Butterfish, you officially give out the weirdest prompts. I'm sorry there is less smut than the other one… Also, sorry I couldn't work in a toothbrush.
This was done in an exchange with Butterfish. Please check out her stuff as well! She's writing me a RoChu for this!
My prompt was basically that Alfred gets turned on by seeing stuff that Arthur has used laying around the house. So he steals it and hordes it. Eh… how did I manage to make this angsty? Anyway, enjoy.
Alfred was not surprised to wake up that morning to an empty bed, knowing full well that Arthur had a 7 AM meeting that would last all day. However, prior knowledge did not translate directly into acceptance, and Alfred found himself frowning, staring at the cold expanse of white sheet where his lover was supposed to be.
He rolled over, as if filling the emptiness himself would be some help. All that he got was a face full of pillow. Resigned to a morning alone and no hope of a quickie, Alfred allowed himself to sink into Arthur's pillow, hoping that he could fall asleep again. After all, it was only 11:30. He sighed, breathing deeply. It smelled wonderful, the pillow – Earl Grey and gunpowder and gingerbread and cold, salty oceans. England. Arthur. He hugged it close to his chest.
It smelled rather strongly, but in a way that wasn't unpleasant; in fact, it made Alfred rather dizzy. If he laid just…right… he could pretend that he was asleep against Arthur's chest as it rose and fell, rose and fell, his head on the blonde's bare skin, turned so that his nose brushed Arthur's stomach, inches from the junction between his legs, so close that lips could almost brush it –
Alfred sat bolt upright and groaned. "Shit," he cursed in a low voice to the echoing apartment. He did not just – okay, yeah, he just got a hard-on. From smelling Arthur.
"I'm in deep, aren't I?" he muttered, running a mournful hand through his hair. "Deep, deep shit, maybe."
Kicking off the skewed quilt, he made his way to the bathroom to take care of this new problem, more than a little perturbed. Oh, he loved Arthur. That much was certain. But he wasn't sure if that was okay, if it was okay to get turned on by the way Arthur smelled, if it was okay to hope that they had gone beyond casual sex and conveniently rooming together whenever they made official visits to the other's respective countries. If it was okay to be – what was that word? Wanking off? – because of an unfortunate run-in with the other's pillow.
It was probably not okay. But that wasn't going to change a heck of a lot.
Alfred flicked on the bathroom light, carefully shutting the door behind him before rummaging in the scant toiletry bag that he'd brought with him for this weekend in London and looking for the three-ounce bottle of hand lotion that he was graciously allowed to take on the plane because of course Alfred Fucking Jones was a terrorist and would blow up the plane with "infusions of aloe vera and herbal naturals". He might smoke it, maybe, with those "herbal naturals".
However, before his hand could close around the familiar, tiny bottle, he noticed something on the counter. It was another bottle of lotion, the inside a pale pink color and smelling faintly of sweet pea. The black plastic screw-cap was lying on its side at the edge of the sink bowl, and despite Arthur's natural fastidiousness, a slow drop of lotion had at one point oozed down the side of the had been used.
Trying courageously hard not to think, Alfred ceased his search and picked up Arthur's lotion, pouring some onto his palm with an excitement that was a little frightening and sitting down on the toilet. He could almost imagine that Arthur had done this before him, pouring out lotion just as he was now, placing the bottle to the side, and slicking up his erection.
"Damn…" Alfred mumbled, feeling the still-cold liquid on a sensitive area. But the shiver that wove up his spine had less to do with temperature and more to do with the image of Arthur masturbating. The way his neck would arch against the touch of his own fingers, the slight curve of his chest as he leaned back against the porcelain, this way his breath would get flighty and come in soft, halting gasps and his beautiful eyebrows would knot together when he was close –
"Arthur…" Alfred moaned, before realizing the warmth on his hand was no long sweet-pea hand lotion.
"Damn," he cursed again, wiping himself off and washing his hands. He pulled on a pair of jeans that he had been wearing the night before and that had now mysteriously flung themselves over the shower curtain rod. Stranger things had happened, though, when Arthur was involved. "I'll just… go and get breakfast and that'll pass the time until he gets back and we can have a quick fuck and talk about our feelings and how much I love him – damn." That was never going to happen.
He banged his forehead on the mirror, and the bottle jumped and clattered into the sink. Guiltily glancing at it, it took exactly six and a half seconds to decide what to do. He palmed the bottle and left the bathroom.
