures for both of their hands to hold the knife.
“Heaven and Hell forbid that I marry a man who understands love.” If this were any other day, Francis would stab the werewolf and lick the blade clean. Fingers push and tangle, arguing over who holds the handle. With guests waiting, they settle on Francis closest to the blade and Arthur at the base.
A task as simple as cutting a cake proves to be reason for divorce. Hovering above the icing, the knife shifts to the left. Then the right. Above a rose decoration. Next to it. Francis looks Arthur in the eyes, and for a moment, he holds the gaze. It would be easy to hypnotize him. Turn the beast into a mindless pet who obeys her commands. If it were any other day, he would have done it.
Francis looks back to the cake and holds the knife in between two roses made from buttercream. The cool air of the night has kept the details from melting away. Arthur follows her eyes and brings the knife down. First slice goes to the bride, who ensured that she had a flower on it. Arthur takes his plain, and the rest of the cake is divided by the servants.
Forced smiles fill the room as dessert marks the third hour of the night. Yet even in this late hour, the sociably acceptable time to leave has yet to arrive. No, the couple still must share a dance. The very dance that Francis dreamt of while locked away in his coffin each day. Can he even bring himself to touch the mutt?
“You vampires always go on about love and devotion. Marriage is a contract, and the subjects of it provide each other their services.” Vanilla icing clings to Arthur’s lip, which he pats away with a napkin. The red color of the cake seeps into it and turns white to a soft pink.
One distinction between the feral and domestic werewolves is their perception of marriage. For the feral, it is a faithful bond to strengthen clans. The happy, go-lucky packs of newlyweds howl in harmony to solidify the union. For the domestic, the act is for practicality. Pup rearing is difficult, and so is living among the humans, so they marry to help one another. Although the wilderness lacks washing machines, it also lacks flea removal, so the domestics have that advantage.
“‘Til death do we part.” Francis find no sweetness in his cake. The happiest day of his life, the one day to prove his devotion to a lover, reduced to this. Did the Greeks understand a tragedy as great as this? Surely not.
Never will he rise from his coffin, awoken by a tender kiss. His only greeting each moonrise being a hairy, panting animal that turns into the plainest of humans at sunrise. Francis was given photos of Arthur prior to their meeting. Photographed in each form, and she found him unbearably dull. Frumpy sweaters and collars buttoned to the chin. Worst of all, those gargantuan eyebrows that force you to stare at his face. At least he sleeps when Arthur looks like that.
“Likewise.” A hand is held out to Francis as Arthur rises from his seat. The sooner they dance, the sooner the disaster ends. He stares ahead to the orchestra and gives a nod. Music grows silent as sheets are flipped towards the end.
They can keep a distance. Arms length or greater will suffice. Separate beds, bathrooms, and lives. Should one of them die, the feud will only start up again. Wars will wage on, and eventually, they will succumb to the world of hunters. They might as well make their numbered days somewhat manageable.
A hand is laid in Arthur’s palm. Feet shuffle to the dance floor, and this is the first time since their vows that they have stood face to face. Not that their promises were impressive. Simple swears to remain truthful and loyal, to care in sickness and health, til death do they part.
Silver to the heart would have been less painful than the lifeless kiss they shared before the altar.
———————————————
A quarter to the fourth hour is when the last of the guests escaped the wedding. They filtered out one by one, wishing farewells and plethoras of “good luck”s to their respective victims. It won’t be so bad. Think of it like having a roommate. He has to die at some point.
Considerable distance sits between the couple as they walk the corridor of Francis’s manor. It was the agreed upon residence during negotiations. Close enough to both man and forest with the last known whereabouts of an active hunter being miles away. It will do for the time being.
Arthur is brought to a bedroom. The decor is almost stereotypical with gothic elements and deep reds plastered across the room. If Francis were anything but a vampire, he might be complimented for the styling. Instead, she receives a mutter snip at the number of candles. How has the whole building not burned to the ground yet? And the scents! They make his nose itch beyond sanity.
