Work Text:
Arthur’s not sure which cosmic being came up with the idea of soulmates, but he wished they made the tracking process a little easier.
Something like a mark or a tattoo would have been helpful, for example. A name, perhaps a date of birth. Even the distance between your counterpart and yourself would’ve been helpful. Instead they’ve been given something ridiculous. Something that, up until recently, had not even been scientifically proven to be correct.
But he supposes he shouldn’t complain. For centuries, people had not even known how to track their soulmates at all. They’d eventually recognize their soulmate once met, sure, but finding them? Good luck figuring that out.
At least now, people had something to hold onto, however unhelpful.
Some twenty years or so ago, scientists managed to crack the code. It took years of testing, on both animals and humans, but they finally managed to single out the one factor that bonded two people as soulmates: their sense of smell.
Researchers discovered that each person's unique scent hid a complex set of pheromones and molecules that acted as a beacon to their predestined partner.
And while the breakthrough was certainly deemed extraordinary, it did not end up changing the course of history: the global rate of soulmate bonds stayed about the same. Because how in the world were you supposed to track down your soulmate with your sense of smell? They’re humans, not dogs.
And so, despite the scientific discovery, life continued as it had for centuries. The idea of a soulmate tempted many teenagers, but as the years passed by, most people learned to settle with other redeeming qualities that made a potential partner worth pursuing: their sense of humor, their kindness, that sort of stuff.
Not that this often worked out, either. At least it did not for Arthur, who seemed cursed with being a terrible judge of character, or so a narrator of his love life might say. He told himself things would be different once he moved overseas - Americans were known for being fond of the Brits, weren’t they?
When Arthur was offered a promotion that would mean an overseas relocation, he had not hesitated for very long. He liked the company he worked at, and while he liked England as well, he did not have anything that tied him down there. Spending a few months overseas would do wonders for his resume, and perhaps then, he could eventually move to London and apply at a truly prestigious company.
The paperwork had been taken care of no sooner said than done. Before Arthur knew it, he’d sold his shoddy apartment on the outskirts of Birmingham and moved into a slightly less shoddy apartment somewhere in New York city. Nothing too bad, and the commute to the company building was relatively easy, if not a little crowded.
Arthur has always been told he’s adaptable, flexible. He gets over his jetlag in a record time and reluctantly acquaints himself with the other expats in his building: a couple of Germans, a Frenchman and a Spaniard.
One of them works at the same company as Arthur does, though at a different department, but he knows how to recognize an opportunity when it presents itself. As such, he allows Francis to weasel his way into his life, and although their friendship is mostly based on office gossip and alcohol, it’s nice to have a kindred soul in his vicinity.
Starting a new job at a new place is always terrible, but with the help of Francis, Arthur quickly learns who to avoid and who to befriend. As he’d predicted, most of the Americans in his team are helplessly charmed by his accent, and it’s not too long before he gets invited for after-work drinks and dinners.
Things are normal. Boring, even. Arthur easily adjusts to a new routine and he’s pretty sure that this temporary relocation is going to pass him by in the blink of an eye. One month in, and he’s already looking forward to better job prospects.
Just eleven more months to go.
Of course, life has a habit of screwing you over. The breeze Arthur has been experiencing thus far turns into a hurricane when on one afternoon, his boss announces that his son has returned from his sabbatical, and will be resuming his position as Arthur’s manager’s manager, or something like that.
In retrospect, Arthur should have known something was amiss from the moment he met Alfred F. Jones.
The elusive son of the CEO had quite the reputation, apparently - not a bad one, but still one, regardless. When talking about him, the eyes of most of his female co-workers glazed over with what was undoubtedly the beginnings of an erotic fantasy, and most of the men in the office seemed to hold Alfred in high esteem as well. Some more than others, but Arthur wasn’t about to get into the mathematics of American ‘alpha’ male friendships, or whatever.
Out of curiosity, Arthur had googled the young man in question, of course. The social accounts he could find were all locked from the public, so Arthur had to make do with Alfred’s LinkedIn and the occasional news report that mentioned him.
Twenty-three years old, born and raised in the US of A. Will take over his father’s position in the company in due time. Likes long hikes in the woods and baseball games. Blonde hair, blue eyes, body of a Greek god. An all-around American golden boy.
Aside from admitting that Alfred F. Jones is conventionally attractive, Arthur did not really bother with forming an opinion.
Then he met the man in question - and. Well.
It had happened on a Monday morning. Arthur had just attended a meeting that could have been an email and wanted nothing more than to escape into his own cubicle and maybe indulge in an existential nap of five minutes or so.
The man of the hour had been standing somewhat close to Arthur’s cubicle, amicably chatting to one of Arthur’s co-workers. Arthur had been too preoccupied with imagining himself on a warm, sunny beach to have noticed him at first, but once he did notice Alfred, he also noticed that he had been noticed well before Arthur had noticed Alfred.
The junior Jones had frozen on the spot, eyes wide behind his thinly-framed glasses, mouth slightly ajar, as he looked at Arthur. It had made him want to check himself for an unfortunate coffee stain or wardrobe mishap, but before he could do so, Alfred had snapped out of it.
He was met with a blinding smile, next, one that effortlessly did away with Arthur’s Monday-Mooning. He could see why his co-workers held Alfred F. Jones in such high regard, if he offered them all the same enthusiastic and friendly welcome.
