Arthur woke up first, groggy green eyes cracking open as the Angel groaned and shifted. Why was the bed so lumpy? It hadn't been like that before. Still…it was surprisingly comfortable…and warm…and…breathing? What?
This wasn't the bedroom. It was the living room.
Oh. Of course. The storm. He remembered, all too clearly, the terror that had driven him to huddle on the couch and yell gibberish at Alfred's neighbors. Then the American had gotten home. Arthur remembered throwing himself off the couch and flying to the taller man despite the pain in his back, plastering himself to Alfred and crying like a child. It was embarrassing, but Alfred had made everything okay again, and he'd managed to calm down soon enough. Eventually, they'd both fallen asleep on the couch. Which meant Arthur was currently lying on top of a sleeping Alfred.
Bugger…how am I supposed to get up without waking him? He probably needs a few more hours of sleep.
The Angel shifted again, lifting his head slightly in order to better assess his options, and realized for the first time that Alfred's arms were wrapped securely around his waist. It didn't look like he was going anywhere any time soon. Not that he minded. He was warm, and Alfred's chest was broad and muscular enough that he could lay comfortably, his head tucked under the man's chin. He could feel Alfred's heartbeat, a steady ba-bump that seemed too vibrate pleasantly through Arthur's entire frame. Slow, deep breaths made the American's chest rise and fall, his lungs powerful enough that each breath lifted the petite Angel as if he wasn't even there.
He's so strong…
Lightly, so he wouldn't wake him, Arthur traced over Alfred's collarbone, the plane of his chest and the curves of muscle and bone in his shoulder. He was perfect, even with that boring black uniform, and Arthur found his hand sliding up the smooth skin of Alfred's neck, cupping his cheek, his thumb brushing over the soft, pliable lips as a warm breath ghosted against his skin. Alfred was so much darker than Arthur was; his skin was almost golden brown compared to the Angel's pale coloring. It made his hand look even daintier than it really was.
Everything about the American made Arthur feel small and delicate, but he kind of liked it. It was sort of nice to not have to be strong all the time, to be able to relax and let someone else take care of things. Like now. He'd never let anyone hold him like this before, even during his human life, and if it had been anyone other than Alfred, he'd have been embarrassed and covered it up by pretending to be angry. But he didn't have to pretend around Alfred. The human had accepted everything about him from the moment Arthur had first spoken to him, and he never wanted to lose the sense of comfort and trust he felt in Alfred's presence. He didn't want to go without it, ever.
But I won't have it anymore when I go home.
That was an unpleasant thought. As much as he wanted to go home, as much as he missed his own bed and house and friends, going back and never seeing Alfred again, never hearing him laugh—even though it was loud and maybe a little bit annoying—never seeing the happiness in those crazy blue eyes…he didn't want that.
It had only been a few days. He'd known Alfred for three days, and already he was so attached to him, he was almost disgusted with himself. What was he, some love-struck high school girl with a crush on the senior because he had the classic blue-eyes-blond-hair-brilliant-smile-hot-body-comb o-deal? No, no, definitely not. Arthur was a lot of things, but he certainly wasn't a hormone-driven teenager. He was much too old for that sort of nonsense. He liked Alfred because the human was friendly and helpful and understanding. Arthur was more grateful that Alfred had found him than he could say. He could so easily have been found by some murdering lunatic rapist who would have kept him chained in a basement without treating his wound at all, fulfilling sick fantasies about Angels while Arthur was forced to endure it and gather his strength until he could break free and escape.
Thinking about what could have happened brought unpleasant images to the front of Arthur's mind, and he buried his face in the fabric of Alfred's shirt, breathing in the scent of the man to relax himself and move his mind onto more pleasant topics. That was another thing he was going to miss about the human when he returned home: his smell. He might manage to replicate it somehow, but it wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't be Alfred.
Sighing, Arthur rested his cheek on Alfred's shoulder and closed his eyes, content to spend the next few hours sleeping rather than attempting to get up now and most likely ending up waking the American. He could hear the neighborhood just starting to come to life outside, so it must still be fairly early. In that case, he was definitely willing to let himself drift off again, and did so within the next ten minutes.
Hours passed as the two slept on the couch, Arthur nestled against Alfred's chest, the American's arms holding him firmly but gently in a protective way. Muffled noises leaked into the apartment, too quiet to disturb the pair, and all was calm as they breathed not quite in sync, but close. Arthur's fingers were curled into the fabric of Alfred's black security uniform as if he was afraid the American would leave him, something he needn't have worried about even for a moment. The peace was shattered when the TV suddenly came to life, blaring the morning news at almost full volume.