If he were feral, he would end up clawing his snout off. They have better senses of smell due to their elongated noses. That isn’t to say that Arthur is a scrunch faced, mouth breathing bulldog. No, not at all. He has a respectable snout length of three inches, which leads to a dashingly pink nose.
His flopped ears catch the sound of footsteps pausing on the carpet. Face away from the werewolf, hands reach back to undo the dress. Fingers trace fabric in search of a zipper. Pointed nails snag the tongue, but the angle is awkward, and she fails to move it any further than halfway. Curse modern clothing. How is anyone meant to undress themselves like this?
In his struggle, furred fingers take the metal and pull down. Head turned, Francis spots her husband in the corner of his eye. Right, a wedding dress is meant to be removed by another. He mumbles gratitude, and hands slide the cloth down to his ankles. They run back up his body and follow curves to the bra straps against his spine. Now unclasped, Francis lets it pool to the floor with her dress and underwear. She steps out from the heels that pinch too hard to be considered fashionable. When she turns around, hands grasping her shoulders, she fails to meet green eyes.
Arthur had adverted his gaze once the dress exposed her ribs. Knowing that this is a mere obligation, staring as the woman disrobes would be improper. It felt as if he was standing behind a window or in a closet, ogling an intimate moment not meant for him. Francis wanted this with a lover, which Arthur knows himself not to be.
“You could at least look at me.” The snip does shift his eyes, but they stay at the woman’s forehead. Francis narrows his shapely brows and further uncovers himself. Hands at his sides, the wrinkle on the forehead is hard to ignore.
“I wasn’t expecting this part.” It was only supposed to be a marriage. He made a joke. A dry, humorless joke that only a proper Englishman would get a chuckle out of. Arthur never intended to have Francis stand naked before him. How the hell does he get out of this?
Fists clench at the vampire’s side. He takes a step forward. Arthur should be on his knees in worship. Those ugly, beady eyes should turn enamored at his very sight.
“You knew what I was before the wedding.” Prior to handshakes and finalized papers, Arthur was sent a portrait of Francis. Had it been hung in a museum, the werewolf would have stared for hours. Picking apart each color, noting the overly melancholic expression, judging the shimmer of highlights from a light source too bright to be the moon. It would have received Arthur’s utmost dissatisfaction. Surely, the artist forced his muse into such dramatics.
Their meeting in person revealed what lay beyond the golden frame. From collarbone down, Francis holds a body of curving muscles. Stocky shoulders rest above small breasts that flow to a dip in the waist before rounding out the rest of his body. The family assured twice that she is female where it counts, but no children are required for this unity. The clause, hastily written in the margins, caught his eye when their chaperones reviewed the contract. At the time, the thought of intimate performances made his stomach twist.
Arthur, against his better judgment, found her to be obnoxious. A typical, arrogant vampire who only cares for glitz and glamor. Of course he had to be the type to make his own portrait look ridiculous. Her dress reached knee length while standing, mid thigh when seated. Black lace decorated the hem, adding only an inch of length. The deep v-neck, which reached the man’s navel, showed off chest hair and cleavage. The vacuum seal of that maroon dress ensured that Arthur took an eyeful of vampiric beauty whether he liked it or not.
His outfit, in contrast, was suitable for the occasion. A white button up with black slacks and tailored shoes. Arthur opted for a pinstripe tie, black and white, of course. His jacket sleeves donned gold cufflinks, giving the outfit a bit of dazzle. Not enough, clearly, from Francis’s disdain.
“You shouldn’t waste yourself on someone you can’t stand. I can arrange for another to love you in my place.” Someone who fits the criteria Francis holds dear to his heart. Someone capable of love and doesn’t concern himself with the exchange rate between chores. Kept secret, a third can subdue her in the late hours. No one has to know what it takes for a modern marriage to stay afloat.
