Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Arthur loves afternoons.

He loves it when the sun dips low, casting golden light over the rolling fields that surround his village. He loves it when the air thickens with the scent of tilled earth and when the sky fills with the calls of birds settling for the evening.

The best part of all, however, is that he’s allowed to slip away during the afternoons. Away from the shouting, the gruff demands of his brothers and father, the tension that seems to thrum through their home like an ever-present storm cloud.

His family is neither rich nor destitute, living in that odd space between hardship and comfort. Their farm provides enough to keep them fed, their work keeps them occupied, but there is never an abundance. His father wakes with the sun, and his mother works tirelessly to keep their home running, ensuring that every scrap of food is used and that every stitch in her boys’ clothing holds.

So far, Arthur’s been allowed to dream and wander. His three older brothers, all Alphas, bear heavier burdens. As the fourth son, Arthur knows he is expected to present as an Alpha as well, but… he's not sure if he wants to be an Alpha. 

His brothers are loud, confident, always pushing and posturing. Their voices fill every room, their presence taking up all the space until Arthur feels like little more than a shadow at their heels. He’s too young to present yet, but that doesn’t stop the expectation from looming over him like a weight he can’t yet lift.

Would he be like them? Would he be expected to shove and snap and fight for his place at the table? Or worse… what if he wasn’t like them at all?

As much as Arthur doesn’t want to be an Alpha, he knows he doesn’t want to be an Omega either. He’s seen how male Omegas are treated, how they are spoken about in hushed tones or with dismissive sneers. A male Omega is less, less even than a female Omega. Less important, less respected, less listened to.

They aren’t expected to lead, to push back, to claim space the way Alphas do. Instead, they are meant to be soft, to yield, to accept the place the world gives them without complaint. Arthur has watched how people look at the few male Omegas in the village, how they are treated like delicate things, like something that needs to be kept rather than heard.

The farmers talk about them like they talk about livestock, as if their worth is measured not by who they are but by what they are. The older boys snicker behind their backs, whispering things Arthur only half understands but knows aren’t kind. Even his father, who rarely speaks of such things, shakes his head when one is mentioned, muttering things like waste of a strong frame or shame he was born that way.

Arthur doesn’t want that, either.

He doesn’t want to be something his father pities. He doesn’t want to be the person others assume is weak, someone they think they can push or mold into something convenient. He doesn’t want to be like the old shopkeeper’s son, who never speaks louder than a murmur, who flinches when his father calls his name. He doesn’t want to be like the baker’s brother, who was sent away to live with distant relatives because there was no place for him here.

He doesn’t want to be less.

But he doesn’t want to be like his brothers either, doesn’t want to be loud for the sake of being loud, doesn’t want to spend his days fighting to be heard, doesn’t want to be another version of them.

He just wants to be Arthur.

He tries not to think about it, but it’s always there, lingering in the back of his mind.

For now, he exists in the in-between. Old enough to work, to carry water and tend to the animals, but not important enough to be considered. Not strong enough to be included in his brothers’ scuffles, not skilled enough for his father to rely on him the way he does the others.

His mother sees him, at least. She lets him wander, lets him slip away into the forest when his chores are done, and doesn't expect him to be something he’s not yet ready to be. 

His feet barely make a sound against the soft grass as Arthur runs across the fields, toward the treeline. The forest is dark and cool as it welcomes him into its vast depths, and for the first time that day, he relaxes.

Here, among the trees and tangled underbrush, he can pretend the rest of his admittedly small world doesn’t exist. His mother had given him her usual warning before allowing him to venture out.

"Stay near the paths, don’t cross the river, and stay away from the fairy rings."

The words are drilled into him like the kind of lesson meant to keep a child safe. Not to keep him from adventure, just from danger.

To twelve-year-old Arthur, this is fine. The forest is huge, far bigger than his little world of fields and farms, and there’s still so much he hasn’t explored, even without crossing the river. It stretches on forever, or at least it feels that way, full of secrets just waiting for him to uncover them.

Still, boys will be boys, as his mother often says when his brothers get too rough, when a clay pot ends up shattered or a wooden stool is knocked over in their wrestling. Arthur knows what she means when she says it: that boys are curious, restless, eager to push the edges of the world around them.

And lately, Arthur has been pushing.

A little at first, just stepping off the beaten paths, daring to wander into the underbrush, his feet light and careful. Always with good intentions, of course, he’s not a bad kid, not reckless like his brothers can be. 

He only strays when he has a reason, like finding berries for his mother to use in her baking, or searching for fallen bird eggs to bring home and marvel at before placing them back where he found them.

But each time, he lingers a little longer. Strays a little farther.

There’s something about the forest, something that makes it feels like his place, a world apart from the noise and the expectations of home. And if he wanders just a little too far sometimes… 

Well, no one has noticed yet.

Today, something catches his attention. A small brown rabbit darts just ahead, its white tail flashing like a beacon as he gets spooked by Arthur’s presence and flees. Arthur’s curiosity sparks, and he follows, weaving through the undergrowth and stepping over gnarled roots as he attempts to chase the quick creature.

He doesn’t realize how far he’s wandered until the trees thin and he steps into a clearing. The rabbit is nowhere to be seen, but that’s not what causes Arthur to falter.

In front of him, the ground is dappled with mushrooms, perfectly arranged in a large circle.

A fairy ring.

Arthur freezes, his mother’s voice echoing in his mind.

She often tells him stories about the fairies, their playful and mischievous nature, the dangers they pose to those who stray too close.

Fairies, she says, can be as charming as they are nefarious, their laughter sweet and their tricks cruel. They are known to swap little children for one of their own, leaving behind strange and eerie children who never quite fit.

Even worse, they could capture those who step inside a fairy ring, trapping them in their world, a place where time flows differently and where one could lose decades in the blink of an eye.

Slowly, Arthur takes a step backward, but nothing happens. The air doesn’t shimmer, there are no hands reaching out to pull him in. A frown creases his brow.

What if these stories are just that? Stories?

His mother had once convinced him that mountains were giants, too, and that proved to be nothing more than a tale.

His fingers twitch. One small touch can’t hurt. Just a little tap, just to see…

His fingertip brushes the soft cap of a mushroom.

“You shouldn’t touch those with your bare hands.”

The voice is deep and smooth, like warm honey laced with warning. Arthur stumbles back, his heart hammering in his chest as he trips and falls on his rear.

Looking up, he sees a man standing inside the ring in front of him, tall and dressed in black. Dark smoke curls at his feet, as if he’d risen from the earth itself. His hair is as black as a raven’s wing, and his skin is as pale as moonlight. But it’s his eyes that unsettle Arthur the most: icy blue, almost glowing, watching him with curiosity and amusement.

And then there are the horns. Twisting black ram’s horns that curve back over his head.

Arthur’s mouth goes dry.

A fairy. A real one.

The fairy steps closer to the edge of the ring and leans forward, his gaze settling on Arthur like a cat watching a particularly interesting mouse. Trying to look braver than he feels, Arthur quickly climbs back to his feet and takes a cautious step back, just in case.

“Why not come a little closer?” He coaxes. “I’ll tell you more.”

Arthur stiffens, his heart hammering against his ribs as the fairy lifts a hand, palm up, beckoning him forward. The smoky tendrils curling from his fingertips dance in the air, slow and enticing.

“Come on.” The fairy’s voice is gentle, coaxing, and now Arthur can see that he has fangs. “I promise, nothing bad will happen.”

Arthur scowls and takes a step back instead. “You promise? That’s exactly what a monster like you would say before stealing someone away!”

The fairy laughs, low and rich, the sound curling around Arthur like smoke. “Do I look like I need to steal anything? If I wanted you, wouldn’t I have taken you already?”

Arthur hesitates. “Maybe you’re waiting for me to be foolish enough to step inside first.”

The fairy’s grin widens. “Oh? And what would happen if you did?”

Arthur straightens. “You’d kidnap me and take me away to your world, and I’d never see my family again.”

The fairy sighs, pressing a hand over his heart as though Arthur had wounded him.

“Kidnap is such an ugly word. “He laments. “I prefer invite. But alright, I suppose if you’re too scared…”

“I’m not scared!” Arthur snaps, bristling.

The fairy’s smirk deepens. “Then what’s stopping you?”

Arthur hesitates only for a moment before stomping his foot. “Because my mother told me not to! She says fairies lie, and they trick people into stepping inside! That’s the only reason you want me to do it!”

“Fairies, huh?” The fairy lets out a dramatic sigh, rubbing his temples as though Arthur’s stubbornness is giving him a headache. “Mothers do have a way of spoiling all the fun.”

Then, with an air of lazy indifference, he takes a single step back from the edge of the fairy ring.

Arthur’s heart leaps. His chest puffs out with confidence: his mother had been right! Fairies can’t leave the rings. He had been cautious before, unsure of the truth, but now armed with proof, curiosity wins over fear.

He plants his feet more firmly on the ground, shoulders squaring as he eyes the figure before him. “Who are you?”

The man tilts his head, his pale blue eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Alfred.”

Arthur frowns. That doesn’t sound like a very fairy-like name. He crosses his arms, determined to get answers. “Where are you from?”

Alfred’s lips twitch into an amused smile. “A magical place.”

Arthur isn’t satisfied. 

“Do you live in this ring?” He presses, his gaze flicking to the mushrooms surrounding Alfred’s feet.

Alfred hums, his expression one of quiet amusement. “I travel between rings.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. His mother never mentioned that fairies could do that. He makes a mental note to look for more fairy rings in the future, to see if he can catch another one. “You are a fairy, right?” 

Alfred chuckles, the sound low and rich, curling through the air like smoke. “Something like that.”

Arthur isn’t sure if he should believe anything Alfred tells him. But Alfred isn’t trying to drag him into the ring, isn’t laughing wickedly or casting spells. He just stands there, watching with that same faint amusement, as if Arthur himself is the curious thing in this exchange.

Arthur straightens. “I have a lot of questions.”

Alfred exhales, shaking his head in mock exasperation. “Do you, now?”

Arthur nods, stepping just close enough that the tips of his boots brush the edge of the ring, but never over. He isn’t foolish. “Like… where do you go when you travel? How did you get here? And why do you have horns?”

“Curious little thing, aren’t you?” He studies Arthur for a moment, then shrugs, as if resigning himself to the interrogation. “What is your name?”

Arthur hesitates. Never tell a fairy your full name, his mother had warned him once before bed. Names hold power. To give yours freely is to hand them a thread to weave into their magic, a tether they can use to pull you into their realm.

Just his first name, then. That should be safe.

“…Arthur.”

Alfred’s smile widens just slightly. “Nice to meet you, Arthur.”

Arthur shifts from foot to foot, unsure what to think. Alfred doesn’t seem dangerous, not in the way his mother had described fairies. He isn’t laughing wickedly, nor is he trying to drag Arthur into the ring. He just stands there, watching, like Arthur is the strange and fascinating creature in this scenario. He clears his throat, curiosity overpowering his discomfort. “So, where do you go when you travel?”

Alfred gives a slow, knowing smile. “Many places.”

“That’s not an answer.” Arthur accuses with a scowl.

The fairy chuckles, rich and warm, like embers crackling in a fire. It raises the little hairs on Arthur’s arms. “It is, if you know how to hear it.”

Arthur huffs. “And how did you get here? If you travel between rings, does that mean you can disappear whenever you want?”

Alfred lifts a hand, and for a moment, dark smoke curls between his fingers before dissipating like it had never been there at all. “More or less. Coming and going isn’t as simple as you might think.”

Arthur watches the smoke fade, fascinated. He doesn’t know what Alfred is, but he knows he’s not like the fairies his mother described. Still, just in case, he remains cautious: Alfred might not be able to leave the ring, but he might still be able to cast a spell on Arthur.

“Do all fairies have horns?” Arthur asks, narrowing his eyes. Alfred tilts his head slightly, as if giving Arthur a better look. 

“No. They’re a gift.” He pauses, then smirks. “Or a curse, depending on how you look at it.”

Arthur considers this. “Did you grow them or were you born with them?”

“Ah, now that’s a good question.” Alfred laughs and folds his arms. “Let’s just say, I didn’t always have them.”

Arthur’s brow furrows. “Did it hurt?”

Alfred raises an eyebrow. “Why? Are you planning on growing horns?”

“No! But it looks like it would hurt.”

“Pain is relative.” Alfred says mysteriously, with a lazy shrugs, and Arthur frowns. He doesn't like that answer, nor does he really understand what Alfred means, but he decides it's not worth finding out so he changes the subject.

“If you don’t live here, where do you live?”

Alfred smiles again, and for the first time, it looks almost genuine. “Somewhere far from here.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “That’s another one of those answers that isn’t really an answer.”

“You catch on quickly.”

Arthur squints at him. “...Do you eat people?”

Alfred blinks before throwing his head back and laughing a full, genuine laugh, not just an amused chuckle. “Do I eat people?”

Arthur folds his arms, his cheeks flushing red with embarrassment. “It’s a valid question!”

“No, Arthur, I don’t eat people.” Alfred answers, sounding somewhat exasperated.

Arthur relaxes slightly, then squints again. “But could you?”

“You’re awfully concerned about whether or not I’m planning to eat you.” Alfred says, appearing genuinely amused as he looks down at Arthur with a smirk, and Arthur shifts uncomfortably.

“Well… it’s just that you do have fangs.”

Alfred taps one of his pointed canines with his fingertip, as if considering. “Fair enough.”

Arthur studies him for a moment. “Can you fly?”

“Do I look like I have wings?” Alfred asks, his lips curling into another grin.

Leaning to his side, Arthur attempts to peek at Alfred's back. He thinks he sees something shimmer in the air, but it could be a trick of the light, so he shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re invisible.”

Alfred lets out another chuckle, shaking his head. “You really do ask a lot of questions, Arthur.”

