Chapter Text
Arthur was pretty much perfect.
Granted, Alfred had enough of a prideful streak to say that about anyone he was courting, but this time there was no bluster or hedging. Despite identifying as bisexual since middle school, he’d spent twenty-four years of his life only dating omegas. He’d had plenty of great months, years, and more than a few very pleasant nights with the various omegas who’d caught his eye, but there was something missing. A certain spark, a quirk to the dynamic he hadn’t realized he’d been looking for until he found it in Arthur.
It encompassed many things. Not to be stereotypical, but Arthur was a lot more spirited than the omegas Alfred had dated. He said what was on his mind—unless he was being passive-aggressive, but both of them preferred skipping that first part so they could get their arguments over with in favor of a different sort of carnal expression—and he actually challenged Alfred. He never cowered or expected help for things he was perfectly capable of doing himself. He acted like an alpha, because he was an alpha.
Not that he would ever admit it, but sometimes Alfred had to remind himself.
It wasn’t about how he dressed or styled his hair, nothing old-fashioned like that. Arthur was quite masculine all things considered, occasionally more so than Alfred—and, to his credit, Alfred was not ashamed at all to hide his face in Arthur’s neck when they watched scary movies. Contrary to his sire’s belief, one of them wasn’t the omega of the house; they took turns doing the dreaded cooking, Alfred did the laundry because he was particular about the amount of detergent, Arthur did the tidying because he couldn’t smell the nasty cleaning chemicals. They both liked their music loud and their days busy. In the evenings they competed to see who knew the most answers on game shows and the loser had to make breakfast the next morning, even if it was just cereal. It was like any relationship, to be honest, so Alfred shouldn’t have been having the thought at all.
But Arthur was just so little.
Alfred thought he was an omega the first time he saw him. They met at a party in college, Alfred just beginning and Arthur nearing the end though you’d never know to look at him. Alfred had approached him with far more confidence than he should have. Hey, are you a freshman too? A few people behind Arthur had snickered and the man himself had sipped his drink before replying, Do you wear those things to look charming or are they actually supposed to make you see better? Which was an insult, he realized in retrospect, but of course at the time all he’d heard was charming and it didn’t take long to get Arthur’s number. Only when he leaned in close to say goodbye did he smell the truth: Arthur, barely five-four Arthur, was an alpha.
Months later Alfred learned it was a genetic disorder that affected Arthur in multiple ways. He’d never truly finished puberty, and despite biweekly injections his voice was still higher than most adult alphas’ would be. He remained concave, which was the nicest way to say he was incredibly scrawny. He occasionally dropped things for no reason, stumbled over nothing, or sprawled on the stairs because he’d missed a step going up (he’d learned, thankfully, to avoid this mistake going down). He had no sense of smell to speak of, which Alfred found more alarming even than the under-developed things Arthur had been too embarrassed to show him for the first six months of their relationship. (So you can’t smell French fries? Or cookies in the oven? Or—Whatever you’re about to say, the answer is no.) And, of course, for none of that did Arthur feel sorry for himself, or complain, or think himself a victim. He just lived his life with the cards he’d been dealt, and Alfred loved him for it.
And he also loved him for being so goddamn cute.
Alfred loved spooning him, fitting around him like a comma and nuzzling into the scent glands of his neck. He loved carrying him to bed, loved pinning him down on the mattress—or up against a wall, or across the hood of the car, among other places. He loved claiming his mate, loved covering him so entirely, loved being the only thing Arthur could see when he was on top of him. Mine, mine, mine. He loved holding his hand, cradling the freckled warmth in his palm or feeling the tightness of their twined fingers. He loved sensing that, the breaking point just before Alfred became too big, too heavy, too much for him to handle. He loved protecting Arthur from himself.
But the best above all else was without a doubt when Arthur went into rut.
What a sweet, sweet meat.
Because of his unsteady hormone levels, rut was not a routine occurrence for Arthur as it was for Alfred. Some months he didn’t go into rut at all, some months it happened twice. Whenever Alfred worked evening shifts, the thought of what state he might discover his mate in kept him wide awake on the drive home.
Tonight, he knew as soon as he walked in the door. The scent of musk filled his lungs; he grinned as it shivered through him, stirring instincts of old. Not quite the same as the scent of an omega in heat, but still tantalizing enough that he was swelling in his jeans before he even stepped into the living room.
Arthur was facedown (or, indeed, assup) on the couch, nuzzling into the armrest Alfred always leaned on, rutting uselessly against the cushions. He’d been unable to figure out his belt, by the look of it, and so he was fully dressed as he struggled for that sacred friction. When he heard Alfred’s footsteps, however, he lifted his head and looked over: cheeks pink with blush, skin sheened with sweat, eyes dark with lust.
