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Someone whisks Dan away as soon as they exit the airport and Jones takes the passenger seat of the car he ushers Arthur into. Arthur gets the backseat all to himself. He can see Jones' eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every few seconds though, so he sprawls in his seat, breathing heavily now, and catches Jones' eyes every time he looks. He itches with the need to be touched.

The drive to the hotel takes forever. Arthur is a mess by the time they arrive, wracked by uncontrollable shivers even as he sweats through his suit. An uncomfortably prickly heat has engulfed him and he wants to tear off his clothes, rub off against cool sheets, crawl out of his own skin. He wants to get fucked. He wants-

The car jolts to a stop, and he has to stifle a groan when it nudges the plug inside him. Everything is descending into a hazy cloud of color and scents. He feels euphoric and nauseous all at once.

He doesn't remember much of the walk to his appointed room, but he figures he must have had, and what a walk it must have been-a walk of shame in every sense of the word. When he peels open his eyes, he's on a soft bed with silken sheets that feel soothing against his sensitized skin and, turning his head to the left, he can see Jones' dress shirt cling to the musculature of his back, fabric wrinkling at the dip above his waist. He licks his lips, speaks through his parched throat. "What are you doing?"

The American man startles at the sound, turning to face Arthur after he puts down his phone. "Updating your people about the situation," he answers, voice carefully void of emotion.

Fleeting panicked thoughts rush through Arthur's head, but something tells him that Jones had not outed him to the agency. He wouldn't, not without risking his own secrets. He's proven correct when Jones raises a placating hand and continues, "As far as they're concerned, you've caught a terrible case of upset stomach. No need to worry."

Arthur breathes out, calming his racing heart, and watches Jones, long enough that the younger man soon starts to fidget. The tension that's been simmering between them since the first time they meant is on the verge of boiling over. But they're caught in this moment, both unsure about the proper next step.

"Well," Arthur says, sultry and warm, taking the initiative. "What are you waiting for? You want me to beg?" He gains a measure of satisfaction in seeing Jones swallow, the apple of his throat bobbing so temptingly. He looks like he's about to lie, but Arthur knows he's been hard since he got a whiff of Arthur's heat scent. When Arthur drags his gaze down, he sees proof of it in the bulge creasing the man's fitted trousers.

Jones follows his gaze and hastily turns around, shuffling papers around the table. Arthur heaves a sigh. He's been hard for a while now too. The itch has momentarily abated, but Arthur knows it's only the calm before the storm.

"I can't," Jones says, a touch of frustration audible in his voice. "I can't. Not when you're not in your right mind."

"I'm horny. Not intoxicated," Arthur says placidly.

"You think I don't know what heat scent smells like?" Jones throws over his shoulder. "You reek of it."

Arthur sighs, stretching until his bones pop satisfyingly. "It's true. So what? I'm not out of my mind. Not yet anyway. So while I still have my faculties, I would like to tell you now that I would very much appreciate it if you could...ah, aid me, in my time of need." Arthur waits a beat before adding, "That means I'd like you to fuck me please."

He hears Jones curse before the man drops the papers he'd been shuffling. He seems to struggle with himself for a moment, before finally pulling away from the table and heading for the door, much to Arthur's disappointment.

Arthur moves fast, vaulting over the side of the bed to try and catch Jones before his hands touch the doorknob. He manages to grab Jones by the shoulder, and as the man turns around, Arthur belatedly realizes that Jones had not been trying to escape. He was locking the door.

Arthur's gaze travels up Jones' corded arms to his broad shoulders before finally alighting on his handsome chiseled face.

"Safeword," Jones prompts, hands settling on Arthur's waist.

"What?" Arthur replies dumbly.

"Your safeword. What is it?"

Arthur bites his lip, lowering his eyes, and says, "Werewolf."