“I like knowing things.” Arthur mutters, suddenly a little embarrassed.

Alfred watches him for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he nods, as if to himself. “A dangerous habit. But admirable.”

Arthur considers this. If Alfred admires Arthur for asking questions, then it must mean he does not mind. What else can he ask? Oh, he knows! “Are fairies really afraid of iron?”

Alfred lets out another low laugh. “Well, that depends on who you ask.”

“What about salt? My mom says salt keeps fairies away.” Arthur asks, his eyes lighting up, but his excitement deflates quickly when Alfred gives him an unimpressed look. “So it doesn’t work?”

“Maybe.” Alfred says as he shrugs. “Maybe not.”

Arthur crosses his arms. “You’re really bad at answering questions.”

“And yet, you keep asking them.”

Arthur has no response to that. He huffs, scuffing his boot against the dirt before glancing up at the sky. The sun is sinking lower. He really has to go, his mother will expect him home soon.

“I have to go.” He says with some reluctance. “But… I’ll come back. If you’re still here.”

Alfred raises a brow. “Is that so?”

“You don’t seem so bad.” Arthur admits, pursing his lips as he looks Alfred over once more. 

“High praise.” Alfred says with another chuckle. Then, his expression shifts slightly, something more serious clouding his features. “But if you do return, Arthur, don’t tell anyone about me.”

Arthur blinks. “Why not?”

Alfred smiles, but it wasn’t as teasing as before. “Because if you do, I’ll never come back.”

Arthur’s stomach twists. It’s not a threat, but there is a finality in Alfred’s tone that makes him uneasy. He doesn’t want Alfred to disappear, not when he still has so many questions.

“…Alright.” Arthur agrees. “I won’t tell anyone. But you’ll be here?”

Alfred nods once, satisfied. “Oh, I’ll be here.”

Arthur hesitates before turning on his heel. But just as he starts walking away, Alfred’s voice reaches him one last time.

“Remember.” Alfred calls, voice almost too soft for Arthur to hear. “If you tell anyone about me… I’ll never come back.”

When Arthur arrives home, the scent of simmering stew fills the air, warm and familiar. His mother stands by the hearth, stirring the pot with a practiced hand, her sleeves rolled up past her elbows. A strand of hair has fallen loose from her braid, but she doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on her work.

His brothers are crowded around the table, shoving at one another between bites of bread. Alistair grumbles as he elbows Dylan hard in the ribs. “Move over!”

“I was here first!” Dylan snaps, shoving him back.

“Both of you, stop it!” Seamus groans, trying to keep hold of the loaf in his hands before one of them snatches it away. “Or at least wait until after we’ve eaten to beat each other up.”

Arthur lingers by the door, watching them with mild amusement. It’s always like this, his brothers are always filling the house with noise, always roughhousing, always taking up space. But today, Arthur feels apart from it, carrying something entirely his own.

A secret.

His mother glances over her shoulder, wiping her hands on her apron. “Arthur, you’re late coming home.”

Arthur hesitates, gripping the strap of his satchel. The words sit on the tip of his tongue (I met a fairy) but instead, he swallows them down.

“I saw a rabbit!” He exclaims instead, stepping forward quickly to distract from his moment of hesitation.

His mother hums, raising an eyebrow at him as if she senses something unsaid. “Did it get away?”

Arthur nods, shifting on his feet. “Yeah. But I think I’ll see it again.”

Dylan snorts. “You always say that.”

Arthur scowls. “Well, maybe I will this time.”

“Maybe he’ll bring it home like that dumb bird he tried to keep last spring.” Seamus teases. “What was its name again?”

Arthur glares. “His name was Mint and he wasn’t dumb!”

Alistair snickers. “He was dumb. He flew straight into the house.”

“And straight into Mother’s soup pot.” Dylan adds with a grin.

Arthur gasps, appalled. “He did not! ”

His mother shakes her head, exasperated. “Mint was set free, and if you all don’t settle down, none of you will be eating tonight.”

The boys groan but quiet just enough to satisfy her.

Arthur moves to his usual seat at the table, but his mind is elsewhere. As his brothers bicker and their mother sets out bowls, he wonders what Alfred is doing now. Is he still standing in the ring, waiting? Would he disappear the moment Arthur left? Or was he watching, somehow, from wherever it was he really came from?

A shiver prickles down his spine, but he shakes it off quickly.

For now, his secret is safe.

Chapter Text

Arthur wouldn’t go as far and say the fairy ring is his favorite place to escape to. But, then again, the forest is his favorite place, and the fairy ring is part of the forest, so in some way, the fairy ring is part of his favorite place.  

It’s best not to dwell on it. 

The past two or so years, he sneaks away more and more often after finishing his chores. His mother’s warnings stay fresh in the back of his mind but his curiosity (and frustration) always reign victorious. 

It’s not as if he’s being reckless, though. He keeps his distance, he never steps over the threshold and he never quite trusts Alfred’s casual indifference when he beckons Arthur closer. 

All of that does not mean Arthur does not look forward to their meetings, incidental as they may be. He doesn’t see the magical creature that often: sometimes months go by without any sign of the black-haired fairy. More often than not, Arthur arrives at the ring to find it empty and although he lingers and experiments with calling Alfred’s name, it often remains empty. 

He tells himself it doesn’t matter. Arthur has better things to do (Alfred probably has better things to do as well), and it’s silly to be disappointed. 

Sometimes, when he feels particularly slighted or stubborn, Arthur avoids the ring for a few weeks in a row, hoping to give Alfred a taste of his own medicine. His resolve never lasts, however, and one way or another, he always finds himself back at the ring, wondering if Alfred will be there, waiting, lounging in the ring with that lazy smirk and those eerie, glowing eyes. 

And despite their infrequent meetings and Alfred’s mysterious and wholly frustrating attitude… Arthur admits he’s grown a little attached to the fairy. 

Alfred is a good listener, which is a rare thing in Arthur’s life. His father doesn’t listen, nor do his brothers. They all expect him to fall in line, to keep up and to fit into the mold they have already carved out for him. His mother, bless her, she does her best to make him feel heard, but even she is confined to her role, her voice never quite loud enough to drown out the rest - the most she is able to do is allow Arthur to sneak away when he gets overwhelmed. 

And apart from his family, Arthur doesn’t really have any friends. 

The other teens in the village see him as an extension of his brothers: too quiet to be interesting but too meek to be worth their time. They speak to him in clipped tones, tolerate his presence but never truly include him. He doesn’t blame them: it’s hard to see him when his brothers loom so large, taking up all the space, all the attention.

Alfred is different, however.

Alfred listens, even if he’s vague and even if he dodges questions about himself, his life or his people. He listens to Arthur, he never makes him feel like he doesn’t belong, he never makes him feel overshadowed or forgotten. 

Tonight, the air is thick in a way that air is during summer, the scent of warm earth and the rustling of green leaves filling the quiet clearing. Alfred is here, reclining at the edge of his ring, his expression unreadable as Arthur paces before him while venting his frustrations. 

“I’m almost sixteen,” Arthur says, scowling as he kicks at a loose stone, “my brothers had all presented by now. Even Seamus! And he’s only a year older than me.”

“Sixteen.” Alfred repeats, soft enough that Arthur almost doesn’t hear him. He sounds a little confused, which in turn confuses Arthur. He seemed surprised when they last saw each other a week ago as well, after not having seen Arthur for months prior. Arthur is about to ask why that is, when Alfred gathers himself once more. “What do you mean by presented?”

Arthur pauses mid-stride. 

“You don’t know what that means?” 

Briefly, he wonders if this is just another one of Alfred’s teases, but when he frowns at the fairy, Alfred simply looks back at him with mild amusement, as if this is the most entertaining thing he’s heard all day.

Arthur exhales slowly, suddenly a little embarrassed, and he scuffs the toe of his boot against the dirt. “Alright, so, presenting. It’s… just something that happens. Around my age, usually. Some people take longer, but most by now already know what they are.” He hesitates, then adds: “Except me.”

Alfred hums. “And what exactly are you supposed to become?”

Arthur makes a face. “It’s not really about becoming anything. It’s more like… your body just decides for you.” He sighs. “There are Alphas, and they’re, well - they’re strong and loud and people listen to them. They’re supposed to be the ones in charge, the ones that make decisions. They’re bigger, usually. Tougher. That’s what my father expects me to be.”

He exhales sharply, frustration evident in the tight set of his shoulders. Even as he lists every quality that makes up an Alpha, he realizes how much he does not resemble one, even before he has presented. But the alternative would be so much worse. 

“They’re supposed to be confident, unshakeable. They walk into a room, and people step aside. My brothers…” Arthur breaks off, jaw clenched. “They never have to try to be noticed. They just exist and the world makes space for them. They don’t… they don’t feel small in their own home.”

“And Omegas?” Alfred prompts, tilting his head slightly.

Arthur shifts uncomfortably. “They’re… different. Weaker. At least, that’s what people say. They’re not supposed to fight, or lead, or do any of the things Alphas do. They’re meant to be quiet and soft and… obedient.” He scowls at the word.

Alfred considers him for a long moment. “And you,” he says, slow and thoughtful, “you don’t know which one you are yet.”

Arthur shakes his head. “No. And everyone’s waiting for me to. Like the moment it happens, it’s going to decide the rest of my life.” He exhales sharply. “And I don’t even get a say in it.”

Alfred’s lips twitch, amusement flickering in his expression. “Humans really do love putting themselves in little cages, don’t they?”

Arthur scowls. “It’s not a cage.”

“No?” Alfred arches a brow. “Then why do you look like you’re trapped?”

Arthur clenches his jaw, staring hard at the ground. He doesn’t have an answer to that.

“We don’t have a system like yours.” Alfred continues with a dismissive wave of his hand. “No silly little labels. We just are.”

Arthur frowns. It’s not often that Alfred lets loose something about his people: more often than not, what little he does reveal is either terribly mysterious or terribly underwhelming. So far, Arthur’s learned Alfred’s kind is older than the trees, that they are not bound to one shape and that time does not move the same for them as it does for humans.

“That must be nice.” Arthur murmurs. 

“It certainly spares us all this… brooding.”

Arthur huffs and folds his arms. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Alfred is quiet for a moment, watching him with an unreadable expression. He does this sometimes, studies Arthur as if there’s something to be learned, something to be discovered. His gaze is piercing, not in a cruel way, but in a way that makes Arthur feel like he’s being peeled apart, layer by layer, examined in a way no one else ever bothers to.

It unnerves him because he doesn’t know what Alfred is looking for.

“So you want to be an Alpha?” Alfred asks eventually.

Arthur hesitates. His first instinct is to say yes, to insist that of course he wants to be strong, to be respected, to fit into the role he’s expected to fill. But the words won’t come, because the truth is… “I don’t know.” Arthur admits, running a hand through his hair. “And I hate not knowing.”

Alfred watches him for another long moment before speaking. “There are worse things than uncertainty.”

Arthur looks at him, frowning. “Like what?”

“Like being certain and realizing you hate the answer.”

Arthur opens his mouth to argue, but before he can, Alfred shifts, stretching his arms above his head with a lazy sigh. “Enough of that, you’ll wear yourself out with all this overthinking.”

Arthur scowls. “I’m not overthinking.”

“You’re always overthinking.” Alfred corrects, flashing a knowing grin. “So serious, so brooding… You should enjoy yourself more, Arthur.”

Arthur folds his arms. “And how exactly am I supposed to do that?”

Alfred gestures around them, a slow wave of his hand. “You’re in a forest full of wonders, speaking with a creature most people only tell stories about. And yet, here you are, pouting.”

Arthur’s lips press into a thin line. “I am not pouting.”

Alfred chuckles, but instead of arguing, he shifts his weight, settling more comfortably within the fairy ring. “Come inside, then.” He purrs, voice warm, smooth. “You look like you could use a break. It’s nice in here.”

“Nice try.” Arthur says, deadpan. 

Alfred smirks, entirely unbothered by the rejection. He leans back on his elbows, tilting his head to the side as if inspecting Arthur. “One of these days, you’ll give in.” 

“Doubtful.”

“Mm.” Alfred’s smirk deepens, his gaze twinkling with amusement. “Perhaps.”

It’s become something of a game between them now, Alfred’s half-hearted invitations, Arthur’s immediate refusal. At first, it had been unsettling: every time Alfred beckoned, a part of Arthur had tensed, uncertain if he was serious, but over time, it changed. Alfred never pushes, never insists, and each time Arthur denies him, Alfred only grins as if that, too, is part of the fun.

Arthur rolls his eyes and flops onto the ground just outside the ring, stretching his legs out in front of him. “I think you just like messing with me.”

“I do find you amusing.”

“Glad I can entertain you.”

Alfred doesn’t reply immediately. Instead, he studies Arthur again, that same unreadable expression creeping onto his face, like he’s turning something over in his mind.

It makes Arthur feel preyed upon, sometimes, reminding him of the way young Alphas, freshly presented and still unsteady with their own strength, leer at newly presented Omegas who haven’t yet learned to control their pheromones. It’s that same sense of being watched too closely, of something hungry lurking just beneath the surface, restrained only by the thinnest thread of self-control.

Or perhaps it’s more like a cat watching a bird, its tail flicking, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

Arthur shifts, resisting the urge to cross his arms over his chest. He’s never seen Alfred step out of the ring, never caught so much as a glimpse of his foot brushing past the boundary. But that doesn’t mean he can’t.

The thought unsettles him, because sometimes, Arthur wonders if Alfred is a fairy at all.

He’s looked. He’s read every book he could get his hands on, listened to every story the elders in the village have told, searching for any mention of a fairy that looks or acts like him. But there’s nothing. No fae with curling black horns, no mention of one who smells of smoke and shadow, whose eyes gleam in the dark like something not entirely human.