Arthur looks at Francis, and he finds the image of Venus staring back. Hands reach to conceal his form, but they pause halfway. Now lowered to the side, her figure stands proud. Arthur looks him over and feels a pique in curiosity. Is she soft? Malleable? Arthur wants to feel the warm clay press against his fingertips. Try as he might to shift the vampire’s form, his arrogance leaves her unchanged with a mocking smile.
Narrowed eyes blew wide before coming to rounded softness. Francis steps forward, hands to Arthur’s chest and sliding to the man’s shoulders. Something human lies in his face and behind those eyes. The smelly mutt that once stood before him at the altar disappears when Francis takes in his features properly.
“One man is enough for me, so long as my body is enough for you.” Those vile words still ring in her head. Female where it counts. Male enough to inherit. There must be a cruel irony in being two rag dolls stitched together. Barren, that clause had no choice but to be added. No suitors or ladies in waiting traveled to his manor. Yearn as he may, Francis found not one love letter in his name. An utter disgrace to his clan with this unity her only saving grace.
Bodies sway and find their way to the bed. Francis sinks into the plush duvet with eyes drifting to the ceiling above. Arthur buries his snout in the crook of her neck. A deep inhale preludes a lick to the surface. The nose trails downward to the still heart in his chest. Another lick. That one earns a gasp.
“You smell nice.” Lips mutter against skin, and breathless gratitude meets soft ears. The linger of perfume blocks the vampire’s true scent. Down at the navel, however, everything is raw. The scent, the flesh, the darkened hairs that mark the start of a happy trail. One that Arthur laps to hear another gasp.
Beneath heavy perfumes and scented candles, most vampires have a refreshing scent. Without the bacteria found on the living, most vampires smell similar to rainwater. Arthur sniffs and finds another scent on Francis. It reminds him of English cucumbers freshly sliced in the summer. Admittedly, vampires are pleasant to be around scent wise. Easy on a sensitive nose, Arthur would pick Francis over any pungent human.
Hands cup his face, dragging the werewolf from his thoughts and into a kiss. A chaste one, yes, but a kiss no less. Much better the second time around. Arthur swore to never wag in front of her, but just this once, he allows his tail to thump.
Tail thumping grows into prominent swishing when Francis shrugs Arthur’s shirt down to his elbows. Layers peel away, giving the werewolf much needed relief. The cold air could only do so much for the man. At least he trimmed his coat prior to the wedding. Every removal feels like a waft of cold air hitting his body.
The belt slides off and onto the floor with the rest of their clothing. Francis takes ahold of the front and waits a breath. Not that letting it go offers any relief.
Breast cupped by a padded hand, Francis meets his husband’s gaze. Despite the imposing claws, the hand is rather gentle on the tender mound. Arthur rolls it back and forth then plucks the nipple. That earned another sharp sound from the back of Francis’s throat. This is for the both of them. An exchange of love through physical and emotional means.
Pants unbuttoned, the zipper glides down. Arthur sits back to do the rest. Francis can only watch, hand continuing the breast massage the werewolf started. Her legs are propped and swung apart. An invite with more delightful scents filling the air.
Bulging briefs, stained by the tip of his shaft, finally slide off. Arthur crawls over Francis, elbows caging the vampire as they kiss. He rests upon the enlarged clit. Throbs share between them, and both breaths hitch.
Francis leans to the side, revealing a vial of oil from the nightstand. A necessity for any love hungry vampire. Wet fingers oil herself first. Eyes shut to focus on the sweet sensation. Familiar digits rock back and forth, separating in a way that always makes him moan.
Lips coat her neck in kisses to count the seconds. Arthur reaches 15 when warm fingers dipped in oil touch his shaft. Curious taps to the vein cause a whimper. He buckles when a firm hold envelopes him. Eyes struggling to focus, they find a confused Francis checking between their bodies.