Jones's eyes narrow but he says nothing. And then he moves, quick as a snake, violently grabbing Arthur's face to crush their lips together in a brutal kiss, reminiscent of their first. He kisses like an entitled prick, taking and never giving, tasting every corner of Arthur's mouth and drawing out his tongue. Arthur can only stand there and take it, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides for a moment before they come up to grip Jones by the neck to pull him closer. He's so hard he can barely breath. A dim thought lights up in the back of his mind, something urgent, but the heat of the body against his and the soft, wet mouth sucking on his tongue drives all other thoughts to oblivion. He moans breathlessly, knees going weak, when he feels a hard, muscled thigh being forced between his legs.

"Bed," he gasps, arms coming up to rest on Jones's massive shoulders. The low thrumming in his blood is rising to a crescendo and he knows he's about to lose his mind soon. Already his head is saturated with thoughts of mating, of being held down and filled until he can't breath, of wanting it. He positively aches. "Bed, Jones, please," he repeats, mouthing along the smooth column of his throat.

"Alfred," Jones grunts as he effortlessly lifts Arthur off the ground.

Arthur makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat, marveling at the other's strength, even as he tightens his legs around his trim waist.

"When you scream my name," says Alfred F. Jones, staring at Arthur's flushed face with eerily glowing eyes, "you say Alfred."

This time, it's Arthur who grabs Alfred's face to beg for a kiss, sweeter and deeper than the last. His confined hard-on is pressed up against Alfred's hard abs, and he squirms, wanting more of him, more of everything. "Alfred," he gasps. "Please, please," he mumbles, nuzzling his cheek.

"Please what, sweetheart?" Alfred teases, his voice deepened by his arousal. It makes Arthur quake to hear it.

When he looks at Alfred, his eyes are dark, the jade green eclipsed by inky black pupils. "Please fuck me," Arthur breathes, pressing soft appeasing kisses across Alfred's face. "Please fill me up."

Alfred curses under his breath and drops Arthur on the bed, as gently as he can. He steps off his Oxfords while Arthur takes off his own shoes and tie, carelessly flinging them to the floor in his impatience. His shirt is only half unbuttoned when Alfred descends on him, more cat than wolf, to suck kisses along his throat, down his heaving chest, pausing to lick his stiff nipples through his shirt, before continuing down to where his abs quiver in anticipation. Arthur makes small hurt sounds through it all, like he can't stand to be teased. But when Alfred's hands finally land on his belt buckle, Arthur jolts, tensing up. "W-wait," he manages, his sweet sodden smell suddenly going sour with fear.

Alfred freezes, withdrawing his hands. "Arthur?"

"I just…" Arthur takes a deep breath, centering himself. But his voice still quakes when he says, "I want to ride you."

Alfred's voice is calm and comforting as he responds, slowly running his hands up and down Arthur's rigid thighs until he relaxes under his touch. "That's fine. But I still need to loosen you up. I wanna put my mouth on you. Will you let me?"

Arthur's soft breathy laugh manages to sound disbelieving and regretful at the same time. "I'm so wet I honestly don't think you need to. But if you insist, I can do it myself. Could you, uhm, turn off the lights?"

Alfred's hands on his thighs still and the lines of his jaw works, as if he wants to disagree. Arthur bites his bottom lip, afraid he's finally turned Alfred off, but Alfred only nods, giving Arthur a parting kiss before he gets to his feet. "Hang tight."

With the lights off, Arthur breathes easier. He can see perfectly fine in the dark, so he watches Alfred approach the bed slowly, losing his clothes as he goes. Alfred is down to his tight boxer briefs by the time he reaches the bed, and Arthur can see the outline of his cock perfectly even in the pitch black. He pushes Alfred to recline against the pillows, kissing him in gratitude, before moving away to shed his own clothes and the plug. Finally nude, he settles next to Alfred, quickly sucking on two fingers before pulling the other in for a scorching kiss. While Alfred is busy devouring his mouth, Arthur's two fingers, slick and quickly cooling in the air, drag over his crack before sinking into his wet hole. Alfred swallows up his low groan, answering with a soft moan of his own.