And yet, Alfred never lies. Not outright. Arthur swallows, the unease curling in his stomach. He should ask, should press Alfred for the truth. But every time he considers it, Alfred smirks, and the words die on his tongue.

Instead, he does what he always does.

He pretends not to notice.

“Well,” Alfred says, tone light again, “since you’re so determined to sit out there, tell me something interesting.”

Arthur blinks. “Like what?”

“Anything. Surprise me.”

Arthur hesitates, then leans back on his elbows, looking up at the canopy of leaves above, and tells Alfred about how he’s learned that spiders don’t have muscles and instead use their body fluids to move their legs, something that both surprises and disgusts Alfred. 

Market days in the village are always lively. The streets are packed with people moving between stalls, haggling over goods and exchanging the latest gossip. As a young boy, Arthur used to enjoy these outings - back when everything felt larger, grander, bursting with color and sound. 

Now that he’s older, he realizes just how small he feels in crowds, and the market isn’t such an adventure anymore. 

His mother moves through the market with purpose, weaving between the clusters of villagers with practiced ease, exchanging pleasant greetings with merchants and other adults. Arthur follows a step behind, his hands tucked into his pockets, his presence barely acknowledged by those around him. He isn’t like his brothers, who would have been calling out to friends or making themselves known. Arthur doesn’t even have many friends, apart from perhaps João and Antonio.

The three of them had always been close, growing up together in the village, spending afternoons climbing trees and daring one another to sneak pastries from the baker’s stall. But things have changed lately. João and Antonio, both a year older, have already presented as Alphas.

It shouldn’t matter - they said it wouldn’t matter. But it does.

There’s a new weight to their presence now. They push each other harder when they wrestle, their voices louder, their movements more assured, like they’ve stepped into a world Arthur hasn’t yet been granted access to. 

He still sees them, still joins them when they invite him to come and play, but something feels off. The balance between them has shifted. They don’t tease him the same way anymore. They don’t challenge him to races or tug him into playful scuffles. Instead, they roughhouse with each other, and Arthur is left to watch from the sidelines. When he does try to jump in, João will pull his punches too much, or Antonio will glance at him, hesitation flickering across his face, as if afraid to knock him over.

It makes Arthur’s skin itch with frustration. He wants to tell them to stop treating him like he’s made of glass, but he knows why they do it. Because they’ve presented, and he hasn’t. Because to them, he’s still waiting. And maybe (though they’d never say it) maybe they already suspect he won’t be like them at all.

That thought burns worse than anything else.

His mother stops at a stall selling fresh vegetables, exchanging pleasantries with the vendor. Arthur lingers beside her, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his gaze drifting across the street where two older boys are gathered near a cart of apples.

He knows them: Gilbert and Francis. They aren’t unkind to him, but they don’t go out of their way to include him either. Francis catches his eye, and for a brief moment, Arthur wonders if he might wave, if he might call him over. Instead, Francis simply nods before turning back to Gilbert, smirking at something he says.

Arthur exhales slowly, turning away.

“Are you listening, Arthur?”

His mother’s voice pulls him back, and he blinks up at her. She’s holding out a bundle of carrots, her brows raised expectantly.

“Hold these,” she says, pressing them into his arms, “and stop drifting off. You’re old enough to start paying attention to prices. One day, you might need to do this yourself.”

Might. After all, if he presents as an Omega, taking care of the household will fall to him. He bites back the urge to counter his mother’s argument with one of his own: if he presents as an Alpha, he’ll be expected to work and provide, not visit the market. But he swallows the words, unwilling to start a discussion that won’t go anywhere.

Instead, he follows her to the next stall, his grip tightening around the carrots.

As they walk, snippets of conversation float through the air, bits of gossip carried between vendors and customers alike.

“...another one gone, they say. Thomas Baker’s cousin.”

Arthur stiffens, as does his mother. For a moment, she slows, her gaze flickering toward the speakers: a pair of older women huddled close together near a stall selling dried herbs.

“They should close the forest entirely.” One of the women murmurs, shaking her head. “Too many people going missing. It’s unnatural.”

Arthur swallows hard, his thoughts drifting. He has spent years wandering the forest near his home, slipping away when his chores are done, trailing through the trees as if they were an extension of himself. And in all that time, he has never encountered anything truly dangerous.

Once, he stumbled across an old, rusted bear trap hidden beneath a bed of leaves. Its jagged teeth had long since dulled, and the hinges were stiff with age, but even then, it made his stomach twist. Someone had set it there, intending for it to snap shut around the leg of an animal.

Other than that, the only real danger he’s ever encountered is Alfred… but Alfred isn’t dangerous. Not in the way the villagers whisper about. Of course, Arthur isn’t sure what exactly would happen if one were to step into the ring with Alfred, and he’s not keen on finding out himself, but surely people are smarter than that?

“...found nothing but his boots near the riverbank.”

Arthur glances up at his mother. Her grip on the basket at her side has tightened, her knuckles pale. She’s listening, even if she pretends not to be. He should tell her that she has nothing to worry about. That he’s never seen so much as a shadow moving between the trees that shouldn’t be there.

That the worst thing lurking in the woods is an overgrown fairy with a sharp tongue and a penchant for riddles.

But he says nothing, because a familiar, small and uneasy thought has lodged itself in his mind.

“Come along, Arthur,” his mother says, her voice carefully even. “We have more to do.”

Arthur nods, but his mind lingers elsewhere. Perhaps, just maybe, he does not know the woods as well as he thinks he did. 

The summer aftere Arthur turns sixteen, his life is ruined.

For a week, he is unable to do anything but sob, sleep and writhe in bed, his body wrecked by hormones unfamiliar to him.

At first, he doesn’t understand what’s happening. The fever comes suddenly: one moment he’s outside, attempting to ignore his brothers’ teasing while hauling buckets of water, and the next, he’s collapsing against the side of the house, his limbs trembling, his vision swimming.

His mother is there before he can process what’s wrong, her hands cool as she presses them to his burning forehead. “Inside, now.” She says, firm but gentle, ushering him through the door. 

Arthur obeys without question, but the moment he steps inside, the world tilts. Heat coils deep in his stomach, molten and overwhelming, spreading through his limbs like fire. It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt - more than a fever, more than exhaustion. It’s wrong, and yet, there’s something insidious about it, something that makes his breath hitch and his skin prickle with restless energy.

Then the pain begins.

A deep, aching throb unfurls in his lower belly, twisting up his spine and into his chest. He groans, curling in on himself, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as if that will help contain the unbearable tension winding tighter and tighter inside him. His skin is too hot, too sensitive, every touch sending sharp bursts of sensation across his nerves.

His mother helps him to bed, but the sheets are suffocating. The air is thick and stifling, every breath dragging fire through his lungs. He turns onto his side, then his back, then his stomach, unable to find relief. The pressure keeps building, relentless, making his body shake, his mind fraying at the edges.

Time loses meaning.

At some point, his mother presses a cool cloth to his forehead, whispers soft reassurances he barely hears over the roar of his pulse. He thinks she says something about tea, about rest, about letting it pass. 

Sleep comes in fitful bursts, broken by waves of discomfort so intense he wants to claw his skin off. He dreams in feverish fragments, of shadows moving at the edges of his vision, of laughter that curls around him like smoke, of Alfred, his eyes gleaming like ice in the dark. 

He wakes gasping, disoriented, half-convinced he’s still trapped in those visions. He sobs without meaning to, frustration and exhaustion tangling into something desperate. This isn’t fair. 

This isn’t fair.

By the sixth day, the fever finally breaks, leaving him wrung out, hollowed from the inside. His mother is there when he wakes properly, sitting at his bedside, her face lined with quiet worry. She brushes damp strands of hair from his forehead, her touch careful, searching.

“It’s almost over.” she murmurs. “You’re alright.”

But Arthur knows better: it’s not over, it will never be over. 

Because now there is no doubt, no question. He is an Omega, and his life, the one he thought he might have, has been ripped away from him forever.

It’s another week before Arthur is allowed to go outside again. And although his father forbids him from going out into town alone, his mother still allows him to slip away and into the forest, but only if he promises to be careful, to stay close and to return home well before dark. 

Arthur storms into the clearing, his heart pounding, his throat tight and his eyes burning with unshed tears. The sky is a dull gray, heavy with the promise of a summer shower, but he barely notices. His fists are clenched at his sides, his breath uneven as he paces the edge of the ring.

Alfred is already there, has been there more often lately, standing and watching Arthur with an amused tilt to his head. “Huh. A storm is brewing.”

Arthur glares at him. “It’s not funny.”

“No?” Alfred arches a brow. “You are quite entertaining when you’re angry.”

Arthur scowls. “I presented.”

Alfred waits, silent, his gaze unreadable. Arthur opens his mouth to spit out what he’s presented as, but it gets stuck somewhere in his throat: saying the word out loud would make it feel more real, more permanent. Alfred, to his credit, does not sneer, does not pity him, does not do any of the things Arthur has feared from others.

He only watches, curious. “And?”

Arthur throws his hands up. “And everything is ruined! My entire life is over! They won’t let me work anymore, I have to learn how to run a household, how to be someone’s perfect little match. I’ll be married off like I’m some sort of - some sort of livestock!”

“So don’t.” Alfred counters, utterly nonchalant in a way that makes Arthur want to tear his hair out.

Arthur whirls on him. “Don’t what ?”

“Don’t do any of that.” Alfred shrugs. “If you want to see the world, then go.”

Arthur scoffs. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?” Alfred steps closer to the edge, watching him with something unreadable in his eyes. “You want to explore, to escape? Then escape.”

Arthur glares at him, his frustration bubbling over. “Oh, sure! I’ll just run away, abandon my family, and live in the woods like some kind of hermit.”

Alfred smirks. “Or…” He leans in slightly, his voice a whisper of temptation. “You could come with me.”

Arthur stills.

It’s different this time. Alfred has teased before, has dangled empty invitations in front of him like bait, but this time… this time, it doesn’t feel like a joke, and stupidly, Arthur feels hurt. 

He clenches his fists, stepping back. “I thought we were - I thought you - ”

Alfred blinks, as if caught off guard by the idea of what Arthur wants to say - that he thought they were friends. The embarrassment that follows stings sharper than anything Arthur has experienced before and he clenches his eyes shut to prevent from crying.

“I’m not some foolish child who gets lured away by a fairy’s pretty words!” He snaps, his breaths coming short and fast as he opens his eyes and settles Alfred with a glare both disappointed and desperate. “I want… I just wanted someone to listen.”

Alfred watches him, his expression unreadable for the first time since Arthur has known him. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t tease. He only exhales, long and slow. “I see.”

Arthur shakes his head, throat tight. “I should go.”

Alfred doesn’t stop him, but as Arthur turns, he hears Alfred’s voice, softer than usual. “…You’re right.” 

Arthur hesitates.

“I was being selfish.” Alfred admits. “I won’t do it again.”

Arthur doesn’t respond. He isn’t sure what to say.

Chapter Text

Time flows differently here. 

Alfred has always liked that about the living world: how a single breath in Hell can stretch into days, weeks, even months on the surface. It has made his escapes effortless, his absence unnoticed. 

When he was a younger demon, slipping between realms had been nothing more than a game, a fleeting amusement to stave off the crushing monotony of court life. He would slip through the veil, find something or someone to entertain him, and return before anyone realized he had gone. 

Even if they had noticed, who would dare reprimand the prince of Hell? His father had long since stopped trying to discipline him, so long as he eventually showed up to perform his duties.

Duties - tedious, dull, pointless duties. Attending war councils where nothing ever changed. Listening to ancient demons drone on about matters he had no interest in. Being paraded before noble houses as the heir to a throne he had no desire to sit upon anytime soon.

They expected him to rule one day, to inherit the weight of Hell itself. But what was the point? The hierarchy was set, the power struggles endless and the expectations suffocating.

His father, the great King of Hell, had once been the strongest, the most feared. But now? He sat on his throne and waited for the inevitable.

And Alfred had no interest in waiting.

Perhaps that was why Earth had become such an easy escape. Humans were simple, predictable. They lived short, desperate lives, scrabbling for scraps of power and pleasure before fading into irrelevance. He found amusement in watching them, in playing his little games, in seeing how easily they were led astray by their desires and a few sugary words from his lips. 

And yet, none of them had ever truly interested him.

Until Arthur.

The boy was never meant to be anything more than a passing amusement. Just another human too curious for his own good, another wanderer drawn to the edges of the world where things like Alfred lurked in the dark.

But Arthur had been… different.

Even as a child, Alfred had seen it, that stubborn spark, that refusal to yield. He was small and overlooked, but he refused to be ignored, refused to be less. Unlike most humans, Arthur did not simply accept his lot in life. He fought against it, even when he knew he couldn’t win.

Curious, Alfred had occasionally donned a glamour, disguising himself as just another human, uninteresting and unnoticed. He followed Arthur during those moments, watching him go about his daily life. He had seen the loneliness, the way Arthur lingered at the edges of groups, his voice never quite loud enough to demand attention. 

He had seen how, despite it all, Arthur never stopped trying, never stopped carving out a place for himself in a world that refused to make room for him.

Arthur was fascinating and so Alfred came back. Again, and again, and again.

He told himself it was only for a little while. Only until the boy lost interest, only until he grew and left behind the childish wonders of the forest. And yet, every time he returned to Hell, something itched beneath his skin. A restless energy that wouldn’t settle until he stepped back through the veil and into the human world again.

Because time was different here.

A few days in Hell, a handful of hours spent at court, and he would return to find weeks had passed. Arthur, once small and bright-eyed, grew taller and leaner. His voice changed, his mannerisms shifting from boyish enthusiasm to something sharper, more measured. Alfred watched in fascination as Arthur stumbled through adolescence in what felt like the blink of an eye.