Both men sat bolt upright, knocking their foreheads together painfully.
"Ouch! Ah, fuck," the Angel muttered, putting his hands over his forehead as Alfred groaned and rubbed at his own sore spot.
The TV continued to pour out painfully loud broadcasts, momentarily forgotten by the two males. As soon as the pain dulled enough for him to think, Alfred leaned over and picked up the remote from the coffee table to hit the power button—the TV went black again. Blessed silence filled the apartment and he leaned back against the armrest, sighing in relief as his eyes fell shut. That was, by far, the most aggressive alarm clock he'd ever experienced.
He was about to doze off again when something shifted against a very sensitive part of his body and his blue eyes flew open, his head snapping up.
Oh fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!
It was like something straight out of his daydreams. The thing that had woken him was Arthur, which was fine because he wouldn't mind if the Angel woke him a little early if he was lonely or bored. But this wasn't that. Arthur clearly wasn't bored, and the expression on his face definitely didn't help the rest of it.
The Angel was sitting on him. No, not just sitting. The Angel was straddling him, the fabric of the soft shorts he wore pushed up to his hips so that his creamy white thighs were showing, and he wasn't wearing a shirt. Even worse, he wasn't even wearing shorts because Alfred recognized the material as a pair of his boxers and damn but that was sexy. Arthur's golden hair was sleep-tousled and his hands were braced against Alfred's ribcage as he held himself up. This meant that he was leaning forward slightly, stomach arching so that his narrow frame seemed even more delicate than usual, and his chest was pushed out a little.
As the green-eyed man shyly met Alfred's gaze, biting his lip in uncertainty, the American felt an almost irresistible urge to run his hands up those thighs, slowly, savoring every touch, letting his calloused hands glide over the Angel's soft-as-silk skin. Yes, up his thighs to his hips, holding them gently because they were so small they easily fit into his hands, leaning up to kiss that chest, to run his tongue over the definitions of the muscles and bones so that Arthur gasped and shivered. Then taste the little pink nubs that were just as pale as the rest of him as his arms wrapped around the slender waist to pull Arthur closer, to hold him against Alfred's chest while he continued his ministrations.
It would make the Angel tremble and wrap his arms around the American's neck, and Al imagined his fingers teasing the sensitive skin at the bottom of his spine, fingertips sometimes dipping below the waistband of the shorts as he kissed the Angel's collarbone then neck, up and down, along the underside of his jaw, behind his ear and sometimes licking that perfectly curved ear because it made the petite man gasp.
The pale skin would taste sweet, inviting him, and he'd gladly give in, exploring the graceful neck until he found that one spot that was more sensitive than the rest. That was where he'd bite, gently at first so as not to frighten the Angel, then a little harder, tugging and sucking at the skin until it turned red then darkened into a hickey, proof that Arthur was his and only his, no one else's. Then kiss the mark and lick it, soothing away any pain the Angel may have felt, his hand finally slipping into the shorts to slide around the curve of that perfect bottom, cupping the soft flesh and bringing Arthur's hips forward against his own because the Angel needed to know how badly Alfred wanted him, how badly he needed him. His green eyes would widen and maybe he'd be a little scared and nervous but Alfred would whisper promises that it would be okay and that he didn't have to worry because he loved him, and he'd never do anything to hurt him, ever, and he'd kiss him to prove it, hands patiently working to rid the Angel of those shorts so Al could finally—
The tightness forming in Alfred's pants interrupted the scenario his imagination was playing out for him and he tensed, terrified that Arthur would feel it, that he would be disgusted and never allow Alfred to touch him again, much less hold him like he had last night. Trying to act like nothing was wrong, he smiled a bit nervously and braced his hands on the couch, pushing himself back and up so that Arthur was sitting on his legs rather than his waist where there was a bulge that Alfred prayed the Angel wouldn't notice. That was the last thing he wanted right now.
His attempt at escape appeared to be a success because Arthur relaxed and easily climbed off him, standing and fixing the material of the boxers so that they hid his thighs once more. The Angel stretched, his back to Alfred, his wings spreading and flexing so that the skin between them stretched a little but not enough to agitate the burn. It was a beautiful sight, one that Alfred couldn't take his eyes off of, and it certainly didn't help his…ah…condition.
Before the Angel even had a chance to turn around or speak, Alfred bolted off the couch and into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.
"Alfred?" Arthur's tone was concerned, right on the other side of the bathroom door. "Are you okay?"