"Are you-" Alfred mumbles against his mouth. "Can I-"

"Suck my nipples," Arthur orders softly, roughly twisting his fingers inside himself. They don't feel like enough and he nearly cries out in frustration. But he consoles himself with the thought of Alfred's thick cock, hard and hot against his thigh.

Meanwhile, Alfred moves to obey, dipping his head to mouth at Arthur's chest, latching on to one of his stiff nipples with a harsh suck that pulls a quavering moan from the other's swollen lips. His hands are tight around Arthur's waist, even as he itches to sink his fingers inside him.

When Arthur finally can't take it anymore, he pulls out his fingers with a hiss and shoves Alfred down, straddling his hips. He rubs his ass against Alfred's hard dick, panting softly, and then reaches back to guide him into his soft, wet hole. Alfred makes a noise of protest, but Arthur leans down to kiss him, effectively shutting him up.

Despite everything that Arthur has ever read about heats and rutting, there's still a moment of panic when he's sure Alfred won't fit-thoughts of 'too big, not wet enough, fuck, fuck, fuck' running like a mantra through his mind-and then the head of Alfred's ridiculous cock pops inside, and Arthur has to gasp wetly against Alfred's throat to catch his breath. He can feel sweat breaking out all over his skin, his ass feeling full to bursting already. It hurts. And Alfred is so blessedly still under him. "Fuck," he whispers, unable to help the pained sound that escapes him when he tries to move.

"God," Alfred wheezes. "Arthur, you're too tight. Sweetheart, please. Let me-"

"No, no, no, no," Arthur sniffles pathetically. "Just don't move," he begs, eyes tearing up.

"Arthur," Alfred says with a sigh. He reaches up to curve a palm against Arthur's damp cheeks, brushing away tears. "It's okay. You're not ready-" he begins to say, freezing up when he feels something silky soft brush against his knee.

Arthur seems to have felt it too, because he tenses up, clenching hard around Alfred with a gasp.

"Arthur, get off," Alfred orders, defenses up. He feels a touch of regret when Arthur pulls away, but the foremost thing in his mind is protecting Arthur from whatever's in the room with them. He's poised to curve his body over Arthur's until he feels Arthur squirming to get away.

By the time his eyes are glowing blue orbs in the darkness, Arthur has already moved across to the other side of the bed, freezing only when he senses Alfred's gaze. There's a moment of utter silence when Alfred just tries to take in what he sees, because Arthur looks utterly delectable naked and dripping in front of him but there's also something blurry past Arthur's shoulder and Alfred's protective instinct is still dialed up past the urge to mate. He grabs Arthur's ankle, heedless of his panicked yells to let go, and drags him closer.

"Arthur, there's something stuck to-" He curses when a kick flies past his face and he instinctively grabs both of Arthur's legs, cock twitching at the sight of him bared.

"Fuck you," Arthur is saying, an arm thrown over his eyes. "Let me go," he orders hoarsely. Then softer, "Please, just let me go."

But his words fall on deaf ears as Alfred really takes him in, something like wonder dawning in his eyes. He lets go of Arthur's legs and hesitantly reaches out to caress the furry appendage listlessly curling and uncurling beneath him. Arthur flinches when he finally touches it, but Alfred is nothing but gentle as he runs his fingers through the soft, silky fur. "You have a tail," he breathes.

Arthur lifts his arm enough to slant a watery glare at Alfred. "Meow," he says flatly.

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(a/n: Aaaand the cat's outta the bag! Haha. Yes, I've been waiting to say that. I hope you don't hate me too much for this. There's a second part to their shenanigans.

On another note, if you reread the first couple of chapters, I changed a few details-nothing major though, just a side character fix.

And I think that's it. As always, thanks for reading!

P.S. The 'werewolves and catboys collide' idea came from Whisky's Pavlov's Bell over at A03. I absolutely adore her works and that one has got to be one of my favorites! I was inspired to write this after probably the sixth time I read that series.)