And then, one day, he returned to find the boy gone entirely. In his place stood something new, something raw, something furious: an Omega.

Alfred had seen Omegas before, of course. The way they moved, the way they yielded, the way the world dictated their every step. But Arthur, Arthur was different. There was no yielding in him.

Alfred saw the way he clenched his jaw when his brothers teased him. The way his fists curled at his sides when people spoke at him instead of to him. The way he paced at the edge of the fairy ring, his body thrumming with frustration.

Arthur burned… and Alfred found himself watching more closely than before.

The human concept of presentation, of Alphas and Omegas, was odd to him. In Hell, rank dictated power, not biology. Strength, cunning, ruthlessness: these were the things that determined one's place in the hierarchy. Succubi and incubi played at seduction, but there were no heats, no ruts, none of these ridiculous constraints that humans placed upon themselves.

It baffled him, this rigid system of roles and expectations. That an Omega could be born with the spirit of a conqueror and yet be forced into submission by mere biology. That an Alpha could be weak-willed, cowardly, and still be granted authority simply because of what they were.

Occasionally, Alfred imagines the kind of demon Arthur would make.

What if the shackles of his human nature fell away? What if he could properly embrace all of his fire, his stubbornness? Alfred figures he would be a force to be reckoned with.

He sees it sometimes, the glint of something more in Arthur’s eyes, the way he refuses to bow to his fate, the way he bristles at the expectations forced upon him. There is hunger in Arthur, a sharp, burning thing, a need to take rather than be given. 

Perhaps that is what keeps drawing Alfred back. A curiosity, nothing more. Certainly not an obsession. Certainly not an interest that tugs at him every time he returns to Hell, making the gilded halls of his father’s court feel smaller, making the endless politics feel even more pointless.

Certainly not the lingering question, curling at the edges of his mind. What would Arthur do if he were not shackled? If he were not trapped? 

So Alfred kept returning, kept watching.

The game had long since become something else. How long could this ruse be kept up? How long before Arthur realized what lurked just beyond the circle of mushrooms? How long before he figured out that Alfred was not a fairy, not some charming woodland trickster, not some mischievous spirit come to entertain him?

And when that moment came… Would Arthur still return? Would he still look at Alfred with those sharp, wanting eyes, like a creature starved of something he could not name?

Alfred was eager to find out.

Winter has always been the quietest season. Arthur never comes often during the colder months, something Alfred has long since come to expect. Snow makes the trek through the woods difficult, and the bitter winds steal the warmth from even the most stubborn of souls. Arthur, despite all his fire, is still human, still bound by the limitations of his mortal body.

But this winter, Alfred has seen him less than usual.

He tries to ignore it at first, telling himself it’s only natural. Arthur is older now. He has responsibilities, expectations pressing down on him more than ever before. It isn’t like Alfred cares. The boy has always come and gone as he pleases, and Alfred has never needed him to return.

And yet something gnaws at him, restless and sharp, burrowing under his skin in a way he cannot shake. It is because of their last conversation, he knows.

Arthur, standing at the edge of the ring, raw and furious, his voice rough as he cursed his recent presentation. And Alfred, fool that he was, had tried to lighten the mood, had smirked and extended his hand in that playful, familiar way, inviting him into the ring with a teasing lilt in his voice. 

An old joke between them, a game they'd played for years - but Arthur had not laughed. Instead, he had bristled, something fragile and wounded flashing across his face before he turned on his heel and stormed off.

It had unsettled Alfred deeply, bringing about a feeling of conflict he had not been aware he could have. He was not accustomed to caring, not in the way mortals did. Their fleeting emotions, their fragile egos, their desperate need for meaning in a world that cared little for them: these things had always amused him, but they had never touched him. 

He had spent centuries playing games, toying with lives like a cat with a mouse, delighting in their struggles and their fleeting victories before they were inevitably snuffed out by time or fate.

But Arthur was different. 

And Alfred had let him go, convinced Arthur would return like he always did, tail tucked but curiosity winning out. But days stretched into weeks, and the snow came, and the fairy ring remained empty.

All because Alfred had said the wrong thing.

The realization unsettled him and left a sour taste in his mouth. He had meant it as a joke, the same as always, a playful nudge, a familiar taunt. But something had shifted between them that day, something he had not foreseen.

Arthur had looked at him differently, his usual exasperation laced with something raw, something hurt.

And then he left. 

And Alfred, for the first time in a very, very long time, had been left waiting. Waiting for Arthur to return, waiting to see if the boy’s anger would fade like it always did. But the days stretched into weeks, and that itching, crawling restlessness beneath Alfred’s skin refused to fade.

He was frustrated. With himself, with Arthur, with the stupid emotions humans insisted on having, emotions that seemed to have wormed their way into Alfred’s own chest when he wasn’t looking.

And that was unacceptable. He should not miss Arthur. Should not feel this gnawing, clawing sense of something missing.

So he does what any rational creature of darkness and chaos would do.

He goes looking for him.

Disguising himself is easy. He has done it countless times before, blending into the human world as seamlessly as shadows slipping between cracks. He keeps it simple this time. Blond hair, a human face neither too striking nor too plain. Just another traveler, just another young man moving through the village unnoticed.

The town is much the same as he remembers it. Small, bustling with activity despite the cold, lined with market stalls selling everything from fresh bread to thick woolen cloaks. The air is thick with the scent of spices, burning wood, and the ever-present undertone of human sweat.

And pheromones.

Alfred’s nose wrinkles. It is not unpleasant, but it can be overwhelming, the way emotions cling to the air like perfume. He has never understood it, the way human bodies advertise themselves so blatantly, their desires practically screaming for all to witness.

He skirts the edges of the marketplace, eyes scanning the crowds until - there.

Arthur moves through the streets, bundled against the cold, his scowl firmly in place as he walks beside his older brother, Alistair, if Alfred remembers correctly. 

Alfred cannot help but smirk as he watches. Alistair, an Alpha through and through, radiates possessiveness, keeping an ever-watchful eye on Arthur as if expecting someone to swoop in and steal him away at any moment. His shoulders are squared, his presence commanding, the way all Alphas are raised to be.

But Arthur - Arthur is nothing like him.He glares up at his brother, lips moving fast, arguing about something, likely about his brother’s hovering. Alistair only huffs, herding Arthur forward with all the subtlety of a sheepdog corralling an unruly lamb.

The hormonal posturing of it all is endlessly amusing. Alfred watches, unseen, as Arthur huffs and glares and seethes at being chaperoned like some delicate thing.

And then Arthur slips away.

A well-practiced move. A twist of the body, a sidestep when Alistair is momentarily distracted, and then he’s gone, disappearing behind a row of stalls, making his way into a narrow alleyway.

Alfred follows, quiet and pleased to see that Arthur has not lost his rebellious streak. He wonders what Arthur might do. Perhaps he needs a moment of solitude, a brief reprieve from his brother’s hovering before he loses his mind. Or perhaps he will flee to the only place that has ever truly been his own. To the woods, to the fairy ring, to him.

The possibilities are endless.

Alfred toys with the thought, amused. What if Arthur does come searching for him? Would he arrive frustrated, venting his grievances about his brother, about the marketplace, about the way the world refuses to let him breathe? Or would he simply sit in the quiet of the trees, replaying their argument in his mind as he ponders the merits of visiting Alfred?

What if Alfred approaches him now?

Arthur would not recognize him in this disguise. He would see only another human, a stranger with golden hair and an easy smirk, blending seamlessly into the world he knows. Alfred could test him, see how keenly Arthur senses things, see if he feels that pull of something familiar even when his mind insists otherwise.

The idea tempts him.

But before he can decide on a path to walk, Alfred’s amusement vanishes as he sees two young Alphas, slipping into the alley after Arthur.

The blond one walks with easy confidence, a scruffy beard framing his smirk. The pale-haired one is quieter, but his dark eyes gleam with something calculating, something hungry, and Alfred’s hands curl into fists at his sides.

These boys, children, really, reek of smugness, of self-importance, of the belief that the world has already promised them whatever they desire. Their pheromones cling to the air like oil on water, thick and cloying, pressing down in the way only Alphas can.

Arthur stills. It is slight, barely noticeable, but Alfred sees it, the way his shoulders lock, the way his expression flickers for the briefest moment between irritation and something else. The way his fingers twitch at his sides as if weighing his options.

And then, the blond one speaks. “So, has your family started matching you yet?”

Arthur exhales sharply through his nose, a sound caught between a scoff and a sigh. “That’s none of your business.”

“But it is interesting.” The pale-haired one muses, stepping closer. “An unmated Omega, unclaimed… It makes people wonder. If, perhaps, something is wrong with the merchandise.”

Something in Alfred’s chest snaps.

How dare they?

Arthur is his to antagonize.

The air thickens, the temperature around them dipping ever so slightly, though no one seems to notice just yet. Alfred is under no illusions - he has no pheromones of his own to counter theirs. He is not part of this primitive system of Alphas and Omegas, has never been bound to the ridiculous chains of biology that humans use to determine power.

But he is the Prince of Hell.

And he has other ways of making his presence known. A flicker of power. A shadow stretching just a little too far. A whisper in the air, like something ancient stirring just out of sight.

The alley darkens, not much, just enough. The sun is still high in the winter sky, but here, in this narrow space between buildings, the light seems to bend, as if second-guessing its right to be here. The air grows thick, cloying, pressing in from all sides. The scent of stale wood and cold stone becomes sharper, tinged with something metallic, something wrong.

It is not a smell one can place, not exactly. It is the copper bite of an old wound, the scent of breath just behind your ear when no one is there. A slow creak echoes down the alley, though nothing moves. It sounds like wood groaning under the weight of something unseen, or the stretch of old bones waking after too long at rest.

The blond Alpha shifts on his feet. “You feel that?” He mutters to his companion, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an unseen weight.

The pale-haired one glances around, eyes narrowing. He exhales sharply through his nose, his confidence faltering for the first time. “Let’s go.” he says, nudging his friend.

They do not run, Alfred is careful not to push that far, but they leave, quickly.

Arthur, however, does not move. He lingers, watching them disappear, then exhales, long and slow. He does not shiver, does not flinch. Instead, he rolls his shoulders, shaking off the remnants of whatever unease might have crept over him.

And Alfred preens.

Of course, Arthur does not flee, of course, he does not cower. He stands his ground, sharp and unyielding, confused but unafraid, his brows furrowing as he scans his surroundings, and Alfred finds himself delighted.

He steps forward, letting the last traces of his power dissipate like mist in the wind.

"You have a talent for inviting trouble.” He muses, voice smooth as silk as he announces himself. 

Arthur whips around, eyes narrowing. Alfred is treated to a delightful display of emotions flitting across Arthur’s face. Wariness, irritation, confusion, and, surprisingly so, a flicker of familiarity.

“Who -” Arthur starts, then stops himself. His nostrils flare slightly, as if scenting the air, but Alfred smells like nothing and it unsettles Arthur, he can tell.

“Those boys looked rather eager.” Alfred continues, feigning innocence. “Did your dear brother not warn you about wandering off alone?”

Arthur’s scowl deepens. “I don’t need my brother to hold my hand.”

“No.” Alfred agrees, grinning. “You never have.”

Arthur stares at him, and Alfred sees the wheels turning in his head, the lingering sense of recognition.

Interesting.

Arthur does not know him, not in this form. And yet, there is something just beneath the surface, like an itch Arthur cannot scratch. The thought of Arthur seeing through his ruse, of being so aware of Alfred that he can recognize him even through his glamour, is delicious.

“So, what now?” Alfred asks, tilting his head. “Are you going to thank me for chasing them off?”

Arthur bristles. “I had it handled.”

“Of course you did.” Alfred hums, amused.

Arthur hesitates. His eyes flick to the alley’s exit, toward the safety of the crowd, but he does not move. And that, more than anything, is enough to make Alfred’s smirk widen.Because Arthur should leave. He should return to his brother before he’s caught sneaking off like this. But instead, he lingers, shifting from foot to foot as if caught between instinct and curiosity.

“Arthur!”

Alistair’s voice cuts through the air like a blade, sharp with anger and worry. Arthur tenses, eyes snapping toward the alley’s mouth just as his brother rounds the corner, his expression thunderous, and Alfred vanishes. 

When Arthur next sets foot in the forest, Alfred knows - not because of any grand foresight of supernatural intuition, but because he hears it from the mouth of those who watched from the shadows at his command.

His imps, small and eager, are scattered throughout the woods to keep an eye on Arthur for him. Not to keep him safe, of course, that would be sentimental, no, to Alfred it is simply a matter of wanting to know where Arthur went, who he spoke to, how he spent his days.

So when word reaches him that Arthur is en route to the fairy ring, his hesitation is brief. He leaves Hell without a second thought, his father’s court vanishing into a swirl of black smoke as he steps through the veil and into the living world, appearing in the ring in a breath, a heartbeat standing before the human he had been waiting for. 

Arthur startles, just a little, but masks it quickly. Alfred expects a confrontation, expects the mortal to still be bristling with indignation, but instead, there is an awkwardness. Arthur lingers at the edge of the ring, hesitating, something unreadable in his expression. He still remembers their last meeting, Alfred can tell.

And Alfred, always so quick with words, so deft at weaving truths into lies, finds himself at a loss. Should he apologize? Should he pretend it never happened?

He’s not accustomed to hurt, has never cared enough to cause it in ways that mattered. He has no experience in navigating its aftermath, no reference for how long humans need to mend.

“It’s been a while.” Arthur says then, his voice measured, but not unkind. “How have you been?”

And just like that, the tension loosens.

Conversation flows, as if they had seen each other only yesterday, as if their argument had been nothing more than a passing storm. Alfred, ever the storyteller, weaves vague half-truths about his time away, carefully wording accounts of things he experienced since last seeing Arthur. 