“Aw, sweetheart,” Alfred said, his voice dipping into a rumble, “did you miss me?”
A needy whine rasped from Arthur’s throat. He slid to the floor and knelt there, waiting, imploring.
Outside of the inherent turn-on of seeing this alpha—his alpha—abase himself like this, it was fascinating to observe how differently rut affected them. Alfred’s thoughts, feelings, entire being were overcome by the base need to push inside, in, in, his teeth in broken flesh and his knot in tight warmth until he was everything, simply everything that Arthur depended on to get through to the next moment of painful pleasure and the next and the next until they could both find bone-shattering release. His instincts whispered guard him mark him take him take him take him and he was more than happy to listen.
He never would’ve considered dropping to his knees and rubbing his face into a thigh, but that’s what Arthur was doing now. Alfred stroked messy hair back from his forehead. They had their moments of fighting for dominance, sure, but rut stripped all that neatly away. Alfred wondered why: was it a natural assumption of their instincts, given their differing sizes, that Alfred would be the protector, the provider, the claiming alpha? Or was it their natural disposition? Would Arthur be this way with anyone, or was it just how he liked it best with Alfred?
Not that it mattered. Alfred liked it best this way, too.
“You want that?” he asked as Arthur’s attention honed in on his tented zipper. Alfred chuckled. “I think you’ve needed to come a lot longer than I have.”
He doubted any of this was being comprehended, let alone retained, but he liked to talk and he definitely liked to tease. To his surprise and delight, after their extensive Will/Won’t discussions, Arthur liked it too. (You can torture me if you want. Uh, you mean, like, not actual torture, right? Did I stutter?) He fisted a handful of Arthur’s hair; Arthur rose higher on his knees, pressing close to Alfred’s leg, desperate for something he couldn’t name. Whimpers came fast, the begging he so rarely resorted to during their kinkier sessions. Nothing like that could be done right now—Arthur was more experienced with such things, and Alfred found that all the more reason for he himself to be so cautious with consent—but sometimes less was more.
“You have the real deal now,” Alfred pointed out. “Aren’t I way better than a couch cushion?”
Arthur knew what that tone meant if not the words. Patience lost, he tightened his grip on Alfred’s thigh and began jerking his hips against Alfred’s calf. Alfred grinned. Small as it was, he could still feel the strain in Arthur’s pants. He’d given up on whimpers and only gave grunts laced with a snarl, perhaps a warning for the harsh nips to Alfred’s knee.
“Hey,” he protested through laughter. “Your teeth are sharp, little bastard.”
No sign of listening: Arthur was a man on a mission. Alfred regretted not sitting down; it wasn’t like Arthur was a lot of weight, but his thrusts were getting harder and more powerful by the second and Alfred would’ve preferred his center of gravity to be a bit lower for this. He dug the nails of his free hand into the spot on Arthur’s neck he would’ve bitten if he were close enough—Arthur tipped his head back in fevered appreciation—then slipped his fingers between Arthur’s parted lips. He sucked on them in earnest, his sounds muffled and softened into puppylike pleas.
“You’re spoiled,” Alfred remarked, “you know that, right?”
Sure, he was dryhumping himself to orgasm at present, but on the whole: completely spoiled.
“Come for me, baby,” Alfred murmured, “so I can carry you upstairs and fuck you to sleep.”
This was more for the benefit of his own aching erection, but perhaps Arthur heard the husky arousal in his words because he jolted, fingers bunching Alfred’s jeans, every part of him trembling as he finally came. Alfred tenderly brushed the tears from his eyelashes before he removed his other hand from Arthur’s mouth.
“Move back, sweet thing, so I can see . . .”
There it was, between legs splaying outward in exhaustion, charcoal denim darkened to black in a small, slowly spreading spot. Alfred could just barely smell the salt and satisfaction of it. He fought the temptation to just drop to the floor and fuck Arthur to oblivion right then and there; he knew the rug burn wasn’t worth it.
“Upsie-daisies,” he said, lifting Arthur into his arms. Arthur buried his face in Alfred’s neck, mouthing at his scent glands even though he couldn’t smell the musk there. It was a comfort to Alfred regardless, and he rumbled gratefully so Arthur would know.
“What was that?” he asked, Arthur’s mumble lost to the creak of the stairs beneath Alfred’s feet.
“Mine.”
Alfred chuckled as he dropped his alpha onto their bed. “Yep,” he agreed, unbuckling his belt at last, “I’m all yours, little darlin’.”