“You’re new, aren’t you?” Alfred had said, in lieu of a greeting. He’d waited until Arthur had arrived at his own cubicle, before sauntering over and extending a hand. Because he’d been raised well, Arthur wasted no time in taking it and giving it a firm shake. “I’m Alfred.”
“Mr. Jones.” Arthur had said, showing that he knew who was in front of him. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Arthur Kirkland, I got flown in from the United Kingdom last month.”
“For good reason, no doubt.” Alfred said next, and only then did it occur to Arthur, that their hands were still locked. He tugged, minimally so, and Alfred hurriedly let go of him, his expression undeterred. “I look forward to working with you, Arthur.”
“Likewise, sir.”
“What are you dressing up as for the Halloween party?” Francis asks as he joins Arthur at the coffee machine in the break room. “I think I’m going for a doctor. But like, a sexy doctor. Wait! Maybe a nurse.”
Arthur grimaces as he remembers the upcoming event. Still a month away, but already the talk of the town, figuratively speaking. Arthur hadn’t planned on attending - he’s never really understood the craze surrounding Halloween, anyway. He’d much rather stay at home and watch Hocus Pocus with some good food and a bottle of beer.
“I wasn’t aware we had to dress up.” He deflects. “Can I not come as a grumpy Brit?”
Francis rolls his eyes, but falters when Alfred suddenly walks in.
Arthur narrows his eyes at his presence. After their initial meeting, well over a month ago, Alfred has been appearing at random more and more often; sometimes to make small-talk, other times to ask Arthur a question he could just as well ask over Slack or ask someone else entirely. He knows that, as the son of the CEO and employee of the company, Alfred has every right to be here... but as far as Arthur knows, he works on the floor above this one.
“How is that different from any other day?” Alfred cheerfully quips, much to Francis’ delight.
“Bite me.” Arthur snaps, though without any proper ill-will. Alfred’s eyes glint with mischief. “What are you going as, then? Bratty son of the CEO?”
“Let me guess: that’s also not different from any other day?” Alfred returns, catching onto the snark behind Arthur’s words. “I’m not sure yet, actually. Might reprise last year’s costume, the cowboy costume was a big hit.”
“Oh, it was a good one.” Francis agrees, but then he’s called away by someone holding out a phone for him, and he quickly scurries off after bidding them both farewell. Alfred takes his position and leans against the table, nonchalantly grabbing a paper cup to put under the machine’s dispenser.
“You should go as a bunny.” Alfred then proposes, looking down at Arthur with a boyish smirk. And despite their height difference being minimal, Arthur feels terribly small - or perhaps he feels preyed upon. Like a bunny. “Then I’ll go as a wolf.”
Arthur presses down on the cappuccino button and relishes in how the prattling noise of the coffee machine interrupts whatever moment Alfred was trying to create. Arthur might derive some joy from their casual banter, but there were way too many ears surrounding them now, and Arthur does not want to get written up for inappropriate workplace behavior.
“I think you’d win more hearts as a puppy, Mr. Jones.” Arthur says haughtily, before grabbing the cup Alfred had put there for himself. Alfred lets him, watches with piercing blue eyes as Arthur smoothes out his dress shirt and pushes himself away from his counter, nodding his goodbye.
He tries not to trip over his own feet as he walks out of the break room, hyper aware of Alfred’s predatory gaze.
Arthur does end up attending the Halloween party - but only because the event had been relocated from the office to one of the surrounding bars, due to some plumbing issues. At least this way, Arthur could get spectacularly drunk with Francis, and would not have to bother with awkwardly socializing with his lesser familiar coworkers.
He had even allowed Francis to dress him up as something akin to a vampire, or so the Frenchman exclaimed. He’s pretty sure he’s already lost one of the glued-on fangs. Not sure if he swallowed it or simply dropped it, though. He’s also not sure where his cape has gone, either. Oh well - he’ll just reimburse Francis for any missing items.
At first, he perhaps drank a little quicker than he should. And perhaps he did so to drown out any disappointment of not being immediately met with a wolf-clad, bratty son of the CEO, upon entering the establishment. Even if that were the case, then at least Arthur would never have to admit it out loud.
His disappointment had been for naught, though.
Somewhere halfway through the night, Arthur’s well and truly plastered. He’d been halfheartedly deflecting the advances of a coworker he barely knows, and whilst he’s tremendously flattered by the compliments about his striking eyes, his waist-hugging vest, and even his posh accent, Arthur knows it’s not a good idea to share the night with someone he hardly knows. Intoxicated as he may be.
It takes some effort, but eventually the man gets the message - or at least that’s what Arthur thought, until Alfred announces his presence by settling a large, warm hand on the small of his back. It startles Arthur; not because of his sudden arrival, but because they’ve never really touched in any way that was not strictly professional.
In an attempt to better see the newest arrival, Arthur turns on his stool. Alfred shuffles back minimally, to better accommodate him, but remains close enough for Arthur to feel the heat radiating from his body. The hand moves away from his back, regrettably, and ends up planted on the counter - this way, it’s almost like he’s caged in by the younger American.
A whiff of something smoky fills Arthur’s nostrils and for a moment he’s stunned by how good Alfred smells, amidst the cacophony of body odors, alcohol and fried snacks that fills the bar. How unfair. Arthur must smell like tequila and dried up sweat.