He keeps his stories distant, draped in ambiguity, maintaining the ruse, even though Arthur has to suspect something by now. He had proven time and time again that he was not a fool.

And that, more than anything, sends a slow curl of anticipation through Alfred’s chest.

He’s waiting, waiting for the moment Arthur will ask, for the moment he will look him in the eye and demand the truth. And when that moment comes, Alfred won’t lie. But for now, Arthur only nods along to Alfred’s tales before shifting the conversation, his own stories spilling forth.

The talk of marriage makes Alfred’s light-hearted amusement curdle into something darker.

Arthur’s father, ever eager to be rid of an unmatched Omega son, is already trying to match him with the highest bidder. His mother, by contrast, pleads for patience, begs for Arthur to be given the chance to choose.

But there is no real choice, was there? Not in the world Arthur lives in.

“Have you fallen in love, then?” Alfred asks, his tone lighter than he felt. “Do you have your eye on some fine Alpha?”

The question leaves him without an answer, and Arthur’s silence speaks volumes: Arthur has not fallen in love; perhaps there had been an Alpha whom he tolerated, someone who treated him kindly enough, but most likely, they were already spoken for. 

Alfred watches as Arthur's fingers tighten into fists at his sides, frustration rolling off him in waves - and realizes he could fix this. Even though he should not care, even though he should not offer. He still finds himself speaking before he can stop himself, leaning forward, voice softer than before.

“You’ll always find refuge here.”

Arthur glances at him, wary.

“Even if you don’t want to step inside my ring, I’ll make sure of it. You can run here, when you need to.” Alfred continues, smirking, though there was something real beneath it. “After all, I only take what is willingly given.”

Arthur frowns, lips pressing together.

He will probably assume Alfred means fairy bargains, the old stories about mortals offering something of themselves in exchange for favor.

And although demons can enter into deals with humans, they are more keen on simply taking.

Alfred finds that he does not want to take, has never wanted to take when it comes to Arthur. 

He will not take what is not given. His soul has to be offered, his trust has to be handed over willingly.

Alfred has never cared for any of these things before. Souls are currency, yes, but not desirable in the way humans think. He’s never wanted anyone’s trust, never needed it.

But Arthur, standing there, fire in his veins and defiance on his tongue… Alfred finds himself wanting.

Not in the way he has indulged before, fleeting pleasures with willing bodies, a hunger that could be sated and left behind. This is something else - something teetering on the line between obsession and possession. He’s never wanted to keep someone before, but he thinks, perhaps, he does now. 

Arthur lets out a slow breath, his frustration still simmering beneath the surface, but the tension in his shoulders lessens. “…Thanks. For listening.”

“You always have the most interesting things to say.”

Arthur rolls his eyes but does not argue. And when he finally turns to leave, he does so reluctantly, his footsteps slow, as if some part of him does not want to go. He hesitates at the tree line, glancing over his shoulder.

“I’ll be back soon.” He promises, quieter than before.

Alfred’s smirk softens, just a fraction. “I should hope so.”

Arthur exhales, shaking his head at something unspoken before disappearing into the woods and Alfred remains where he stands, watching, waiting. And then, slowly, deliberately, he grins. 

He thinks Arthur would make a perfect demon.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Arthur thinks of running away.

It is not a new thought, nor is it a particularly good one, but it lingers, curling in the back of his mind like a stubborn ember that refuses to die out.

He knows the idea is foolish. He has nowhere to go, nor does he have any money saved up that could help him start anew somewhere far, far away from home. As for living in the wild, well, Arthur has a few things going for him, such as recognizing which berries are poisonous or not, knowing how to find clean water, and a decent enough sense of direction. 

But if he were to face a predator? A wolf, a bear, or even a desperate bandit? His chances would be slim.

Not that he isn’t facing predators now, he thinks wryly.

In a matter of weeks, he will turn eighteen, and the fragile safety net his mother has provided him with will vanish. It was the one leeway she had been able to bargain for, the one thing she had convinced his father to grant him.

"Let him find love on his own," she had pleaded. "At least give him until eighteen." His father had agreed, though not out of kindness.

Arthur had known then, that the moment the day arrived, the choice would be wrenched from his hands entirely. He had tried, in those last few years, to see if there was anyone who could be tolerable, who he could stand the thought of being tied to for the rest of his life.

He had found no one.

Unsurprising, really. Even as a child, Arthur had difficulty befriending his peers. He had always been too bristly, too sharp-tongued, too quick to glare when others wanted him to bend.

And after he presented? It only got worse. Other Omegas did not care for his attitude; Alphas either saw him as a commodity or as something to tame.

It is safe to say Arthur has spent most of his free time in solitude rather than on the hunt for a suitable match.

His father, of course, does not care about compatibility - only status, reputation and security. He is already searching for him, already making arrangements behind closed doors. And Arthur has a sickening suspicion he knows exactly who his father will choose.

The Bonnefoys are one of the wealthiest families in the village, and their eldest son, Francis, has been circling Arthur like a vulture for years. Arthur can already hear the announcement in his father’s voice, already imagine the barely-veiled smugness in the way Francis will smirk at him when the match is made official.

They used to be friendly, once. When they were younger, Francis had been charming, easygoing, the sort of boy everyone gravitated toward. Arthur had never minded him much back then, had even considered him a friend at times.

But after they had both presented? Francis became a pain in his arse. Overnight, it was as if Arthur had become something else in Francis’ eyes, no longer a peer, but a prize. The teasing changed. The way Francis looked at him changed.

And the things he said… "No one’s ever going to want you if you keep that attitude, Arthur. But don’t worry, I like a challenge. I’ll break you in, if I have to."

Arthur had told him to fuck off, of course. Had hissed and spat and refused to back down. But it had only amused Francis, as if Arthur’s resistance was nothing more than a game.

And now, here he is, standing at the edge of his future, knowing full well what is coming. 

Arthur does not doubt that his father will pick Francis. And he does not doubt that Francis will accept. He can already hear the things Francis will say to him once the arrangement is sealed.

"I always knew you’d end up beneath me, mon cher."

"I’ll make you into a proper Omega soon enough."

"You can fight all you like, but in the end, you’ll take me the way you’re meant to."

So sometimes, he thinks of running away Because if he stays, his life will be one beneath Francis’ thumb. One where he is bred and owned and shaped into something docile. A life where his fire will be snuffed out, piece by piece, until nothing remains.

Arthur swallows against the bile rising in his throat. His heart hammers in his chest, the ember of defiance flickering, burning. 

But running away is foolish. 

Those last few weeks, Arthur finds himself at the fairy ring more and more often.

Sometimes Alfred is there, waiting, lounging with his usual air of lazy amusement, ready to lend an ear to Arthur’s grievances. Other times, the ring is empty, silent but welcoming.

Arthur does not mind: he prefers the stillness of the woods to the constant arguments in his home, the suffocating weight of expectation pressing down on him from all sides. Here, he does not have to listen to his father discussing potential matches, does not have to see his mother’s sad, helpless glances when she thinks he isn’t looking.

Here, in the quiet, he can breathe. Sometimes he curls up against the roots of an old oak and sleeps, letting the tension seep from his body. And sometimes, when he wakes, Alfred is there, sitting in the ring, cross-legged, his sharp, knowing eyes fixed on Arthur’s form.

Arthur never knows how long Alfred has been watching, but it does not unsettle him. Not anymore.

Alfred never asks why Arthur keeps coming back. Never pushes. He waits, even when Arthur meets his gaze, only to close his eyes again and drift back into shallow sleep, Alfred stays and waits.

And when they do talk, Alfred is strangely attentive. Not just his usual brand of sharp-witted curiosity, the kind that pries and prods at Arthur’s thoughts for his own amusement. No, Alfred listens with something focused, something almost deliberate.

He asks questions about Arthur’s interests. About his favorite foods, his favorite books, his favorite colors.

"Red." Arthur answers, brows furrowing slightly at the unexpected nature of the question. "Or maybe green. No, definitely green."

Alfred hums, nodding slightly, as if storing the answer away. "And what would you do if you could go anywhere? If you could leave this village, leave everything behind?"

Arthur hesitates. He has never truly let himself think about it before.

"I don't know." He admits after a moment. Then, quieter: "Somewhere far away. Somewhere big."

Alfred tilts his head. "And what would you do there?"

"I suppose that depends on whether I'm allowed to choose." Arthur mutters bitterly.

Alfred’s expression flickers, something unreadable passing through his icy eyes before he grins, stretching his arms lazily. "A fair answer."

Other times, Alfred asks riddles, strange ones that vaguely resemble politics or philosophy.

"Say you were the ruler of a kingdom," he muses one afternoon, twirling a strand of grass between his fingers, "and two of your most trusted advisors came to you with opposing ideas. One swears that to keep your people safe, you must strengthen your armies. The other says safety comes not from war, but from wealth and trade. Who do you listen to?"

Arthur scowls. "That’s not a fair question. I don’t know enough about war or trade to decide."

"And yet, one day, you may have to decide something just as important."

"Why do you care what I think about this?"

Alfred merely grins. "Indulge me."

Arthur sighs but answers anyway, offering his thoughts, his instincts, his ideas. And Alfred listens, he’s always listening, and Arthur, tired, frustrated, trapped, cannot find it in himself to question why.

Sometimes, Arthur thinks of stepping into the fairy ring. Of crossing the threshold, pressing his palm into Alfred’s, and letting Alfred take him somewhere far, far away, wherever it is he truly comes from.

Another world, another dimension, another plane of existence entirely: surely it could not be worse than this.

Even if it meant death, even if it meant stepping into the unknown and never returning. He knows better, of course, he has always known better, but that has never stopped him before.

Arthur has always been drawn to Alfred in a way he cannot explain. 

Even as a child, he knew that he was inviting nothing but trouble by engaging with the strange, otherworldly creature who smirked at him from the center of the ring. And yet he kept returning, kept talking, kept listening, kept standing just outside the edge of something dangerous.

And now, as an adult, Arthur finds his thoughts drifting toward Alfred in ways that are far less innocent.

At first, he had not found Alfred attractive. Not in the way one looks at a handsome Alpha and feels their stomach tighten, their body react. Alfred had always been frightening, his non-human features unnatural, unsettling.

But over the years, those sharp edges have grown on him and now, Arthur cannot help but wonder. Would Alfred’s horns be smooth or ridged beneath his fingertips? Would they be warm? Would Alfred allow him to touch them?

Would his tail flick against Arthur’s skin playfully, teasingly, a ticklish thing that curled around his wrist when he wasn’t looking? And how sharp are his fangs, really? Would Arthur cut himself if he pressed his thumb against them? 

And then, during his heats, he thoughts stray even further.

He thinks of those piercing blue eyes, of the certainty in them, the absolute confidence in everything Alfred does. He thinks of how steady he is, how he never reacts to Arthur the way other Alphas do, even when Arthur’s in preheat. 

Does he pity Arthur? Find him pathetic? Or would he - 

Arthur doesn’t know, because Alfred has no scent, not in the way Alphas do. There is no rush of cloying pheromones when he is near, no overwhelming presence that makes Arthur’s knees go weak. Instead, Alfred smells of strange things, of brimstone and iron, of something burnt and old, like the remnants of a forest fire long since snuffed out.

It should be off-putting, but it isn’t. It is steady, constant, it is the only thing about Arthur’s life that has not changed.

So, sometimes, Arthur thinks of stepping into the fairy ring.

Of offering himself, just to see what Alfred would do.

The Bonnefoy estate is grand, unnecessarily so. Arthur has been here before, as a child, when the Bonnefoys entertained the townspeople with social events. Back then, the estate had been one big place for Arthur, Antonio and João to explore. 

Tonight, it feels different. It is no longer a place of idle childhood games, but a place where his fate is going to be sealed. 

He can feel it in the way his parents speak, all formal pleasantries and gracious acceptance of the arrangement, his mother’s hands clasped tightly in her lap, his father’s posture stiff but satisfied. 

They are pleased, they think they have done well by him.

Arthur sits at the long, polished table, his back straight, his fingers curled tight around the stem of his wine glass. The entire evening has been orchestrated perfectly: polite conversation, laughter that feels just a little too forced, the careful dance of civilized people making deals over the lives of their children.

And Francis, sitting across from him, watching.

He has not done or said anything untoward. Not with both their parents present. He plays the part of a charming young Alpha well, smiling at all the right moments, engaging in all the right topics, even winning over his mother. 

But his eyes promise nothing but misery.

Arthur knows what Francis is thinking, can practically hear the words he will say the moment they are alone. It’s inevitable, mon cher, don’t look so miserable, you’ll come to enjoy it in time.

His stomach turns.

His mother and father are deep in discussion with Francis’ parents, talking about plans, about the future, about how Arthur’s next heat will mark the beginning of their official bond.

That is when they will mate, and then he will move into the Bonnefoy estate.

He will belong to Francis. He will be his, in every way that matters, locked away in this too-grand house, trapped in a life that has already been decided for him.

Arthur lowers his gaze to his plate, his appetite long since vanished. His throat is tight, his skin too hot, the weight of the room pressing in on him from all sides. He cannot breathe.

And the only thing that keeps him from shattering, the only thing that keeps him from standing up, flipping the table, and screaming that he would rather die than be Francis Bonnefoy’s Omega -

Arthur closes his eyes for the briefest moment, gripping his fork until his knuckles turn white. 

He thinks of Alfred, of his sharp smirk and his lazy, knowing amusement. He thinks of how unbothered Alfred is by the things that trouble him, how he never expects Arthur to be anything other than himself. He thinks of Alfred watching him sleep beneath the oak tree, silent and patient.

He thinks of Alfred waiting.

Francis may have been given Arthur, but he does not have him, not really, because Arthur’s mind is not here, trapped at this table in this suffocating house.

It is in the woods.

