After a very lengthy argument over the reasons why Alfred could not sleep in his bed, Arthur finally retreated to his bedroom, locking the door behind him. While he knew it wouldn’t stop the other man—robot, he again corrected—he hoped that it would at least instill a bit of a message on the other man. Locked doors obviously meant that he wanted to be left alone (speaking of doors, he would have to pay his landlord to replace the door knob, just lovely…).
Alfred pouted at the closed door, like a pouting puppy. His ears, which matched the golden-yellow color of his hair, were drooping pitifully. Likewise, his long tail was on the ground beside him, limp. Didn’t Arthur like him? He’d tried so hard, just wanted to make the Briton happy… After all, he loved him—he’d been made for Arthur.
Arthur was his.
The other cat of the house – Victoria, he remembered Arthur calling her – went over to the door, a quiet meow escaping her throat. She lifted a paw to gently pad at the door, her clawless forelegs making a gentle rustling noise against the cheap hollow door. Another meow, this a little more demanding and pitiful than the first, came from her.
The door opened, briefly, and Alfred barely caught a glimpse of the Englishman as he allowed the small mammal into his bedroom, a quiet “come in, love,” passing his perfect, cherubic lips easily. A small smile was fixed on his expression, and though Alfred only saw it for the briefest of moments, it was fixed into his retina.
Why the hell had Arthur, his Arthur, made such a beautiful smile, but directed it towards that little fluff ball? What did that thing have that he didn’t?
His eyes narrowed as Arthur closed the door, re-locking it, Victoria now within the room Alfred was barred from, likely snuggling smugly with the Briton.
It was official: that cat was the enemy. Arthur was his, damn it, and he didn’t like sharing.
Must Love Cats - 3c
After a very lengthy argument over the reasons why Alfred could not sleep in his bed, Arthur finally retreated to his bedroom, locking the door behind him. While he knew it wouldn’t stop the other man—robot, he again corrected—he hoped that it would at least instill a bit of a message on the other man. Locked doors obviously meant that he wanted to be left alone (speaking of doors, he would have to pay his landlord to replace the door knob, just lovely…).
Alfred pouted at the closed door, like a pouting puppy. His ears, which matched the golden-yellow color of his hair, were drooping pitifully. Likewise, his long tail was on the ground beside him, limp. Didn’t Arthur like him? He’d tried so hard, just wanted to make the Briton happy… After all, he loved him—he’d been made for Arthur.
Arthur was his.
The other cat of the house – Victoria, he remembered Arthur calling her – went over to the door, a quiet meow escaping her throat. She lifted a paw to gently pad at the door, her clawless forelegs making a gentle rustling noise against the cheap hollow door. Another meow, this a little more demanding and pitiful than the first, came from her.
The door opened, briefly, and Alfred barely caught a glimpse of the Englishman as he allowed the small mammal into his bedroom, a quiet “come in, love,” passing his perfect, cherubic lips easily. A small smile was fixed on his expression, and though Alfred only saw it for the briefest of moments, it was fixed into his retina.
Why the hell had Arthur, his Arthur, made such a beautiful smile, but directed it towards that little fluff ball? What did that thing have that he didn’t?
His eyes narrowed as Arthur closed the door, re-locking it, Victoria now within the room Alfred was barred from, likely snuggling smugly with the Briton.
It was official: that cat was the enemy. Arthur was his, damn it, and he didn’t like sharing.