He looks good too, Arthur decides, upon seeing that Alfred had kept his word and had opted to go as a wolf - or werewolf, more likely. Fake, plushy ears are unevenly planted on top of his crown, the black fur a stark contrast to his golden, blonde hair. Stretched tightly over his chest, is a shirt with a faux fur texture. His legs are covered by a pair of distressed, ripped jeans and hilariously enough, tuffs of fake fur sprout from between the torn gaps.
Alfred cocks his head as he smirks down on him. His blue eyes seem to almost glow, too, though perhaps it’s simply caused by the makeup Alfred’s used to create werewolf-like features.
“Bit on the nose, isn’t it?” Someone says in passing, someone that Alfred laughs at as if they were an old friend. Perhaps they were - it’s not someone Arthur has seen before.
“Yeah.” Arthur agrees, although he’s not entirely sure what the stranger meant. “I thought I told you to go as a puppy.”
Alfred laughs, revealing teeth that, oddly enough, look sharper than they ought to do. Probably Alfred also got his hands on some glue-on fangs, Arthur guesses. He holds his breath as Alfred leans down, so that his lips are parallel to Arthur’s ears.
“Suppose you’ll need to scold me,” Alfred says, his breath warm against the skin of his jaw. “Since I’ve been a bad dog.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Arthur says, attempting nonchalance, as if his cheeks aren’t burning. “I’ve never raised one before. Might just send you to the shelter, have you put up for adoption.”
Alfred snorts, before straightening again - slowly, though, eyes roving over Arthur’s own costume, making Arthur feel terribly aware of how he’s perched on the stool. He isn’t exactly the picture of elegance, not after this many drinks.
“I’m a bit pissed.” Arthur decides on saying, because surely, that would be a reasonable explanation for his sorry state.
“The American kind or the British kind?” Alfred asks in return. He leans into Arthur’s space again, this time to reach for something behind the Brit.
And Arthur is only human, okay? He can’t resist taking another proper whiff of Alfred’s cologne. Nor can he resist narrowing his eyes at the sudden view he got of Alfred’s burly chest and wide shoulders. The material of Alfred’s faux fur shirt stretches as Alfred turns and twists, outlining the muscle that hides underneath. And fuck, those arms. Arthur wonders about he actual size of the American’s bicep; wonders what it would look like when bare, bulging.
Unconsciously so, Arthur wets his lips.
When Alfred returns to his original position, his nostrils are flared, and he looks terribly satisfied with himself. Arthur guesses it has something to do with Arthur’s abandoned drink, which is now in his hand. He’s about to scold him for stealing that which isn’t his, when Alfred raises the glass to his nose and takes a whiff of the liquid within.
“Gah,” Alfred says, face distorting in a scowl of his own. “How does this not make you gag?”
Arthur’s head feels too heavy for his neck. He slumps back against the bar, and shrugs. “I’m gagging for something American, all right.”
Did he say that? Oh god, he better not remember that tomorrow. To ensure he wouldn’t, he snatches his drink out of the surprised American’s hand, and downs it in one go. He’s not even able to tell if it’s foul or not, because by now, taste has lost all meaning.
“I think you’ve had enough.” Alfred says next, once Arthur attempts to put the glass down but simply sends it flying to the floor instead. “Or you’re gonna feel sick.”
“Nonsense. I feel positively hunky-dory.”
Something inside him loosens when Alfred laughs again, and he’s about to comment on how pleasant Alfred’s laugh sounds, when Francis groans irritably. Arthur’s honestly forgotten that he’s been sitting next to him, all this time. The Frenchman settles them with a glare, before sharing: “He will get unintelligibly British soon.”
“You mean he’s not already?” Alfred follows up, eyes taking in Francis for one unbearable second.
“I’ll give you a bunch of fives if you don’t stop being a wanker.” He threatens, slumping forward a little so that Alfred’s attention is once again on him, and not on the French expat next to him. Alfred catches him effortlessly, his hands tightly grabbing onto his upper arms. Tighter than necessary, he thinks. Probably the alcohol.
“You’re going to give us money?” Alfred asks, sounding a little unsure of himself this time, and Arthur finds it so immensely adorable, that he cannot help but dissolve into a fit of drunken giggles.
He doesn’t remember much more of that night, when he next wakes up in his own bed the morning after. But for some reason, the smell of Alfred’s earthy cologne lingers on his pillow, and Arthur grants himself a blissful five minutes of burying his face into it, before he gets up to hunt down some aspirin.
The weeks between Halloween and New Year’s Eve are weird, to say the least.
Alfred has become somewhat of a permanent fixture in Arthur’s day-to-day life, despite the Brit’s best attempts to keep the nature of their relationship strictly professional. It starts out on the work floor, naturally, but then Alfred starts appearing at after-work drinks and dinners. And then Arthur stumbles into him in the supermarket, even though Alfred lives a good few blocks away from him.
The American starts popping up at random whenever Arthur visits a museum or a theater, be it by himself or with a friend. Even when Arthur is simply going for a stroll to stretch his legs on the weekends, Alfred finds a way to conveniently appear, easily conjuring up an excuse that might be a truth, might be a lie, whenever Arthur’s fed up enough to ask him what the hell he’s doing there.