His heat comes in the middle of the day, because of course it does. Arthur had hoped, prayed even, that it would hit him at night, as it usually does. Under the cover of darkness, in the silence of a sleeping household, he would have had enough time to slip away before anyone noticed. 

But fate has never been kind to him, as is proven time and time again. 

Instead, it strikes hard and fast, sending a shudder through his limbs, sinking its claws into his bones with all the subtlety of a wildfire. One moment, he is fine, restless, bitter, uncomfortable but still himself, and then suddenly he is not.

The heat pulses through him like an unseen hand gripping the back of his neck, pressing him down, forcing his body into submission. 

The first wave of warmth trickles down his spine, pooling in his gut, leaving his muscles weak and wanting. His breath turns shallow, faster than before, his chest rising and falling in uneven, shaky movements as his pulse pounds too loudly in his ears.

His body betrays him without hesitation, eager in ways that make his skin crawl. The moment slick begins pooling, soaking his underclothes despite every instinctive clench to hold it back, he wants to scream.

He grips his thighs tightly, desperately, his nails biting into his own flesh through the fabric of his trousers. But it does nothing, and there is no stopping this.

He is already en route to the Bonnefoy estate, his parents having wasted no time the moment the first signs of his heat began to show - Francis is waiting for him.

The thought sends another violent shudder through him, and it is not pleasure, not anticipation, it is rage, it is dread, it is something sick and vile curling in the back of his throat, threatening to choke him.

He is being delivered to Francis like a wrapped gift.

"It will be over soon, Arthur." His mother says gently, seated across from him, watching his struggle with quiet sympathy. "Francis will take good care of you."

Arthur bites the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste blood.

It is the only thing keeping him from screaming. How can she say that? How can she sit there, so calmly, knowing that he is being delivered to Francis like a wrapped-up gift, like something to be taken and used?

Francis will take good care of him?

No, Francis will take him. He’ll sink his teeth into Arthur’s neck, will claim him, will ruin him in ways that cannot be undone, and no one will stop him. Not his father, who was the one to arrange it in the first place, nor his mother, who offers him soft words but no protection.

Not the village, which will smile and congratulate Francis for taming the difficult Omega. Arthur’s stomach turns and his body clenches again, slick gathering faster, making him shift uncomfortably in his seat as another pang of need rolls through him.

Francis will smell it on him the moment he arrives and the thought makes Arthur want to die.

He wants to laugh, but he is afraid that if he lets himself, it will come out as a sob instead.

The carriage jostles over uneven ground, and the movement is maddening, sending another sharp, unbearable pulse through his abdomen. He clenches around nothing, hating the emptiness inside him, the instinctual ache for something to fill it. His fingers curl into the fabric of his trousers, trying to ground himself, trying not to focus on how slick he must already be.

His body is preparing itself, and Arthur cannot, he cannot -

A sudden commotion outside causes the carriage to jerk to a stop and it nearly throws Arthur from his seat. The horses whinny sharply and someone shouts in alarm. His mother stiffens, her grip tightening on her skirts before she moves toward the door.

“Stay here,” she says quickly, firmly. “I’ll see what’s happening.”

And then she is gone, and Arthur is left alone, his heart pounding, his entire body burning. The walls of the carriage feel smaller now, suffocating, trapping him in. The air is thick, cloying, too hot, pressing down on him like a weight he cannot throw off.

His body is wrong, everything inside him urging him to find an Alpha, to find Francis, to go where he belongs - no.

No. 

His mind claws desperately at any thought that will ground him, that will drown out the instincts clawing at his sanity. He cannot do this, he can’t, he - 

The forest is right there, dark, dense, endless. A quick sprint, and he could disappear. Arthur’s vision swims. He is nowhere near the fairy ring, but if he can make it… 

Arthur doesn’t know how, doesn’t know why, doesn’t even know what Alfred is, not really. But he does know this: Alfred promised.

Promised him a refuge in the forest, even though Arthur had never understood what that meant, had always assumed it was another one of Alfred’s cryptic little riddles, another vague half-truth meant to tease him, because Alfred shouldn’t be able to leave the ring. 

But what if it was a lie? What if Alfred has been lying to him all along? And would it even matter? Arthur doesn’t care what Alfred is. Fairy or not, it doesn’t matter. He is certainty, he’s a haven, he’s… he’s waiting.

Arthur’s hands tremble as he reaches for the door latch. His breath shudders in his throat as the door swings open, and the rush of cool air hits him like a slap, shocking against his feverish skin.

He stumbles forward, out into the open, his legs trembling beneath him. He can hear something happening, voices raised, footsteps, the frantic shifting of the horses. But none of it matters.

Arthur doesn’t wait, he doesn’t look.

He runs.

Arthur runs and runs and runs. 

He doesn’t know where he is going, only that he has to keep moving, has to put distance between himself and the nightmare waiting for him at the Bonnefoy estate. Every step forward is another step away from Francis and that is all that matters. 

The forest blurs green and brown around him as branches claw at his clothes and brambles snag at his trousers. His legs burn, his breath comes in ragged gasps, but he cannot stop - he cannot be taken back.

He does not think about how dangerous it is to spend an entire heat alone in the woods, does not think about how the nights grow bitterly cold, how his body will overheat and then freeze when the shivers set in. He does not think about how he has no food, no water, how even without the fever tearing through his body, his chances of survival would already be slim.

He cannot afford to think about that, because if they catch him… He shudders violently, bile rising in his throat, but he pushes forward.

The world around him is tilting, his vision swimming as his fever intensifies, the heat writhing beneath his skin like something alive, something cruel.

And he knows he’s being followed. Distant shouts echo through the trees, faint but growing louder, voices calling his name, demanding he stop and come back where he belongs. He forces his legs to move faster, but every muscle in his body screams at him to stop, to give up.

The uneven terrain and the roots scattered about send him stumbling more often than he would like to admit, and it’s not long before his foot catches on something and he goes down. For a moment, he stays there, panting and trembling. It would be so easy to stop, to let exhaustion win, to let them take him back.

"Arthur!"

The voice is too close and terror grips him. He forces himself upright with a strangled gasp and continues running. His arms sting where branches have lashed against him, his legs covered in scratches from thorns he has barreled through without care.

There is blood on his skin now, smeared down his arms, down his thighs where the brambles have bitten into him, but he does not feel it over the agony of his heat.

He feels watched, hunted. He can hear that they are on horses, and the forest is not dense enough yet for Arthur to use that to his advantage. He knows he’s at a disadvantage, but it doesn’t matter, he has to push forward.

He can hear the rushing water of the creek before he sees it. The moment his feet hit the freezing water, a strangled gasp tears from his throat. The shock of it against his burning skin is bliss, but he has no time to savor it. He wades forward, half-dragging himself through the current, shuddering violently as the cold seeps through his boots, his soaked clothes clinging to him, heavy and suffocating.

On the other side, his legs nearly give out when his feet find solid ground again. His body is betraying him, trembling violently, his stomach clenching with sharp, unbearable pangs. He bites down on his lip hard enough to hurt, hard enough to focus on anything but the need pooling low in his abdomen.

The heat is getting worse. His slick is worse now, worse than before, and he knows that the moment they find him - no, no, he will not be found. 

Somewhere, beneath the chaos of fever and pain and exhaustion, a desperate, clawing hope pushes him forward.

Because he knows where he is now and barely ten seconds later, he sees it. 

The fairy ring.

His breath catches. It is empty, no sign of Alfred waiting within the ring of mushrooms, no presence lurking in the shadows, but surely Alfred knows, surely he will feel it, will sense that Arthur is here.

Arthur does not think, does not hesitate, he stumbles forward, legs giving out beneath him, and collapses into the center of the ring, his body trembling uncontrollably as the fever finally wins.

Everything tilts. His vision is spinning, black creeping into the edges of his sight as his body screams at him to find an Alpha, to find relief. Arthur gasps, curling in on himself, his fingers clutching at the grass beneath him as if it will ground him, as if it will keep him from slipping into the abyss.

His vision is blurred at the edges, black creeping into his periphery, the fever making everything distant and slow, as if he is trapped underwater. The sound of his own ragged breathing fills his ears, drowning out the distant shouts - until they are not distant anymore. 

A part of him had known they would come for him, had known that running would only delay the inevitable. But some desperate, clawing part of him had hoped that, maybe, Alfred would be here. 

That maybe the fairy ring would work, would be sacred, protected, safe. But it is not Alfred who greets him.

Three men on horseback burst through the trees, their presence shattering the stillness of the fairy ring’s clearing. Arthur forces his sluggish, fevered mind to focus, tries to memorize their faces through the haze.

They wear the Bonnefoy family crest on their coats. One of them, a wiry, sharp-featured man with dark eyes, clicks his tongue. "Bloody hell, look at the state of him."

Another, broader, blonde and ruddy-faced, grimaces. "Francis is not going to be happy about this."

The third man, still seated on his horse, scowls. "We need to get him back before this gets worse. Grab him."

Arthur snarls. It is a weak, pathetic thing, a ghost of his usual defiance, but it is all he has.

"Don't touch me!" His voice is raw, shaking, but filled with enough venom that they hesitate. "I’d rather die here than go back to him!"

"Yeah, yeah." The wiry one sighs, already dismounting. "Francis said you might say something dramatic like that. You’ll be singing a different tune once your Alpha gets his hands on y -"

The ground shakes as something slams down in front of them with such force that the earth cracks, sending two of the men stumbling backward.

The horses scream in terror, their hooves scraping against the dirt as they flee, disappearing into the trees, leaving their riders to scramble for footing.

Arthur's breath catches. His vision is hazy, his mind sluggish, but the smell is unmistakable: brimstone, iron, smoke, thick and choking, curling in the air like living tendrils. His fever-addled brain tries to make sense of what he is seeing.

Alfred stands before him, but this is not the Alfred who lounges lazily in the fairy ring, not the Alfred who smirks and teases, who evades questions with infuriating ease; this is something else entirely.

His wings - he does have wings. Great, leathery things spread wide, their sheer span casting the entire clearing into shadow. His tail flicks behind him, snapping through the air like a whip, restless and eager.

The ground beneath his feet sizzles, as if it cannot bear to hold him. Arthur swears he sees flames licking up the grass before they are doused, leaving only scorched earth behind.

Alfred’s horns glisten, black as midnight, curling back over his head like a crown. His claws twitch at his sides, hungry. And his eyes, his eyes are glowing, not the faint shimmer they sometimes took on when Arthur caught him at the right angle in the dark - no, they burn brighter than fire, colder than ice.

The men are frozen in terror, and Arthur, fevered and disoriented, thinks he should be afraid too, but he isn’t. Instead, his body sags in relief, because this is Alfred. No matter what he is, no matter what monstrous shape he has taken, he is here. Arthur knows that whatever happens next, he is safe. 

Alfred grins, wicked and sharp, claws curling at his sides.

"I will admit," he purrs, voice like silk, as he leers down at Arthur, "mine is an unlikely, but beneficial hospitality to abuse."

Arthur swallows. His limbs tremble beneath him, every inch of his body screaming for rest and relief, but he forces himself to stay awake and forces himself to say the only thing that matters.

"Protect me." He whispers, voice hoarse. His lips tremble, but his eyes are steady. "Like you promised."

For a moment, Alfred is silent. Then his expression softens, just barely, and his fanged smile gentles.

"As you wish."

He moves, faster than Arthur’s sluggish mind can process, faster than the men can react. One moment, they are drawing their swords, the next, they are screaming. The first one barely has time to gasp before Alfred rips him apart, claws sinking into flesh like a hot knife through butter, blood spraying in an arc across the grass.

The second man stumbles back, his sword shaking in his grip, eyes wide with horror. "D-demon!"

Alfred laughs, low and dark, before he lunges, and the man’s throat is gone before he even knows he is dead. The third tries to run, but he makes it two steps before Alfred’s tail snaps out, wrapping around his ankle like a serpent and yanking him back so hard his body slams into the dirt.

"P-please." The man chokes, scrambling, clawing at the earth. "Please, I - I was just following orders!"

Alfred crouches over him, tilting his head. "I know. And yet…"

He shoves his claw into the man’s chest and tears his heart out.

The silence that follows is deafening. The only sound left is Arthur’s ragged breathing, the rush of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. His entire body trembles, muscles weak and fevered, his limbs useless against the waves of heat still wracking through him. 

He feels lightheaded, barely present, his mind caught somewhere between relief and disbelief, unable to comprehend what has just happened, what he has just witnessed.

He forces himself to look up.

Alfred stands before him, towering, glorious, terrifying. His wings fold behind him, massive and leathery, their edges flickering with embers that never quite catch. His tail flicks lazily, coiled tension in every movement, and his claws, still dripping, glint red in the dying light.

Arthur knows he should be horrified - he should be disgusted, he should be screaming.

But he isn’t… He’s offended. Because where the hell was Alfred this whole time?

Arthur clenches his jaw, teeth grinding. His body is betraying him in the worst way, weak, exhausted, needing, but his mind is sharp, bristling with irritation.

"You took your damn time.” He rasps, glaring up at the demon before him.

Alfred blinks, then laughs. A real, warm laugh, dark amusement curling at the edges of his mouth. 

"Oh, my dear Arthur." He purrs, his voice honeyed as he looks down at him, fondly. "Do you truly think I would have let that carriage arrive at its destination?"

Arthur falters.

Alfred tilts his head, still smiling, watching closely. "You were never alone. I was following you the whole time."

Arthur swallows, his throat dry, his pulse erratic. His mind is sluggish, trying to piece together what he means. Alfred had let him run, had let him believe he was escaping on his own. Had let him desperately reach for safety, all while watching from the shadows, ensuring that no one could reach him before he did.

Arthur wants to be angry about the theatrics of it all. He wants to lash out, to tell Alfred he should have just taken him sooner, should have spared him the fear, the pain, the struggle… But he doesn’t.