Scooting down the hallway of the flat to find the kitchen, Alfred smelled the unmistakable aroma of burnt toast.
Well, at least he ate something before he left. He looks really thin; I bet he's not eating enough… Not that burnt toast usually would count as "food", in his book, but with Arthur one took what one could get. He set about raiding the refrigerator and came up with the ingredients for fried eggs. Perfect.
As he rummaged in the cupboard for a skillet – which were arranged by size and color – his eyes rested on the countertop. Usually, Arthur cleaned up his breakfast mess (and chastised Alfred for not doing the same) but today he must have been in a hurry, because he had a half-empty cup of tea cooling on the counter, the used bag resting forlornly on the saucer.
Despite the fact that Earl Grey did indeed taste nasty, it actually smelled rather good. Alfred supposed that's why people liked it; they were drawn in by the aroma and by the time they had taken a mouthful they couldn't rightly spit it out. And if they drank enough of the stuff, he firmly believed that it would burn their taste buds off, so they wouldn't mind the flavor anymore. After all, look at Arthur.
But it smelled… very spicy, but in a mellow sort of way. Like Artie – firestorm extraordinaire when roused but surprisingly cute and rather sweet, when he wanted to be. Alfred liked the scent. Before he could stop himself, he had wrapped the teabag in a paper towel and stuffed it in his pocket with the hand lotion. Then he proceeded to make himself eggs.
However, walking around all day with a spent teabag and a bottle of hand lotion in his pockets was not really all that practical. He needed somewhere to put the stuff. Digging around in Arthur's closet, he found an empty cardboard shoebox, fitting his prizes inside. With a guilty glance at the bed, he also removed the pillowcase from Arthur's pillow, replaced it with a clean one from the closet, and folded the other one small enough to place in the box. He buried the box under the piles of half-folded clothes in his suitcase. Then he banged his head firmly against the bedroom wall.
"You are the fucking United States of America," he growled at himself. "Grow up and grow a pair."
The door to the apartment squealed open and Alfred froze and looked up brightly, previous despair dispelled for the moment. Hell to the yes, Arthur was home!
"Artie~~!" he said joyfully, bounding down the hallway and throwing himself at the man who was working his galoshes off in the doorway. Arthur stumbled, falling against the door with a tangle of curses that actually made Alfred blush, although he hid it by burying his face into the sticky, aromatic spot between the black plastic raincoat and the Brit's neck.
"How was the meeting?" Alfred asked with a smile and a bite to the sensitive flesh.
Arthur growled in a way that was completely unamused, shoving Alfred away and tossing his soaked coat at his face. Alfred caught it easily, hanging it up and looking at Arthur expectantly. The man just stormed away, to find a drink.
"Bloody fucking nuts, is what. It was supposed to last until noon, maybe, but no, those bloody fucking politicians can't get anything done. They don't know who's in charge and who is supposed to be responsible. Ha! Responsible! Probably don't even know the meaning of the word –"
The rest of the rant was drowned out as Arthur took a swig of something brown and extremely alcoholic-looking straight from the bottle. Alfred winced, hoping that Arthur would have stayed sensible just a little longer; despite how much fun drunken sex with Arthur could be, his recent musings were making "no strings attached" sex sort of difficult to enjoy. Luckily, Arthur had soon re-capped his alcohol bottle and returned it to the cupboard where he had found it. But the relief was short-lived:
"And you!" Arthur cried, whirling on Alfred, who was lounging in the kitchen doorway, watching him like a hawk. "Are standing in the middle of my kitchen in the same undershirt you wore to bed last night. After wearing it all day yesterday. Its bloody four o'clock in the afternoon!"
Alfred raised an eyebrow, sheepish. He really should have gotten dressed as it was, but of course the morning (afternoon…) had brought some distractions. "Really? Its dark and rainy, so I can't well tell what time it is. Plus, I didn't wake up until noon –"
"Ugh, lucky bastard," muttered Arthur. He seemed to have calmed down fractionally, leaning against the island counter. "Fucking meeting."
"Aww, well, I missed you when you were gone," said Alfred, hedging his bets with the propriety of the admission.
Arthur just shrugged it off, dropping his head and waving a hand in a vague dismissal. He had procured a scrap of paper from the countertop, and a pen, and was doodling absently as he talked. "Yes, you might have, being stuck in the apartment all day. Sorry about the abominable weather. It's something that happens in London. It's called 'everyday'. Still, I know you're here for vacation and all I've done is gone to the office and rant a lot."