Despite the borderline stalking, he never oversteps, never crosses a boundary - though Arthur should add that he’s never explicitly set one. Alfred just keeps… showing up. And Arthur keeps indulging in his company.
By now, Arthur knows that Alfred is not simply just a coworker anymore. But he’s also not sure if he should call him a friend. Calling him a friend would mean they are in a friendship - and wasn’t that an underwhelming term for their… situationship?
There’s simply something inexplicable about the way Alfred constantly seeks out Arthur; constantly invades his space. Often he does it under the guise of convenience, but sometimes, when Alfred curls around Arthur to shield him from traffic as they wait at a stop sign, or when Alfred puts himself between Arthur and anyone that might approach him, Arthur imagines a feeling of protectiveness, maybe even possessiveness.
He’s probably spending too much time reading fantasy novels. Stories about damsels in distress being saved by their heroic love interests are enough to make everyone a little dreamy. And Arthur’s been going through quite the dry spell, ever since - well. He doesn’t want to admit it, but ever since meeting Alfred.
It would be easier if this thing between him and Alfred were sexual, he thinks. But Arthur knows what it feels like to be lusted after, to be objectified. He doesn’t get the feeling Alfred wants to jump his bones - or, perhaps if he did, that he did not just want to jump his bones.
Arthur’s not above admitting that he’s insanely attracted to Alfred himself, too, but something is holding him back.
The mystery of it all, perhaps.
Said mystery reveals itself a few weeks into January.
It’s dark by the time Arthur finally leaves the office. He’s a little chagrined, having had to sit through endless meetings all day. On top of that, his own presentation had not been received as well as he had hoped it would be, and now he’ll need to spend his weekend tweaking it to perfection.
The bus he usually rides between home and work does not show up, because of course it does not. Knowing it is probably delayed due to the traffic and slippery roads, Arthur decides he might as well walk home, instead. It would only take him twenty minutes, give or take, and the fresh air might help his throbbing headache dissipate a little.
He’s already fantasizing about the cup of tea he’ll make himself when he gets home, when disaster strikes. Arthur’s been so caught up in his thoughts, that he completely forgot to avoid abandoned alleys, which more often than not - in this country and every other country - contained one thing: assholes.
(The people kind, not the bodily kind. Though he supposes the latter also exists in every country.)
“Wallet and phone.” His mugger says briskly, the knife in his hand pointing at Arthur’s abdomen.
Arthur briefly thinks he should be happy it’s not a pistol, considering the gun-laws of the country of the free, but he’s also not about to take any chances by fleeing. His shoes are not really made for running, and the concrete is way too slippery. He might escape his attacker, sure, but he might also slip on some ice and break his neck.
“And be quick about it.”
Arthur resists the urge to snap back at him - he’s had a long day, okay - and quickly drops his briefcase in order to pat down his pockets. It’s going to be a pain in the ass to acquire a new passport, though at least he’s left his credit card at home, this time.
“I said to be quick about it or I’m going to - ” Whatever the mugger was going to threaten him with next, turns into a high-pitched yelp, as something blurry all but crashes into him.
Arthur freezes with surprise, one hand still in his pocket and the other already limply holding out his phone. His aggressor has been slammed into the brick wall on Arthur’s right, and is being held up by a single hand. The ample light that the full moon provides helps Arthur to see that the hand in question is slightly deformed, as if elongated by claws. There’s a lot of hair involved too, more hair than Arthur is used to seeing on a human man’s person.
The mugger’s feet dangle from the floor. In between his panicked screaming, he attempts to kick himself free, but the beast-like man doesn’t even flinch when a heel digs into his side. A growl emits from the man’s chest, low and threatening. Then he tilts his head, redirecting his glowing, blue eyes on Arthur, seemingly checking him for injuries.
And all at once, everything about Alfred F. Jonee makes sense.
Except, everything about Alfred F. Jones also does not make sense.
Perhaps the mugger actually knocked him unconscious, he thinks with some hysteria. He’s probably hallucinating now, as the result of a concussion. Or perhaps he’s comatose and dreaming. If not, then he probably needs to check himself into a psychiatric hospital. Because he cannot be seeing what he is seeing right now.
Deciding he might as well cross the threshold to insanity, Arthur takes a step forward and exclaims; “Alfred?”
All at once, the man slash beast lets go of the mugger. The poor man slides down but manages to land on unsteady feet, and he nearly trips as he flees, crying and screaming profanities as he goes. Arthur’s not too bothered by the ruckus - this is still New York, after all, and one insane man on the run would not attract too much attention.
The creature in front of him, however, would. Arthur wonders how it’s gotten here without catching anyone’s eye. He wonders if it’s been following him. And he should stop calling it an it, Arthur thinks, because he’s fairly sure it’s Alfred and well, isn’t that a whole can of worms he hadn’t thought he’d ever had to open?
Alfred turns to him fully, and even though his dark fur (fur!) blend in nicely with the darkness of the night, Arthur’s able to make out his general physique. He’s a little taller, it seems, and he doesn’t look quite… right. Arthur can’t put his finger on it. He’s not exactly monstrous, but there’s definitely something not-human about his form. The fur and claws are telling, as well.
A high-pitched, somewhat plaintive tone suddenly reaches his ears. It carries a sense of discomfort, or perhaps anxiety. It’s soft, subtle, but it’s unmistakingly a whine, and it’s coming from Alfred.