Because there is something deeply unsettling about the realization that, no matter what, Arthur was always going to end up here.

Alfred turns to him fully, his inhuman presence looming, and Arthur knows, with a certainty he has never felt before, that Alfred is not a fairy - he’s never been a fairy. 

The men had screamed it before they died: demon. 

Arthur’s voice is steady despite the shudder in his chest. "Are you going to kill me now?"

Alfred steps forward, slow and deliberate. "No."

Arthur swallows. "Then what?"

"Let me make you a deal, Arthur." His voice is smooth, coaxing, curling around Arthur like smoke. 

He crouches, dizzyingly close, so close that Arthur’s nostrils are invaded with the scent of brimstone and he clenches around nothing, writhing uselessly as slick slides out of him, wet and sticky. Alfred doesn’t falter, doesn’t seem to mind and Arthur burns. 

"I want to earn you… not take that which is served to me on a plate." He lifts his clawed hand, offering it. "So I propose a trade. Your hand for my protection; your heart for my devotion. The rest of your life and afterlife for an eternity with me."

Arthur exhales, sharp. His body is betraying him, aching, needing, desperate for relief, desperate for safety, desperate for something he cannot name. 

But his mind is still his own.

“Trade in one captor for another, you mean?” 

Surprisingly enough, Alfred does not smirk or laugh or tease. He scoffs, as if the notion is absurd, and he shakes his shoulders, his demonic features easing into more familiar ones, the blood on his claws fading away. 

He reaches out, tracing his claws along Arthur’s jaw and resting at his scent glands. The intimate gesture, combined with the lack of entitlement in Alfred’s eyes, combined with the fact Alfred killed for him, has another gush of slick escape from him and Arthur barely bites back a whimper. 

“You know what I am now, yet you don’t flee.” Alfred notes, curiously, and Arthur wants to sob hysterically. 

“I don’t know what’s good for me.” 

“Clearly.” Alfred agrees, easily, though not unkindly. “I will not have you captive, Arthur. I would unshackle you from human expectation, from the chains of biology and law. You’ll have a place in my court, you will be free, powerful. You will be mine as I will be yours… but only if you wish it.”

Arthur’s mind swims with the implications of Alfred’s words, of his promises, and he does not understand half of them, only that Alfred wishes to free him, wishes to have him, but only if Arthur wishes it in return, and he realizes he’s made his choice long before it was given to him. 

“I accept.” He gasps, and he arches forward, reaching for Alfred, who descends upon him with equal fervor.

Chapter Text

Kissing Alfred is like taking a sip of tea that is just a little too hot. It burns as it slides down his throat before the taste settles, rich and dark and intoxicating. 

It should hurt, and it does hurt. Alfred’s lips are hot, almost searing. It’s like pressing his mouth to the embers of a dying fire, and yet, Arthur doesn’t pull away, because beneath the heat is something heady and lingering, something that leaves him aching for more. 

So when Alfred tilts his head, deepening the kiss with a slow and deliberate hunger, Arthur simply welcomes him in. He shivers as Alfred’s clawed hands curl just beneath his jaw, tilting his chin to easier curl his tongue against Arthur’s own, and it sends a thrill down his spine. 

Overwhelmed, Arthur grips Alfred’s horns for balance, for something to ground him as Alfred all but devours him. Against his lips, Alfred grins, his fangs digging lightly into his bottom lip. He pushes into Arthur’s grip, seeking out more pressure. Digging his fingers into the base of Alfred’s horns, Arthur delivers by pressing down onto the ridge where the horn meets scalp and Alfred shudders in his hold. 

This is not kissing, Arthur muses somewhat hysterically; it’s savouring, ravishing, but not kissing. Alfred swallows any and all whimpers that escape Arthur and it’s not until he’s about to pass out from lack of oxygen that Alfred finally relents, moving down to nip and kiss at his jaw and neck instead. 

Arthur sucks in a deep breath, only for brimstone and iron to invade his senses, filling his nose and sitting heavily on his tongue. It’s pleasant, though, making him feel just a little more drunk than he already is on his heat pheromones. 

It’s inexplicable, really. Arthur has never been this close to another person before - and Alfred has always been something otherworldly, something untouchable. All this time he’d thought he knew what Alfred was: a fairy whose existence danced between whimsy and danger, but all of it had been a lie. 

Logically, Arthur knows he should be afraid; moreso, he should feel betrayed, deceived, humiliated. He’s been played for years, strung along by a creature who was never what he claimed to be.

But fear is not what Arthur feels. 

Despite everything, despite the carnage Alfred has just wrought in his name, despite the hellish glow in his eyes and the inhuman hunger that hides in the way he devours Arthur… Arthur does not fear him. 

Because while Alfred wants him (this much is obvious), he does not want to own him. 

Arthur knows this with an inexplicable certainty and it’s that realization that makes Arthur tip his head back, baring his throat without hesitation as Alfred’s fangs graze along his heated skin. 

If he’s to be consumed by anyone, Arthur would rather it be Alfred. 

The demon above him curls his claws around the bottom hem of his shirt, and he does not just pull, he tears, shredding the fabric with unnerving ease before carelessly tossing the ruined scraps aside. Arthur barely flinches, too fevered to care, his mind hazy and lost in the heat wracking his body. 

But then Alfred lingers, his burning gaze dragging over Arthur’s newly exposed skin, slow and deliberate, and although Arthur is used to being looked at (sized up, appraised), this is different, and it makes him nervous. 

A sour scent overtakes his pheromones but Alfred doesn’t react to it, merely looks his fill while looming over Arthur. It’s not until Arthur begins squirming that the demon moves, pressing a clawed hand flat against the fevered skin of his clavicle before slowly, teasingly, moving lower. 

Arthur’s breath hitches when he brushes over one of his achingly sensitive nipples. The touch is sharp and not enough, and he arches into Alfred’s hold before he can stop himself. A whimper escapes him as Alfred rolls the swollen nub between his fingers, pinching, tugging, playing - 

Arthur doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Alfred croons, low and pleased. “Easy, little lamb.”

Arthur clenches his teeth, a sharp spike of embarrassment overtaking his pheromones, but Alfred again doesn’t seem bothered - if anything, he seems delighted. His hand tightens, his grip firm but careful, his fangs gleaming in the dim firelight as he grins.

“Hmm,” Alfred hums, liching his lips, his eyes hooded and hungry, “I could just eat you up, sweet thing.”

Arthur barely has time to process the words before he feels the cold press of Alfred’s claws against the soft, vulnerable skin of his abdomen. The contrast is stark as his own fevered body burns, while Alfred’s touch is like cool steel, gliding over him with practiced ease.

Any instinctive alarm is smothered before it can take root, because Alfred isn’t hurting him, no, he is teasing, drawing lazy patterns against his skin before his hands slide lower, curling around the waistband of Arthur’s last scrap of clothing.

The fabric once again tears apart like paper and Arthur barely registers the ruined remnants of his trousers being tossed aside, because in the next moment, a rush of cool air brushes over his exposed skin, ghosting against the wet heat of his core and making him jolt. 

It sobers him, briefly, just long enough for clarity to settle, for him to realize where they are, what they are doing - but then Alfred presses a firm hand to his chest, pushing him back down with purpose, following him down, eyes gleaming with something feral.

Arthur’s legs are lifted, trembling, draped over Alfred’s broad shoulders, and his boots, the only thing he is still wearing, knock lightly against the edges of Alfred’s wings. For a split second, Arthur stiffens, ready to apologize, but Alfred doesn’t seem bothered.

In fact, he doesn’t even hesitate.

Before Arthur can summon another thought, Alfred dives forward, pressing in close. The heat of his breath against his erect cock sends a violent shudder through Arthur, but the demon noses past it, delving down to - 

"Oh!"

Arthur’s breath punches out of him as Alfred’s tongue drags a slow, deliberate stroke through the slick mess between his thighs, sending a sharp, electric jolt straight to his gut. His claws dig into the meaty flesh of Arthur’s thighs, spreading him wider, holding him in place.

An unintelligible sound escapes Arthur as Alfred laps at him, deliberate, thorough, as though savoring him. The heat is unbearable, his body strung too tight, and the pleasure is so sharp it borders on pain. His back arches, his fingers twitching before grasping, desperate for an anchor.

And then he finds them - Alfred’s horns, solid, curved and smooth beneath his palms.

Arthur grips them without thinking, pulling Alfred closer, urging him on, and Alfred shudders. A deep, pleased growl rumbles against Arthur’s skin, sending vibrations up his spine, and his toes curl inside his boots as Alfred eats him alive, tongue working him open with slow, deliberate strokes, resulting in obscene, filthy slurps that make Arthur’s moans crack and stutter. 

"Oh gods." Arthur moans, his words slurring together, barely coherent, breath hitching as his hips jerk helplessly beneath Alfred’s grasp. "I can’t, it’s - I can, I just, fuck -"

His climax hits him like a storm; sweeping him up, pulling him under, before slamming him back down with dizzying force. His body locks, his vision whites out and then he breaks. Pleasure bursts through him, leaving him shaking, warmth splattering across his abdomen as his body clenches and pulses around the relentless drag of Alfred’s tongue.

Briefly, he is floating, boneless and relaxed - but Alfred doesn’t stop. Arthur lets out a sharp, breathless sob, his body overwhelmed, twisting as he tries to get away, to breathe, to think. 

The sharp, teasing graze of Alfred’s sharp teeth against the tender skin of his inner thigh forces him to freeze. A low chuckle hums against his skin, and Alfred’s grip tightens just slightly.

"Where do you think you're going, little lamb?” Alfred husks, devilishly sweet as he finally looks up, and Arthur’s stomach clenches at the sight of him, his lips swollen and his chin drenched. “Let me take care of you.”

Arthur waits.

And waits.

His body still trembles from the aftershocks of pleasure, but Alfred does not move. The realization settles slowly, like ink bleeding through water: Alfred is waiting for him to decide.

His chest tightens, something sharp and unfamiliar clawing at the edges of his mind, because Alfred had meant it, meant every honeyed word and every whispered promise of power, of choice, of autonomy.

And it’s sweet, Arthur thinks somewhat hysterically, because with the way his hormones are ravaging him, he doubts he could even pronounce the word autonomy right now, much less contemplate it.

Still, the brief reprieve offers him a sliver of clarity, allows him to blink past the haze of heat and see that behind Alfred, a body lies in a twisted heap.

One of Francis’ men, torn open and lifeless.

Arthur should feel horror, should feel sick, but he doesn’t. Instead, the sight irks him, like a thorn caught beneath his skin. Annoying, unwelcome, a reminder of them and the night he was supposed to have.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Arthur swallows hard, ducks his chin, and murmurs: "Not here. Take me anywhere but here."

"As my mate commands." Alfred purrs, a low, indulgent sound, his grin slow and pleased as he leans forward, capturing Arthur’s lips in another devastating, burning kiss.

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and for a brief, dizzying moment, he feels weightless, suspended in nothing, enveloped in the thick, familiar scent of smoke and something darker, in the taste of his demon, still lingering on his tongue.

A sudden drop follows, his body sinking into something soft, cool, solid beneath him and when he finally opens his eyes again, the first thing he notices is the silence. There is no wind through the trees; no rustling leaves. Just stillness.

The second thing he notices is the room he is in. He blinks rapidly, struggling to focus, to take in his surroundings, because the room is wrong.

Not in any obvious way, not in a way that screams immediate danger. Yet something in the air feels off, as if the very space itself is pressing against him, whispering that he does not belong.

The chamber is dimly lit, shadows curling along the edges, stretching and shifting as if they have thoughts of their own. The walls are a deep, almost black crimson, streaked with veins of molten gold that pulse faintly.

The floor is obsidian, polished to an impossible sheen, reflecting flickering candlelight from sconces carved into the walls. Their golden flames burn without smoke, steady and unwavering, as if untouched by air or time.

At the center of it all is the bed he has landed on.

It is massive, draped in green silk that shimmers faintly in the dim light, cool beneath his fingers. The frame is made of blackened iron, twisted and curling like vines, carved with runes Arthur cannot read. 

Against one wall, a desk sits cluttered with parchment, ink, and strange trinkets and artifacts that do not belong in this world. A large, ornate mirror hangs above it, its frame curling like skeletal hands. Arthur glances at it, but his reflection flickers and warps. 

For a moment, he isn’t sure if the face staring back at him is his or something else entirely. Arthur quickly averts his eyes to the far corner, where a lounging area has been arranged with a deep green velvet divan resting beside a low table. Goblets sit beside a decanter filled with something viscous and black, a liquid that clings thickly to the sides of the glass as if resisting gravity. 

Above, heavy drapes made of fabric that looks like woven shadow are partially drawn back, revealing - not a window, but blackness, a swirling and endless void that stretches into infinity, shifting like a storm of ink and fire.

His fingers curl into the sheets, his pulse unsteady.

"Welcome home." Alfred’s voice is warm, laced with something indulgent.

Arthur turns his head, and there he is, watching, waiting. Alfred leans back on his heels, peering down at him like a man starved, like something hungry, but not for food, not for blood - but for him.

Arthur should have questions, should demand answers, should fight, should think… But the fever burns through his thoughts, turning them sluggish and making them useless. His body aches, his skin flushed and oversensitive, raw from running, from fighting, from the unbearable need crawling under his skin.

He reaches out with grabby hands before he can stop himself, desperation overriding dignity.

Perhaps he will regret it later, perhaps he will later think of how much he must look like a petulant child reaching for a stolen toy.

But Alfred only smirks indulgently, before leaning down and pressing a slow and deliberate kiss to Arthur’s waiting lips, this time gentler, sweeter, lingering like a promise.