"Well, and we had a brilliant shag last night," added Alfred, trying his hand at a British accent. It came out sounding more Scottish than anything, and vaguely reminded Arthur of a tin can being put into a blender. Then the words hit him, and he looked up from his doodling, staring Alfred straight in the eyes.
Alfred was not good at reading glances, and this one was particularly veiled, but he thought that Arthur seemed like he was … searching for something in the American's eyes. Then the Brit straightened, putting down his pen and adjusting his shirt cuffs, as if having something to do with his hands made the situation less awkward.
"I'm going to go change into something dry. Maybe we can go and eat out or something," he said as he brushed past Alfred and towards the bedroom. Alfred watched him hungrily, trying not to dwell on how the wet fabric of his dress shirt clung to his oddly powerful shoulders, trying to focus more on the look on his face and what it could possibly mean.
He drifted (deliberately sidled) over to the doodle, glancing casually at it from the corner of his eye. It was an unremarkable skyline, crude buildings with cookie-cutter windows, spindly towers that didn't seem familiar. Alfred picked it up, folded it once, and stuffed it in his pocket.
The night ended in sex, as they both hoped it would. Knew it would.
They tumbled into the bedroom, lips locked since the front door had done the same, hungry for each other in the theatrical way of American romantic comedies. Angry in an inexplicable, consuming way, Alfred pushed Arthur onto the bed, pinning his arms above his head. Arthur smiled at him through smirking eyes, arching his back.
"Come get me, love," Arthur whispered.
With a growl, Alfred yanked up the tee shirt the Brit had been wearing under the button-up that was currently discarded somewhere in the hallway. He left the undergarment tangled around Arthur's lower arms, his wrists. Arthur tugged his hands, finding them momentarily immobilized. He let out a noise of amusement, temporarily acquiescing.
Alfred barely noticed, lost in his mind. "You don't mean it," he accused angrily, head dipping to bite Arthur's collarbone. Arthur leaned into it, groaning in approval. Alfred dropped bites down his chest, across the thick bone that connected his ribs.
"Oh, but I think that I do. Come and get me," Arthur repeated. Alfred yanked down his pants, fumbling in Arthur's fucking organized bedside drawer for the familiar tube of lube. It was half-empty. They had only used it once that weekend, and not in any large amount.
Alfred slicked himself up only in ceremony, as a sign that "I want you but I don't want to hurt you." He just wanted to pound into Arthur, make him scream. He didn't want Arthur to scream his name. Just make noise. Give him something that only Alfred had heard.
Judging by the half-full tube of lubrication, people other than Alfred had heard whatever sounds would be made tonight.
Its not that you don't mean "come and get me". It's the other part that is a lie. The part where you call me "love".
It was fast and dirty. Alfred kept one hand on Arthur's bound wrists, pinning them. The other went to mindlessly preparing the man beneath him, two fingers thrusting in a fast rhythm, cutting down to little more than base desire, the path of least resistance. Arthur's face showed that he enjoyed it, lost in the haze of arousal as his prostate was hit. Alfred could not decide whether he was furious that his … lover… was so oblivious to his state of mind, or absolutely falling hard for the look of pleasure on his face. His heart settled on a strange, strangling mixture of the two.
It wasn't long before Alfred himself was positioned at Arthur's entrance, his thick tip resting just inside of the Brit. He looked down the man that he held at his mercy, that had always been in control of him. Both knew who was really in control, and it wasn't Alfred. Alfred was just barely holding it together.
Arthur's face was beautiful, eyes gently shut and blush colouring in his cheekbones. Sweat fell in a neat line down his temple, and a sheen of it made every line and curve of his face stand out in sharp relief, a caricature, a beautiful, heady, addicting caricature of the man who would destroy Alfred F. Jones.
He thrust in, aiming to make Arthur black out. From ease of long practice, he hit his prostate. He rammed in again, lost, so lost, he'd lost this game.
Arthur came on his hands. Alfred came inside of him.
There, another bit of me that you own.
Arthur collapsed in a haze of afterglow, and after a smirk and a beckoning wave in Alfred's direction, curled up and closed his eyes. He was not asleep; Alfred knew he was just waiting for Alfred to come and wrap his arms around him and complete the illusion of the evening. And he would be there, playing along, because that was all he had.