Who is, apparently, a wolf-man. A werewolf.
“I, er. Thank you?” Arthur starts, not knowing what to do. He looks at Alfred’s disfigured joints, wonders if he’s allowed to see this or if he needs to be murdered or brainwashed now. “Uh, Alfred, is that - are you? Christ. What the fuck. What - what do I do now?”
Surprisingly enough, Alfred does not jump forward to rip his head from his shoulders. He also does not lunge forward to knock him unconscious. So Arthur at least has those things going for him. What Alfred does do, is back away, slowly at first, his blue eyes pointedly pinning Arthur into place.
Then he turns and runs, faster than a man should be able to run, and Arthur loses sight of him.
Arthur stands there, nailed to the spot, for a few more minutes. He contemplates life, and life’s mysteries, and he contemplates his promotion and his old life in England, and he contemplates the erotic fantasy novel he’s been reading that week.
Then he does what any sane person would do: he goes home.
For about twenty-four hours, Arthur is torn between packing a bag and fleeing the country, and drinking himself into a stupor so magnificent that he forgets all about his weird Friday night. He’s unable to choose either option though, and ends up puttering about his apartment, restlessly rearranging stuff that did not need rearranging and cleaning stuff that did not need cleaning.
He wonders about Monday. Should he even go to the office? Should he assume he’s fired for finding out the CEO's son's biggest secret? Oh, fuck - did this mean the CEO is also a werewolf? Are more of his coworkers werewolves? Is there a whole pack of them? Is Arthur the only employee who is not a werewolf? Does the existence of werewolves imply that other supernatural creatures, such as vampires, also exist?
The chaos unfolding inside the brittle confines of his own mind abruptly silences when his doorbell is rung, followed by three rapid knocks on its wood.
Arthur’s standing in his hallway, holding a plant in one hand and a lone shoe in the other. He’s not entirely sure what he had been planning on doing with them, but now that he’s offered a proper distraction, he quickly deposits them on the side table underneath his coat rack.
Without looking through the peephole, Arthur swings the door open. It’s probably Francis anyway, wanting to drag him out for drinks - or perhaps it’s Ludwig, returning Arthur’s chromecast after having borrowed it for a party.
It’s neither, of course.
Alfred stands before him, hands hidden in the pockets of his leather bomber jacket. His head is dipped down a little, giving him an air of discomfort; as if he’s a kid, sent here by his mother to apologize for the garden gnome he destroyed while playing football - sorry, soccer - outside.
Arthur slams the door shut.
“Arthur?” Alfred asks through the closed door, somewhat alarmed, and Arthur swallows down whatever noise threatened to come out - he’s not sure if it would’ve been a giggle or a yelp, but it would’ve been embarrassing nonetheless.
“Just a minute!” Arthur answers, and he clenches his hands into fists, before relaxing them again and wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. He looks at his hallway - his apartment is in a state of disarray, and why the fuck is he worrying about how his home looks, when there’s a fucking werewolf in front of his door?
Should he call the cops? Or animal control?
Arthur opens the door again. “Alfred.” He greets, doing his best to sound as nonchalant as possible. “What can I do for you?”
For a moment, Alfred seems perplexed. It’s a look Arthur has not seen on Alfred’s face before, but he doesn’t really feel like he can properly enjoy it. Instead he’s trying his hardest not to look over Alfred’s physique, to see if there is any fur or disfigured joint poking out from underneath his otherwise completely normal and human outfit.
“It’s okay. I’m not here to hurt you.” Alfred eventually says slowly, and his nostrils flare a little. “Stop smelling scared, please.”
Stop - stop smelling what?
“I’m not scared.” Arthur says, and he feels he sounds pretty sure of himself. He’s not scared, after all, not really. If Alfred had wanted to hurt him, he would have probably done it when he had turned into a creature of the night - not when he’s human again. “What are you doing here?”
“Can I come in?”
Arthur wants to refuse. He really shouldn’t let Alfred in. Werewolf or not, that had been one of the boundaries Arthur had not explicitly set - he’s never invited Alfred into his home, before. It would cross a line. But he moves aside anyway, and opens the door a little further. Alfred offers him a small smile before squeezing past him - and shit, he still smells so fucking amazing, it’s unfair. He should at least have the decency to smell like a wet dog, Arthur thinks.
“So, uh.” Alfred says, the moment he’s standing in Arthur’s living room. His eyes politely dance around the room, lingering perhaps a second too long on Arthur’s open bedroom door, before returning to Arthur. “Last night... happened. I can’t say I’m really proud of how it happened, but uh. It did. I guess we need to talk about it.”
Arthur’s hands twitch for something to grab onto; something to tidy, something to hold. It feels so unnatural to simply stand there, opposite of Alfred. He’s probably going to be told to shut up, Arthur realizes. Alfred, while not a worldwide celebrity, is pretty well-known in the right kinds of circles. And considering the existence of werewolves is only ever debated on conspiracy forums (he’s checked), Arthur doubts he wants his secret identity leaked to the press.
“I’m not going to the tabloids or anything, if that’s what you are worried about. In fact, consider it forgotten. I already don’t remember. What did you say happened?”
Alfred scowls a little.
Not what he wanted to hear, then.