It turns out to be a ruse, because just as Arthur sinks into the kiss, just as he allows the warmth of Alfred’s lips to lull him into an illusion of comfort, a hand cups his half-hard cock, clawed fingers curling delicately around the sensitive flesh. 

Arthur gasps, breaking the kiss with a low, shuddering groan as his hips jerk up instinctively. Alfred merely chuckles, tilting his head to nip at Arthur’s throat, his tongue flicking against the sensitive skin just beneath his scent gland.

Something tickles against his legs, faint and fleeting. Arthur barely registers it at first, too lost in the molten heat of Alfred’s touch, until it glides lower, slipping between his thighs, dragging lazily across his skin.

It’s not Alfred’s hand.

The realization strikes through the haze, and when Arthur shifts, he feels it. Something smooth and flexible, something that coils and tightens around the pale flesh of his thigh in a slow, deliberate loop.

Alfred’s tail.

Arthur swallows hard, his breath hitching as the sinuous appendage moves. A featherlight pressure slides between the curve of his ass, tracing the seam of him in languid, knowing strokes.

His body reacts before his mind can catch up, thighs spreading instinctively. And Alfred hums approvingly, the sound reverberating through his chest. "Good boy."

The praise burns through Arthur like a brand, setting his nerves alight, and before he can even process the way it makes his stomach coil, the tip of Alfred’s tail presses in. The spaded tip nudges against his entrance, slick and soft yet impossibly firm. It doesn’t force its way in, doesn’t push - it slides as Arthur relaxes, as he yields.

A ragged, broken moan spills from Arthur’s lips as the appendage fills him in slow, deliberate strokes, the smooth length curling inside him with a dexterity no human touch could ever replicate. His legs clamp down, trapping Alfred against him, inside him, and Alfred growls something inhuman that rumbles through Arthur’s bones.

Then Alfred moves.

His hands pin Arthur’s wrists above his head, wings unfurling, darkening his line of sight as the spaded tip of his tail begins a steady, relentless rhythm. It doesn’t thrust so much as undulate, a fluid, rippling motion that never fully withdraws, coiling and flexing with purpose, as if searching for something.

And then it finds it.

Arthur shouts, his body locking as white-hot pleasure bursts through him, raw and sudden, something new and devastating in his inexperience. The demon above him grins, wicked and sharp, his tail curling and pressing into that spot again, and again, until Arthur is a trembling, wrecked mess beneath him.

"That’s it, sweetheart." Alfred croons, leaning down to brush his lips over Arthur’s jaw, nipping lightly as he drinks in every ragged sound. "Let go for me."

And Arthur does. He comes for the second time, climaxing with a shuddering moan that punches all air from his lungs and he nearly chokes as he desperately inhales, his fingers digging into Alfred’s arms, desperate for purchase.

Alfred chuckles, pleased, his tail still moving in slow, lazy strokes inside of him, prolonging the sensation, letting it simmer instead of fade.

"Do you know how good you feel?" Alfred muses, voice thick with possessive satisfaction, his grip tightening just slightly, but Arthur can’t answer, he can barely breathe.

His body is caught between two warring sensations: blissed out from the climax that just wrecked him and achingly unsatisfied because his heat is far from over. It will drag on, torture him for days more unless he’s knotted.

But Alfred isn’t human nor an Alpha and therefore, he doesn’t have a knot.

...Right?

The thought sparks a new kind of desperation, and before he can stop himself, Arthur blurts: " Please tell me you have a cock."

The words leave his mouth unabashed, but Alfred simply laughs, startled yet delighted. 

"I can have whatever you want me to have." He purrs, voice curling around the words like smoke. Arthur doesn’t have time to process what that means before Alfred is on him again, kissing him slow and deep, his tongue all but slithering down Arthur’s throat. 

Arthur barely notices the shift, barely realizes what’s changed, until his fevered skin registers something new: the warmth of bare flesh against his own.

Alfred is suddenly naked, the remnants of his clothing gone, vanished as if by some unseen magic, leaving nothing between them but heat and breath and the aching tension still thrumming between their bodies.

And Arthur barely gets a chance to look before Alfred’s hand slides around the slender column of his throat. Not tight, not threatening, just there, a gentle, deliberate pressure, thumb brushing along his racing pulse as Alfred watches him, eyes burning, waiting.

"Anything you want, little lamb.” Alfred murmurs. "Just say the word."

The press of something thick and hot brushes against the inside of his thigh, sending a full-body shudder through Arthur, and he knows what it is - knows what’s coming. 

His lips part, and he exhales a single, wrecked command: "Take me."

Alfred hums, pleased, but doesn’t move just yet. Instead, he tightens his grip ever so slightly, not restricting or demanding, just coaxing, guiding. "Then present to me."

Arthur obeys before he even realizes he’s moving. His limbs feel boneless, the last remnants of strength slipping from his body as he lets Alfred maneuver him however he pleases. He is gently drawn forward, his head pressing heavily into the soft give of a pillow that smells only of his mate.

Alfred positions himself behind him, strong hands gripping Arthur’s hips, lifting, adjusting, until Arthur is exactly where he wants him. Instinct prickles at the back of Arthur’s mind - he has heard whispers of this before, growing up.

The surest way to take, to be bred. They say an Omega should never let themselves be mounted, should never allow themselves to be taken like this if they do not wish to be claimed. 

But Arthur has never been one to listen to what they say. A shudder runs down his spine as Alfred rises behind him, and Arthur feels it, the shift in the air, the sheer size of him. He does not look, but he knows Alfred has spread his wings, knows that they must be curling around them both like shadows swallowing the dim light.

Arthur gasps for air as Alfred grips his waist, as sharp claws press just enough to leave a sting.

"What a marvel you are, Arthur." Alfred praises, his voice reverent, awed, but possessive.

Arthur barely has time to register the words before Alfred pushes in.

It is more than he has ever taken, more than the toys he has used in the lonely nights of his heats, more than anything he has ever prepared for. It borders on painful, and yet feels so incomprehensibly good, and he shakes beneath Alfred’s hold, his hands clenching into the silken sheets as his body yields, stretching, burning.

And then Alfred thrusts, his grip tightening as he buries himself to the hilt, their bodies pressed flush, and Arthur is left gloriously full.

“You’re too much, I can’t,” Arthur keens as he feels their hips almost meet. “Please - ”

Arthur hears the weak flutter of leathery wings as Alfred withdraws, almost pulling out entirely and Arthur sobs in protest, hands frantically moving around the bed underneath him in an attempt to find purchase and either flee or push himself back onto Alfred’s cock. 

“You can. You’re going to take all of me.” Alfred argues, his claws trailing up Arthur’s spine before finding his hands and grabbing them, pushing them into the mattress.

The demon then drapes himself over Arthur’s back, caging him in, offering him no reprieve nor escape as he ruts back inside of him with a harsh thrust. Arthur cries out, surprised and elated as Alfred pounds even deeper than before. 

“Even soaking wet, you are like a vice around my cock.” Alfred purrs before setting a rapid rhythm. “Made just for me, weren’t you?”

There is little Arthur can say in return, not with how each thrust of Alfred’s cock pushes the air further out of his lungs, but he manages a: “Harder, please, I can take it, I promise -”

Alfred’s wings lower, folding around Arthur in a shroud of darkness, enclosing him in a space that consists of nothing but heat and breath and the overwhelming presence of the demon behind him. The only light left is Alfred’s eyes, glowing brilliant, impossible blue, and then even that disappears.

“No one else will ever have you like this. Only me.”

Arthur is pushed down, his body sinking deeper into the mattress, his face pressed into the pillow beneath him, reducing his world to the damp heat of his own breath, the scent of silk and smoke and Alfred, the weight above him holding him firmly in place.

“Alfred, I, oh, fuck, please - ”

The pressure is relentless, the overwhelming lack of air leaving him lightheaded, dizzy, but all he feels is the sharp edge of pleasure, tearing through him in waves, curling around the heat of his fever like a vice.

“I will never let you go now, not when you were made to fit me like this.”

There is an urgency to Alfred’s words, a possessiveness, something obsessive and all-consuming that both thrills and overwhelms him, and what little strength he has left evaporates in his indecision to grind back or try and flee, but the choice is stolen from him as Alfred once again, finally, moves.

Arthur feels full, perhaps too full, his body stretched around Alfred’s length, his insides clenching in protest and relief. The angle shifts and white-hot shocks of pleasure lance up his spine, curling behind his ribs, because Alfred’s cock presses just right against something deep.

“Ah!” Arthur cries out, his voice all but breaking as Alfred repeats and hits that same spot again. “Alfr- ehhaah - ”

“Are you overwhelmed, sweetheart?” Alfred teases, his rhythm slowing so that each drag of his cock sends pleasure pulsing through Arthur, and every time he pulls out, Arthur is left gasping and aching for the next roll of Alfred’s hips. “You feel so good wrapped around me, trembling like this.”

“It’s, oh, fuck, please, I need it - ” Arthur slurs, barely aware of what he’s saying but knowing he’ll keep saying it as long as Alfred continues what he is doing. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.” 

Alfred growls, deep and hoarse, the sound reverberating through Arthur’s bones. His wings snap open and with a single powerful beat, Alfred rises, pulling Arthur with him, dragging him up with effortless strength. 

Arthur gasps, his body unmoored and his weight no longer his own. Then Alfred’s tail winds around his waist, coiling tight, holding him firm as he is manhandled into a new position.

His back presses into Alfred’s chest, his thighs splayed open as he is settled onto Alfred’s cock, impaled so deep that Arthur swears he can taste it on his tongue and his breath punches out of him in a broken gasp.

Alfred hums, satisfied. "There we go." He purrs, fangs brushing against the sensitive shell of Arthur’s ear. “A throne fit for a queen.”

Arthur is lost on it, drunk on heat and drowning in pleasure. His thoughts are fragmented and useless, slipping through his fingers like sand. He doesn’t fully understand what Alfred is saying, but the reversal of their roles is not lost on him. 

Omegas are supposed to be beneath their Alphas. That is what he was taught; that is what nature dictates.

But Alfred defies nature and instead of continuing to mount Arthur, instead of continuing to press him down into the mattress and take him as every instinct demands, he pulls Arthur up and places him on top, as if Arthur is the one in control, as if Arthur is the one to be worshipped. 

Arthur trembles, his body wracked with pleasure, his nerves shattered, but his lips still form words, instinct taking over. “Please,” a wrecked, helpless plea, breaking on a sharp inhale, “please, I need it, Alfred - ”

His voice cracks as Alfred snaps his hips up, his grip tightening on Arthur’s waist before he lifts him, effortlessly, inhumanly strong, and slams him back down onto his cock, forcing him to take every thick, burning inch in one devastating stroke.

Arthur wails, his hands scrambling to find something, anything, to ground himself, fingers sliding over sweat-slicked skin before gripping onto Alfred’s wings. He grabs onto the spine of one of Alfred’s wings, nails digging into the ridged, leathery membrane.

Alfred shudders violently beneath him, a growl rumbling in his throat, and the tail around Arthur’s waist tightens, the movement possessive, restraining, pressing into the heated skin of his torso as it slithers lower.

Arthur barely has time to think before he feels it, the soft and wicked stroke of the spaded tip along his ribs, teasing before -

"Oh!"

Arthur gasps, his entire body seizing as the tail wraps around his aching cock, coiling snug, the smooth, slick appendage squeezing and moving. 

The pressure is perfect; tight, firm, pulsing around him in rhythm with every brutal thrust Alfred drives into him. The pleasure is suffocating, overwhelming him in wave after wave, until the dam breaks and Arthur cries out, his body locking up as he comes suddenly, devastatingly, spilling himself in sharp, shuddering bursts.

His head tilts back, mouth open, breathless as Alfred fucks him through his orgasm, his own thrusts growing irregular and his breathing going ragged. 

Fanged teeth encircle the tender gland on his neck and Arthur barely has time to bare his throat, instinctively offering better access, before Alfred sinks his teeth in. Pain blooms sharp and sudden, but it is nothing compared to the warmth that floods through him.

A pulsing, overwhelming heat sinks deep into him, curling in his stomach as Alfred growls, low and guttural, his grip unyielding as he ruts into him one last time, emptying himself inside with a drawn-out, shuddering groan.

Arthur goes boneless, his body limp and pliant, spent and ruined and full. His hands, trembling, rise and his fingers thread blindly into Alfred’s hair, finding the ridges of his curved horns and rubbing slow, lazy circles into the base.

Alfred shudders beneath his touch, his body tensing, his hips jerking as he bites down harder, his cock still hard inside of him, reminding Arthur that this is far from over. Arthur laughs, the sound light, delirious, his grip tightening possessively around Alfred’s horns.

"You’re mine now." He babbles, his voice raw from overexertion. 

Alfred releases his throat, lifting his head, licking the blood from his lips as he studies the mark he has just left. His mouth is still stained red, his eyes as dark and infinite as the void swirling outside their chamber. 

And that is… something Arthur will have to deal with, later, because right now, Alfred tilts his head back and kisses him, deep and starving, the taste of iron slipping onto Arthur’s tongue.

A shudder wracks through him, the taste of his own blood sending another sharp wave of desire straight to his core, his body responding with another slick rush of need, spilling over Alfred’s lap in offering.

Alfred groans into his mouth, fingers digging into Arthur’s waist, holding him there, trapping him against his still-hard cock.

"All yours." Alfred murmurs against his lips, his voice deep and wrecked, his smile sharp but his eyes full of something indescribable, something like reverence, like awe.

Time ceases to hold meaning. Days, weeks, centuries - Arthur does not know, nor does he care, because Alfred keeps his promise.

Arthur is given freedom in a way he never had in the human world, a place in Alfred’s court that is his to shape. He is neither an Omega nor a pawn to be traded; he is Arthur, cunning and curious and powerful, and in the depths of Hell, where time stretches infinitely and fire burns eternal, he reigns.