“It’s human?” The tone is one of shock. Francis blinks, focusing on the exact thing that sits in her hand. A shapely organ that is the opposite of what he expected to encounter. Well, so much for working up the courage.
“Yeah, what else would it…” Head tilted, Arthur comes to a gradual realization. Eyes widen with horror written across his features.
Did no one tell Francis? Werewolf anatomy may be complex for even the best zoologist, but out of everything, one important part remains human. Well, several parts technically. Arthur can stomach chocolate cookies and raw deer in either form. However, the most important part for this exact situation is certainly human!
“You thought that I had a dog’s—“ A burst of laughter interrupts. Arthur truly buckles then, collapsing atop his bride as more laughter escapes. He muffles it by shoving his snout between the pillows, but the sound echoes un the bedroom.
Francis truly thought otherwise!
“Shut up! What else would someone expect?!”The man sputters and scrambles. He smacks Arthur on the arm as he continues to laugh. Francis feels a lip curl, and soon, both men are chuckling.
When the giggles and snickers die away, their lips are occupied by a kiss. Francis takes ahold once more and pulls the man against himself. Slow nudges push the tip inside, and the breach causes a shaky gasp. The rest of Arthur’s cock is stroked. A rapid, encouraging motion that dizzies the werewolf until he stumbles over moans and grunts.
Legs lock Arthur in place as he bucks. Fangs glimmer in candlelight. Tears ruin makeup. Hands cling to everything. The bed, the pillows, one another. Arthur leans in, and the pressure on Francis’s clit makes him mewl.
The two move in tandem. Hands trace a fluffy spine, causing another tail wag. Francis fights the urge to puncture his lover. Instead, he uses a bite pillow. A standard item in any vampire’s life if they have a bedmate they refuse to drink from. Francis cries into the dense fabric, mind wishing it was Arthur’s lovely neck.
Toes curl when teeth bite his nipple. Arms hold Arthur’s head close with a hand stroking his soft fur. The intense head petting combines with slurred praises. Francis jumbles out other words, and the werewolf perks his ears to hear them be repeated.
“…notize you. Please, mon chou, please.” Hypnosis is no laughing matter, but many find it to be a wonderful experience. A way to simply let go. Tension always finds a way into Arthur’s body, so why not give it a try? Maybe that crick in his neck will go away for more than a day.
When their eyes meet, Arthur feels lax. Like Francis brought him to a quiet meadow, and the vampire is stroking his head beneath a shady tree. Yes, Arthur is a very good boy. Everything that he’s doing is utterly perfect, and his twitching cock agrees.
What a very, very good boy he is right now. One that makes his husband feel every ounce of pleasure. Arthur does not hear the commands, but his body acts upon them. Lifting both legs to his shoulders, he ensnares Francis who moans louder. Not even closing his eyes breaks their connection, which is more than fine for Arthur.
Strong hands pin the vampire by the shoulders. With a snarl, pupils blow wide. Only one objective crosses his mind. His bride needs to cum. How can Arthur stand by, cock free to leak seed, while Francis lays unfulfilled? It would be criminal to allow him to continue on like this!
Francis can only moan, not caring that he doomed himself to a werewolf’s animalistic needs. A bruising pace slams the back of his thighs. Yes, Francis wants more! More love, more desire! Everything is so intense that all he can register is a rush of heat between them. A sticky heat that makes Francis cry and jerk her legs.
Arthur goes rigid. Teeth bared and back arched, Francis welcomes the orgasm. He removes the hypnosis in time for Arthur to feel the electricity in his body. He shakes, lip twitching while Francis goes limp.
The two remain close, refusing to release the other until traces of sunlight peeked over the horizon. With Francis on the brink of sleep and Arthur turning more human by the second, curtains are drawn, and the couple sleep the morning away.
Arthur will arise in a few hours for his daytime routine, but for now, he has a vampire to guard. A true werewolf of any caliber would protect his mate, and Arthur intends to fulfill his husbandly duties.