“It’s fine, Arthur. I - I would’ve told you eventually.” Alfred says, as if he’s not upending Arthur’s entire world with those few words. “Just not like this.”
“Not - okay. Then how were you planning on telling me?”
“Well, not during a full moon, for starters.” Alfred says, somewhat grumpily, as if he’s ashamed of that particular tidbit. “And not in that shape, either. It’s not exactly pretty, I know.”
“It wasn’t that bad.” Arthur says absentmindedly, thinking back of Alfred’s furry form. Then he realizes what he’s said, and he wonders why on Earth he would’ve said something like that.
Alfred perks up a little, though. Something shimmers across his face - something hopeful? Arthur’s reminded of a puppy looking at a treat, and involuntarily so, he shivers. Alfred’s nostrils flare again.
“Are you - ” Arthur begins then, but he falters, because what he’s about to ask is preposterous. Still, he can’t help himself, especially not when Alfred dips his chin down, gives him an encouraging look. “Are you sniffing me?”
Four simple words, and the air suddenly thickens. Alfred's jaw clenches, and he presses his lips firmly together. His nose twitches, as if it is trying its best not to do what Arthur just accused it of. His eyes - his gorgeous, gorgeous blue eyes, seem to darken a little.
“Well.” Alfred eventually says, voice a little lower than before. “Yeah. You smell amazing, dude.”
Amazing. Arthur smells amazing, he says. Arthur, who hasn’t showered since yesterday morning. Who hasn’t even brushed his teeth after waking up. Did he even put on clean underwear this morning?
“Like. Really amazing.” Alfred continues, even though Arthur did not prompt him to do so. “It’s making me a little crazy, since the day I first saw you. I can bear it, usually, but sometimes? Phew. Especially when you - ”
He falters, silences. Arthur feels his heart pounding in his chest, feels his pulse race. He’s trying to even out his breathing, but it’s increasingly difficult to do so when Alfred is looking at him like that; like Arthur is a bunny, and Alfred is a wolf, exactly like the American had suggested, all those weeks ago.
“When I what?” Arthur asks, realizing Alfred does indeed not just want to jump his bones.
He thinks of scents, of his sense of smell. He’s always chalked up Alfred’s attractive scent to the cologne he was wearing; never thought it could mean something else, entirely. One time, he’d even wondered aloud what cologne Alfred was wearing that made him smell so good, and Francis had given him such a stink-eye. And shit, everything makes so much more sense now.
Alfred walks over to him, his steps large and purposeful. He doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of him, only a hair’s breadth away. Arthur does not need to look up much, but it feels as if Alfred is towering over him regardless.
“When you look at me like you do now.” Alfred says, voice gravelly, and not above a whisper. His eyes drop from Arthur’s; lower to focus on his lips. Arthur swears he sees them darken some more as he unconsciously sucks in his bottom lip to wet it. “Can I, please, can I just - ”
Arthur doesn’t let Alfred finish. Instead, he reaches up and pulls Alfred down into a kiss.
However good he might have smelled, Alfred tastes even better. Arthur can’t help the moan that builds up as Alfred’s hands immediately find his waist, fingers digging in tightly enough to feel bruising. A tongue is shoved inside his mouth and Arthur eagerly welcomes it. Something vibrates against his chest, and Arthur realizes it’s a growl that he’s swallowing as Alfred maps out the inside of his mouth.
After seemingly forever, they part for some much-needed air. A string of saliva connects them until it doesn’t, and Alfred’s eyes drill into his own. Arthur briefly feels as if he’s going to be eaten alive - he’s fine with it, too.
Then Alfred leans forward to bury his face in Arthur’s neck. He inhales, deeply so, his breath stuttering before it washes over Arthur’s skin. The whimper that escapes Alfred next causes Arthur’s own breath to run short, and his arousal grows so rapidly that it’s dizzying.
Alfred moans as Arthur tilts his head up, offering him more. Wet lips travel up the expanse of his neck, pausing at the hollow of Arthur’s jaw. Almost immediately, teeth press gently into the soft, sensitive skin there, and Arthur shudders in response. His new lover does not let up, sucking experimentally at his pulse point before nibbling up his jawline.
Once in range, Arthur tilts his head to slide his lips back against Alfred’s, and he sucks Alfred’s tongue back into his own mouth. Alfred’s hands find their way underneath Arthur’s shirt, palming his abdomen and sides and lower back, as if unsure what to discover first. They eventually dig into his waist again, and then they pull, pressing their hips flush against each other.
“Alfred,” Arthur wheezes, once he’s managed to tear his face away. Alfred’s regarding him with a wild look, and his chest heaves as he pants. He looks about ready to tear Arthur apart, and Arthur can’t wait. “Bedroo- ”
He doesn’t even get to finish his suggestion. Alfred’s hands find purchase on Arthur’s ass and he squeezes, pulling him up so Arthur has no choice but to lean on his toes and allow Alfred to pick him up. He indulgently wraps his legs around Alfred’s waist, assuming that’s what the werewolf wanted, and the ease with which Alfred hoists him up and carries him over to the bedroom, makes him ache with desire.
“Fuck,” Arthur says, once he’s deposited onto the bed. He looks up at Alfred, who is looking down at him, seizing him up. The bulge in his jeans is unmistakable and Arthur’s mouth waters. “Come on, Alfred. Please, I need you in me, fuck.”