He was already shirtless, tearing at his clothes desperately and tossing them haphazardly to the floor. "Um, y-yeah! I just…I didn't shower last night so I feel gross. I'll be quick and then I'll make us breakfast, okay?"
Oh, God, hurry up…!
"Okay. I'll be on the front step if you want help cooking," the Angel's voice drifted through the door, practically caressing Alfred's now-exposed skin as he hastily turned on the shower; he shivered.
"Got it!"
Arthur's footsteps faded as he walked away from the bathroom door, and Alfred forced himself to relax for a moment. He sighed, standing naked by the shower as the water heated up, and looked down at himself with a mixture of disgust and frustration. Even at half mast, his extremely obvious and inappropriate erection begged for attention, and some small masochistic part of him wanted to turn the water as cold as it would go and force himself to calm down, but he didn't. He let the water heat up then stepped into the spray, shutting the shower door quickly to avoid getting water all over the floor. It felt nice against his skin, and he wasted no time in soaking his hair and body.
Moving quickly, he picked up a bar of soap from one of the little built-in shower shelves and rubbed it onto his hands, lathering them until the extra bubbles ran down his arms, then dropped the bar carelessly. He leaned back, the shower wall cold against the heated flesh of his shoulders, and oh so gently began stroking himself with one hand, using the soapy bubbles as lubricant. A shudder worked its way down his spine and he bit his lip, wrapping his fingers around the rod between his legs as his feet slid a little farther apart. It felt amazing and horrible. Guilt at what he was doing ate at him until the pump of his fist washed it away in a blinding wave of pleasure. Just one pump, then back to the stroking, coaxing himself to full arousal and biting back the name he wanted to moan.
Creamy thighs begging to be touched, to be squeezed and kissed and maybe bitten to leave little red marks to claim him, to make sure everyone knew who he belonged to.
"F-fuck…hah…"
His thumb rubbed over the tip, sending another shudder through him as his knees shook.
Green eyes wide with surprise mixed with pleasure, darkened by lust. Those perfect pale lips that looked softer than anything that ever did or ever would exist, parting slightly as a moan escaped them, a moan that sounded like his name.
"Arthur…god…"
The pace of his hand increased, gripping tightly as his eyes closed and his jaw went slack, letting out the groans and moans as they came, not caring if he was heard over the sound of the shower. It didn't matter. No one mattered but the Arthur in his head, the one that loved him and belonged to him and welcomed him into his body, calling his name. Pre-cum began mixing with the soap and he lifted his free hand, trembling, to his hair. That one bit of hair that always stuck up was caught between his fingers and pulled, making him buck against his own hand and call out, the sound not quite a word but more than just a yell.
Back arched, chest heaving and dripping with sweat, pale and delicate like the rest of him. Alfred's tongue gathering the salty taste over the sweet skin, licking, kissing and biting, sucking the sensitive nubs he found. His name coming in pants and moans with every thrust of his hips, filling his ears.
"A-Alfred…!"
"Arthur!" The shout burst from him, his head thrown back against the tile wall as pleasure crashed down on him and his world turned fiery white. He continued to pump, cum covering his hand and the opposite wall as his hips bucked of their own accord. The hand in his hair twisted and yanked on that overly sensitive bit, almost abusively. It was a painful, guilty pleasure, a dirty thing that darkened his already flushed face with shame at what he'd just done.
Slowly, the white faded, as did the imaginary Angel he'd been picturing. His arms went limp, falling to hang at his sides as his legs shook with the effort of keeping him on his feet. Panting, he let himself slide down the shower wall until he was sitting, the water still pouring down on him washing away the soap and sticky white substance that was the proof of what he'd just done.
You're sick. You just jacked off thinking about an injured Angel. There's a special place in hell for you, Alfred. F. Jones.
Despite the hate-filled thoughts he directed at himself, a sense of satisfaction weighed in the American's body as exhaustion began to creep up on him. His limbs felt heavy and useless and he wanted to fall asleep right there, but he knew he couldn't. He had to shower and then go make breakfast, and he had to do it quickly because otherwise Arthur would start to worry, and he definitely didn't want the Angel snooping around so soon after…that.
Alfred focused on slowing his breathing as the shaking in his legs and hands eventually stopped then carefully climbed to his feet, using the wall for support. As quickly as he could, he washed his hair and body, rinsing the shower of any sign of his sinful deed, and finally shut the water off. The air outside the shower was cold enough to wake him up a little more and he dried off before wrapping the towel around his waist and venturing out of the bathroom. He cast a nervous glance at the front door, noting that it was open so that Arthur would be able to hear him if he spoke before he went into the bedroom and shut the door.
