Word Count: ~1400
Warnings: Borderline bestiality... sort of, Knotting
Pairings or Characters: Arthur/Eames
Summary: Arthur and Eames are werewolves who meet for the first time and battle it out to determine who's the Alpha Male. Claiming, marking, and sex ensue (in human form)
Beta: night_reveals who is gracious enough to beta a ridiculous number of absurd things for me.
Arthur pads out into a clearing, grass damp and cool on his paws after the downpour, soft drip, drip of raindrops running off the leaves. He’s cautious; he can smell and hear the other wolf lurking in the darkness beyond the treeline. His hackles are raised but he won’t be cowed, won’t wait for the other to challenge him; he’ll meet this opponent without hesitation.
He bares his teeth, lips curling in warning even before the other wolf comes into view. A low growl barely vibrates through his chest, but it’s enough; the other will hear and know that Arthur will not back down.
Eames is weary of interlopers, of these young upstarts challenging him. They never win, never stand a chance. But he tires of it, has scars enough for a lifetime. He is still the strongest; no one can challenge his authority, and this one will be no different.
He hunches his shoulders, folds his ears flat against his head and stalks slowly, confidently into the clearing. The other wolf is lean, young, fierce and hungry. Eames is not foolish enough to underestimate his opponent, but he sees the other one is smaller, less experienced. Eames is not worried.
He moves to the centre, making sure the other wolf knows this is his territory. He sees every movement of this other, watches the way his sleek, smooth fur ripples over top of the lean muscle. He sees those dark eyes cold and menacing, sizing him up. This one might be interesting; might prove a worthy adversary. Eames’s lip curls in a pleased and eager snarl.
Arthur watches as the larger wolf crouches forward, waiting, his chest barely above the icy mist that clings to the mossy ground. Although he looks like he’s poised to attack, Arthur can tell he’s waiting. Arthur is not so hesitant.
With a ferocious snarl, Arthur eats up the distance with a few gliding strides. He snaps his jaws at the large wolf who is now all teeth and spit, raised hackles and brute muscle. They collide with a crashing thud -- twisting, biting, gnashing, scratching, growling.
A bright point of pain starbursts into Arthur’s senses at his shoulder, wetness seeping and matting his fur. His jaws close on a leg, teeth hitting bone and the taste of blood floods his mouth, hot and metallic. Again and again they struggle, break free, gnaw and buck. Arthur is strong but is slowly losing ground, yielding to the immense heft and ruthlessness of his opponent.
When at last his body is crushed under the other’s weight, jaws clamped onto his scruff, Arthur pants, struggling to drag breath into his lungs. The blazing rage in his chest settles, dims to embers. This is how it goes. He challenged, he lost; the hierarchy is clear.
He whines deep in his throat -- I see you, it says.
This wolf was not easy, was strong, and vicious. We shall be Pack, thinks Eames. When he hears the whine, he is pleased, and he rumbles in response. He eases the pressure from his jaws; he has proven his dominance, had it acknowledged. The lean one is panting, exhausted and limp.
The scent of anger no longer overpowering his senses, Eames can smell what’s underneath, the essence of this other wolf. He fits, the contours of the scent align with Eames’s own. He smells like a mate.
Eames thrums, his blood running hot through his body; it gives him a second wind, and he mounts.
The pale glow of the moon is slowly overtaken by the strengthening dawn. The black boughs of the trees criss-cross their way across the moon’s face before it finally sinks behind the dense forest canopy.
At the centre of the clearing amidst the hush of a creeping dawn, the wolves’ hot breath gust white puffs into the air. As the rays of light crest the treetops and fall on their hairy bodies, they begin to shrink, legs extending, bare flesh emerging.
Understanding blossoms slowly, and Arthur should be used to it but he’s not. He wakes as if from a dream, flashes of memory: pictures, sensations. Clearest in his mind is the knowledge of his place, the knowledge that the body at his back has earned him. And he remembers... not the smell, he can never remember the smells exactly, but the certainty that the smell gave him.
The man at Arthur’s back noses at his nape, moves him to all fours. Arthur lets himself be moved, supports himself when he’s there. This is not the first wolf to try to claim him; those had left injured, angry. Arthur has crashed against many but has never known -- the way he knows now -- the assurance of belonging.
The teeth nipping at his neck this time don’t puncture, but they’re sharp and sure. His shoulder aches even though the wound is knitting together already. The body wrapped around him is sweaty, hot on his back: a sharp contrast to the rest of Arthur’s slick skin exposed to the brisk morning air. The man’s weight is solid, pressing Arthur’s knees and hands deep into the moss.
He can feel the insistent poke of the man’s hard cock against his thigh, his ass, blindly searching. He dangles his head forward, waits.
Eames is startled but undeterred by his transformation. The smooth body under him presents himself, obeisant -- surprising for one who fought so fiercely. Eames remembers the whine, remembers the bedrock understanding they reached; he eases his teeth, sucks a mark instead.
As his thoughts begin to focus, still clawing with animal need but gaining depth and clarity, Eames’s movements become more deft. He centres himself, presses in. The grunt this earns him reminds him that this is his Pack; he will show that he cares for his own. He spits, prepares, and the grunts turn into moans as the man pushes back against Eames’s fingers.
Thrumming with urgency now, the animal in him needing to take what’s his, he slides in. He grips the man’s hair and pulls back his head, sucks bruises into wherever his mouth touches skin. The man keens, and Eames rumbles his approval.
Finally sheathed in the depths of his mate, Eames thrusts hard, his body taking the friction it desires. Fast and frantic, both of them gasp with unrestrained grunts. Sweat makes them slip and slide against each other. Unthreading his fingers from the other’s hair, Eames wraps his palm around the man’s throat. The man keeps his head arched back and Eames knows he’s chosen well.
When he reaches his tipping point, he sinks his fingers into hip bone, drives in deep and lets himself go. It’s scant moments before he’s swelled so big he’s locked inside. This seal makes the man tense, so Eames hushes and soothes as he empties himself with hot pulsing spurts. He licks over the plethora of deep red marks over the smooth expanse of back, even as he paints his mate inside, marks him as his.
When he curiously drifts a hand underneath and feels the twitchy live hardness of the man’s dangling cock, it only takes a few simple pets, not even a full grip for the man to shiver, shudder and shoot hot strings onto the dewy ground below them. The coughed-out sob sounds like praise to Eames’s ears, and he pets down his mate’s flank, over his thighs as the pressure in his own cock begins to abate.
He’s finished his spill, but he is still too large to slip out easily, so he shifts them both gently to lay on their sides, careful to keep them together. The dew underneath them is cool, but the day’s warmth is strengthening. Eames holds his mate close, buries his nose in his nape and breathes him in.
The thin layer of mist evaporates off the mossy ground around the two naked bodies. They are curled together, warm golden light illuminating their skin. The quiet repose of the morning belies the violence that filled the clearing, the day indifferent to the struggle. But the scuffle was not without witnesses, and the beasts of the forest are cautious of this pair, skirting wide around their territory. At the centre of the circle, the bodies shift, nudge closer, settle.