The sound that meets his ears is not one a human should be able to make, but Arthur is long past the point of no return. Alfred lurches forward, climbs on top of him. Greedy hands grab onto his shirt and it is all but yanked off of him; his jeans follow shortly after. The newly bared skin seems to drive Alfred insane, and he pushes Arthur back onto the mattress, lowering himself on top of him and dragging his tongue over the offered skin, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.
“You smell so good.” Alfred whines, wetly, and Arthur whimpers, stretching out some more in hopes of urging Alfred along. He’s not sure if it helps, or if Alfred had been planning on continuing either way, but he feels victorious anyhow when Alfred’s inquisitive mouth ends up pressing lingering kisses on his crotch, his cock still shielded by his underwear. “Fuck, so good. Jesus. Arthur, Arthur.”
Briefly, he bares his teeth, and Arthur thinks they are sharper than they ought to be. But instead of being alarmed or intimidated, Arthur only feels more desperate, and it’s as if his cock twitches with encouragement as Alfred all but rips his underwear out of the way.
He’s swallowed down without a warning, and it takes all the self-restraint Arthur can muster to not climax right then and there. There is little finesse in how Alfred is blowing him; it’s all sucking, drooling and licking, but it’s enthusiastic and it’s Alfred, and Arthur doesn’t really care about finesse anyway.
Fingers travel up to the crack of his ass and instinctively so, Arthur tenses. It happens to be the wrong thing to do, apparently, because suddenly Alfred growls with frustration and he pulls back, much to Arthur’s regret. But then he’s flipped over, as if he were nothing but a rag doll, and Alfred manhandles him until his ass is up in the air.
Arthur hurries to prop his knees up, eager to accommodate whatever position Alfred wants him to be in. Straight to business, he supposes - only Alfred does not go straight to business, no. He’s nosing along Arthur’s ass instead, and -
A downright pathetic sound escapes him as a hot tongue suddenly laps over his hole, greedily, as if wanting to taste him. The foreign sensation causes Arthur to feel torn between crawling away and pushing back, but before he can make any kind of decision, Alfred’s hands clamp around his thighs and squeeze, leaving Arthur no means of escape. He has no choice but to arch back into the strong, slick muscle that’s all but spreading him open.
One of Alfred’s hands loosens, slides up his leg and curls around his abdomen. Fingers grab onto Arthur’s recently neglected cock, a bit too enthusiastically perhaps, but the roughness only enhances Arthur’s pleasure and he writhes and twists, seeking out more and more and more -
He comes with a wail, wholly unexpectedly so. Alfred’s too busy slobbering up his hole to notice, Arthur thinks, because he keeps jerking him off until it drives him insane. Right before it borders on painful, however, he stops.
“I need to fuck you.” Alfred all but begs as he bites down on the fat of Arthur’s buttcheek.
“By all means.” Arthur manages to say, in between his own panting and shivering.
He’s not sure when Alfred found the time to undress himself, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because right after Arthur’s given his consent, Alfred straightens and lines up a rock hard cock with Arthur’s entrance.
The first push causes them both to freeze. Arthur struggles to heave in enough air, and he kind of wishes he could turn around, so that he could actually see Alfred, but the hand that’s planted in between his shoulder blades prevents him from doing so. Something sharp digs into the skin, and wildly, Arthur wonders if Alfred was losing so much control that he started to shift.
His abused cock gives a hopeful little twitch - and well. That’s something to unbox another time, he thinks.
A grunt leaves Alfred and he suddenly pushes forward a little, forcing more of his cock into Arthur, who could have been prepared better, if Alfred had bothered to use his fingers as well as his tongue - but he supposes bygones are bygones.
“Sorry.” Alfred says weakly, perhaps sensing Arthur’s discomfort in the way his thighs tremble around him. “Sshh, sorry, it’s - it’s okay, you’re doing so good, taking me so well.” He continues, babbling as he pushes in more, bit by bit, until he finally bottoms out. “Do you - fuck, I wish you could know how you smell to me. You’re killing me.”
And Arthur - Arthur feels as if he can’t breathe, feels so full that he already dreads the moment he’ll be empty once more. He tries to say something, tries to reassure Alfred that it doesn’t hurt, not really, and he’s more than fine, it would actually be even more fine if Alfred started moving. But all that escapes him are one-word pleas and mewls, and Alfred leans forward, pushing himself further inside a little more as he leans down to kiss and bite at Arthur’s shoulder.
Finally, finally, Arthur manages to find the right word; “Move.”
And Alfred does.
Each thrust hits home, dragging along Arthur’s prostate as if it never had a chance of being missed in the first place. Arthur swears he feels his bed move as his thighs are pushed up higher, higher, as Alfred pushes back in deeper, again and again.
“Fuck.” Arthur whines, hands flailing about in a desperate attempt to find some purchase. “Fuck, harder - yes, yes, that’s so good - shit, you’re huge, ugh, you’re so deep,”
“Arthur.” Alfred says, desperately so, as if he’s reciting a prayer that needs answering.
He pulls out, and Arthur yelps at the sudden empty feeling, but then he’s flipped again and before he properly lands on his back, Alfred’s back inside of him. His hands finally find the purchase they had been craving on Alfred’s shoulders and Arthur holds on for dear life, wrapping the one leg Alfred was not pushing to the side around his lover’s waist, to pull him closer, deeper.