It was difficult to resist the temptation just to collapse onto the bed and fall asleep. That was all he wanted right at that moment, but he refrained and dressed, choosing comfortable old jeans and a jacket to lounge around in for the rest of the day.
"Arthur," he called, leaving the bedroom again with the damp towel over his shoulder, "what do you want for breakfast?"
"You wouldn't by any chance know how to make scones, would you?" came the response, and Alfred paused.
Scones? "No, but if you do then we can make some." The sound of footsteps coming back into the apartment reached him as he hung up the towel in the bathroom. Arthur greeted him with a smile when he joined the Angel in the kitchen.
"I'd love to make some scones," the petite man admitted, almost shy. It was, to be completely honest, adorable.
Alfred smiled back and ruffled the Angel's hair playfully, as if he hadn't just climaxed with the man's name on his lips. "Then let's make scones."
He never wanted to make scones again. Even though Arthur had worked with complete confidence while making the biscuit-like "treats," and Alfred had at first thought they would turn out to be delicious because of the petite man's enthusiasm, he now knew better. The scones were like rocks. Maybe they'd just left them in the oven too long, but Arthur didn't seem to think so. The Angel ate them as if they were made of cloud rather than hard enough to crack teeth.
"Do you like them?" Arthur asked, smiling at Alfred across the table. Besides the scones, they'd made scrambled eggs and bacon with orange juice. The Angel had wanted tea, but Al hadn't had a chance to run to the store and pick any up yet, so he'd settled for the juice. So far, Alfred had been avoiding the scones as discreetly as he could, occasionally nibbling at one between bites of his other food.
"Yeah, they're just…different," he lied, smiling in return. The scones were hard and chalky, making his tongue feel dry as he attempted to choke a bit of it down. At least he had orange juice to help get rid of the taste. Maybe he could get used to them.
Somehow, he managed to swallow the last bite of his scone and warily eyed the ones piled on the plate next to the frying pan of eggs.
No, probably not. He had a very poor chance of ever getting used to eating those damn scones.
"Did you want another one?" The innocent expression on Arthur's face was so genuine Alfred almost couldn't believe it. Did he really like the scones as much as he seemed to?
"Um, no, I'm all right." Alfred patted his flat belly to signal that he was full, even though he easily could have eating another serving of eggs and a few more strips of bacon. He'd always had a large appetite, but if he told Arthur that and avoided eating the scones, the Angel might get upset, and he definitely didn't want to hurt the injured man's feelings.
Shrugging, Arthur took another scone, cut it in half, and spread butter over the halves before biting into one of them, his eyes closing in obvious delight. Alfred watched in disbelieving silence—the Angel had to have jaws of steel and a stomach like a tank to eat so many of those rocks in one sitting. Al had managed to eat one, while Arthur had eaten at least four by this point and clearly thought they were perfect. That was fine with Al. The Angel could have all the scones to himself if he liked them so much. Alfred had no intentions of forcing himself to eat another one unless he had no other options.
"So, Arthur, what would you like to do today?" the tall blond asked after a moment, leaning back in his chair comfortably.
The Angel shrugged. "What else is there to do but watch TV?"
"We could go for a walk or something, since it isn't cold enough to snow yet and it isn't supposed to rain tonight. There's a park nearby that we could go to, if you want."
Going outside, farther than the front step? Arthur smiled. "I'd really like that. Thank you."
Unable to help himself, Alfred grinned, blue eyes twinkling. "Then we'll go after we clean up. I don't have to work tonight, so there's no rush, either."
Arthur perked up, his excitement making Alfred chuckle. "Really? That's great. It'll be nice not to be here by myself tonight."
That comment made Al feel just a bit guilty for having left the Angel on his own, especially after how terrified he'd been from the storm. "I'm sorry about that, but we'll hang out tonight, and after our walk I'll check to see how your burn is healing."
"Okay."
They smiled at each other, sapphire eyes meeting emerald ones for a moment before Arthur went back to eating his scone. Al thoughts wandered to the park, trying to decide where exactly he would take Arthur during their walk. There was one spot in particular he thought the Angel would enjoy, and he began to feel a little bit impatient for Arthur to finish eating so they could go. However, he forced himself to be patient and wait. He'd told Arthur there was no rush, so he relaxed in his chair and waited, taking this quiet time just to enjoy the other man's presence while it lasted.