He reached down and grabbed Arthur's tie off the floor, the one that he had worn to dinner that evening. It was a silky grey-blue, sprayed with stripes of a matte navy. Alfred had been staring at it all night. He wadded it up and stuffed it in his suitcase with the rest of his prizes. Then he crawled into bed and held Arthur close to his chest like it meant something.
So it's only fair that I get to keep something of yours.
The next morning was the one on which Alfred was scheduled to return home. He wasn't sure whether he ought to be relieved or sick to his stomach with regret. The anger of the night before had worn off with the alcohol, but he was still left with the ever-present strain of continuing loving someone who didn't seem to want to be loved back.
But the point was that he did love him, so… so he really didn't wanna go home.
"I'm making breakfast!" he had yelped when Arthur had complained that he needed a shower. He really wanted to do something nice for the man before he left.
"Nothing greasy!" had been the muffled reply from behind the bathroom door.
So Alfred had cooked a whole bunch of oatmeal and found a box of raisins and a bag of brown sugar and mixed them all in the way Mattie had taught him.
"Breakfast is hot!" he called back towards the bedroom. The shower was off and Arthur should be dressed by now. He didn't get a reply, but a few moments later, the grumpy Brit shot back.
"Bloody hell, Alfred, your suitcase is a mess. It's vomiting all over my floor; do I have to clean this up for you?"
"Haha, don't worry about it, old man, I can get it mys-"
"Arthur, don't touch that!" he called, dashing back into the room.
Two words: Too. Late.
Arthur was frozen, eyes wide and disbelieving, holding the shoebox with the tea bag and doodle and pillow case and lotion and tie and the pair of boxers that Alfred had swiped that morning because he just couldn't help it and Arthur looked like he was going to explode. He was bright red and starting to shake a little.
The nation in question skidded to a stop in the doorway.
"Ah… y-yeah? Um, that's definitely not –"
"Why. Did you steal. My things."
There was no eloquent way to explain this.
"They… um… you see I actually have this trained pet squirrel and –"
That was the voice of a pirate. A furious pirate who was barely hanging onto his sanity and had a pistol pressed to your heart.
"Repeat yourself. Speak up, boy."
Alfred felt like he was going to die. His eyes were squeezed shut, as if that would make the room, the world, this situation disappear. It didn't, but it did protect him from Arthur's murderous, furious glare. So instead of opening his eyes, he shuffled awkwardly over to Arthur, knelt down next to him on the floor, and grabbed the box with heavy fingers. He felt it give – wait, did Arthur actually hand it to him?
His lids flipped open in shock. Arthur was staring back at him, spitting mad, teeth bared, eyes flooded… he was crying…?
"What gives you the right to do this?" he hissed out between clenched teeth. "How can you calmly come in here and fuck up my life so badly? What kind of bloody game are you playing?"
"Game? Artie, what are you – I'm not – you're the one playing games! With me!" Alfred cried. No way was he going to let Arthur come in here and accuse him of "playing around" , not with the way that he'd been treated!
"Yeah, I'm playing, I'm playing this stupid game that you were idiotic enough to set up for the two of us and I'm so bloody fucking done with it. You want a relationship, then make one. Don't want one? Then let me go!"
Alfred scrambled. He wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, to be sure, but… was Arthur saying…?
"You love me?"
And then Arthur really did start to cry. He growled and spat in Alfred's face and the tears began to fall so he stood up and almost bolted from the room but Alfred grabbed his wrist and pulled him into his lap and kissed him soundly.
"Nope, not letting you go," he said with a smile. Because all's well that ends well, right? And it was… ending well, right?
"Let me get this straight. You thought that I didn't really love you. Yes?"
Arthur just stared, cheeks glistening, eyes magnified. "W-wha-?"
"And I thought that you didn't really love me. And that's why I stole your stuff."
This got some color back into Arthur's cheeks. "What does that have to do with –"
Alfred kissed him again, shutting him up. "But you and I love each other, so its okay! Boy, do I feel better now! I thought that stuff was all I was gonna have to remember you by, but this is real, right? So I can say that I love you and you can tell me you love me and I won't need to smell your pillowcase when I get lonely!"
"What in the bloody hell?"
But Alfred kissed him a third and final time and Arthur never did get a chance to properly blow up in Alfred's face. He contented himself with making Alfred late for his flight.