Alfred snarls, and his teeth are definitely sharper than they ought to be now. His eyes seem to glow, his glasses long abandoned, most likely tossed somewhere on the floor of Arthur’s bedroom, along with their clothes. He looks almost drunk, Arthur thinks, with his cheeks powdered red and his lips parted, his tongue coming out to taste something in the air every now and then.
A particularly harsh thrust causes Arthur to yelp, and he arches up to absorb most of the sting. Alfred uses the opportunity to slide clawed hands around him, thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of Arthur’s spine.
“Ah - ah - ah fuck, Alfred, fuck,”
Eventually, Arthur feels something change. Alfred’s pace is still brutal, his thrusts still hitting home every single time, but something catches every time he pulls out, preventing a full escape.
“Knot.” Alfred explains breathily, in between pants, his head lowering to Arthur’s, his tongue darting out to lick the sweat from Arthur’s neck. “I’m gonna knot you. Gonna - gonna make you so full. Fill you up.”
Sharp fingers drag over his side towards his stomach, before pressing down. It makes Arthur feel that much more full, and even though he has no idea what Alfred means, he’s fully on board, and so he nods, jerking forward to catch Alfred’s lips in another bruising kiss. His bottom lip catches on something sharp and his tongue is hit with the taste of iron, but who fucking cares, anyway?
Despite his consent, he’s not entirely prepared for the wide something that is suddenly shoved inside of him. Alfred growls gutturally, as if pained, the vibrations of it shaking Arthur to his core. Arthur’s elbows give out and he falls back down onto the bed. It feels as if he’s being ripped apart - it’s too much, it’s not enough.
Alfred doesn’t give him a break, though. He follows him down, keeps fucking him, keeps fucking into him, as if Arthur’s not already filled to the brim. Small, jerky movements push him further and further into the mattress, and Arthur’s unable to process anything but Alfred’s dick and scent and presence.
“So good,” Alfred huffs, his voice raspy, heady. His breath burns over Arthur’s already scorching skin. “So good to me. Feels so good. Smells so good. Gonna cum, make you mine. You’re mine.”
“Ugh,” is all that Arthur is able to say in return, but he wholeheartedly agrees, and in an attempt to prove it, he gathers what little willpower he has left and uses it to squeeze around Alfred’s cock.
The effect is instantaneous - Alfred all but roars and shoves himself further inside so roughly, that it feels as if he’s rearranging Arthur’s fucking organs or whatever, but he doesn’t mind because suddenly Alfred’s coming. Ropes of hot seed paint his insides, and if Arthur were to have any mind left to wax poetry, he might even say he’s able to taste it, that’s how full he feels.
Instead his mind completely blanks out as he comes a second time, and Alfred’s lips find Arthur’s shoulder, his teeth clamping around the soft skin of it and sinking in. Arthur’s not even able to register the stinging pain it causes, because Alfred keeps at it, pumping more and more of his cum into Arthur, and he can feel it dripping out, even though Alfred’s still firmly planted inside of him.
It’s only after Alfred’s grunting and thrusting has simmered down to panting and twitching, that he realizes he’s stuck.
Or rather: Alfred’s stuck.
He’s not entirely sure what to think about that, and perhaps his scent betrays his panic (and boy, that’s something Arthur definitely needs to think about once he's no longer stuck), because Alfred makes another hushing nose. The werewolf on top of him slowly and gently moves them, confirming the previous notion that they’re stuck, until he’s lying on his back and Arthur is spread out on top of him.
And they’re stuck.
To his credit, Alfred looks genuinely abashed - but also blissed out. Horribly satisfied, too. Perhaps a bit smug, even.
Arthur feels his mouth water anew.
“Sorry.” Alfred says, his voice rough and gravelly, as if he’s used it too extensively. “It’s - it’s my knot. It happens when the base of my dick swells, to, uh, keep me inside of you as long as possible.”
Arthur, despite being so properly fucked that he can’t hope to form more than one coherent thought in a row, jerks his hips a little. Experimentally, of course. Alfred winces and scowls, obviously experiencing more discomfort from it than Arthur himself does.
“And how long will it be before your dick realizes I can’t get pregnant?”
The words seem to have a peculiar effect on Alfred, one Arthur is curious to explore some other time. His hands curl around Arthur’s waist protectively, and his eyes lower down to his belly. Perhaps it’s protruding a bit more than usual, Arthur thinks, but that could only be expected after the load that’s just been dumped into him.
He shifts, feels a trickle of cum slide down his thigh. Alfred’s nostrils flare and Arthur feels his heart jump in his chest with excitement.
“Just - just relax.” Alfred says, through gritted teeth. “It won’t be long. You’re taking all of this way too well, by the way.”
“Am I?” Arthur asks, unsure himself - was there a proper, textbook way to take in this situation? Arthur is simply doing what he does best; adapt. He carefully leans back down, makes himself at home atop of Alfred’s chest, and shamelessly takes a whiff of the earthy scent that greets him. “Hmm. Smells nice.”
“I should hope so.” Alfred says, his lips dancing over the bruise he’s left on Arthur’s shoulder. “You’re my soulmate, after all.”
Arthur’s not sure which cosmic being came up with the idea of soulmates, but he thanks them for the creation of one Alfred F. Jones anyway.