Blue, White, Red

[ 0 2 | White ]

He opens his eyes to see a ceiling painted white. He blinks, slowly shifting in order to lay on his side in a futile attempt to block out the bright light which streams through the open windows.

His attempt encounters resistance, however, and Arthur barely manages to stifle a gasp of surprise. His gaze falls upon the amused blue eyes of one Alfred F. Jones, and the Alpha's lips pull up into a wicked smirk.

"Morning, beautiful," he drawls, and the Omega can't suppress the shiver which makes its way down his body as the taller man drapes an arm over his waist. Alfred leans up, resting his weight on his free arm as he looks over the silent man. His fingers linger upon the base of his spine, tracing nonsensical patterns on the bare skin. "I hope you slept well."

Arthur barely has any time to respond before the company president's son leans in, and those devious lips capture his own in another one of his intoxicating kisses. He nips at his bottom lip, waiting for the opportunity to sweep in and claim every crevice in the Omega's sweet mouth. It gathers the wanted response: the Briton's lips part in a breathless whimper, and Alfred delves into his opened prize. His fingers trace along the man's naked form, caressing the curve of his waist, his gentle touch lingering as it ghosts downward.

The flare of his hips, the silken smoothness of the inside of his thighs—the Alpha grins privately to himself as he maps out every centimeter of his beautiful Omega. His. His and his alone, and no one could take him away.

A stifled cry rushes forth from the Briton's throat as Alfred pulls away with a gentle kiss to his cheek. Arthur looks at him, an unparalleled beauty to those green eyes as they blaze with unrepressed annoyance. And the American smiles to himself, catching a whiff of the arousal coming from none other than the Omega lying before him.

He leans forward, allowing his hand to travel down, down towards the evidence of the smaller man's undeniable wants. A gasp and a muffled curse confirm his suspicions, and Alfred smirks. "Impatient, aren't we?" He breathes into the Omega's ear, earning the smallest of shivers.

"Shut your trap," he's pulled his lips down into a scowl, the Alpha notices, and amusement sweetens his scent even as it becomes thicker, richer, with the undertone of his desire. "You and I both know that—"

Whatever acidic retort Arthur wanted to hurl upon him, it's ultimately lost as Alfred starts upon his downward sojourn, leaving soft, lingering kisses upon the once porcelain skin, now marred by the marks he'd left the night before. Arthur grits his teeth, unable to stop himself from curling his fingers into the still stained sheets as the Alpha's mouth closes around the tip of his urgent problem down there.

And oh, does he cry out—loudly, brazenly—when lips, teeth and tongue begin to unravel his tightly wound self-control.

"Jones—" he pants softly, breathlessly, and those hands finally give up their futile grasp upon the sheets in favor of curling into the American's blond hair. "S-stop teasing m—ah—"

He hums, and the vibrations send countless jolts of pleasure rippling through the Briton as he releases a loud moan. "Alfred—"

Thick and sickly sweet, the scent of roses assault his senses, and the Alpha pulls away from his current project, glancing up through hooded eyes at his lover. The Briton manages an irate huff of his name, irked at the sudden pause in his pleasure as he raises his head to glare at the company president's son.

"I should've known," Arthur all but snarls, "that you'd be such an absolute git about this." He's scowling, splotches of an angry red painting his cheeks, and Alfred can't help himself as he grins, pushing himself up so that his weight rests on his forearms.

"Come on, sweetheart," he says with a matching teasing smirk as he allows a hand to trail almost unnoticeable patterns upon the Omega's straining erection—which makes the recipient utterly mad, in both senses of the word, "haven't I satisfied you enough last night?" His blue eyes glimmer with intent, and he sees the color drain from the salaryman's face.

Oh, this is fun. He can't even begin to comprehend how utterly amusing he finds the fluctuating emotions made apparent through the constantly changing undertones to the Omega's scent. The Briton possesses one of the toughest masks to crack, after all—it is interesting to see that even beneath it all, such a lovely, obstinate Omega is not any less susceptible to carnal pleasures.

His chest heaves with every shuddering breath he takes as the Alpha moves to lean over him, perfectly straight white teeth bared in a mischievous grin which all but proclaims of his lustful desires. "It's my turn to play, darlin'," he coos, and the Briton shivers. Alfred takes note of his reaction as he leans forward, allowing his lips to brush against the edge of the smaller man's jaw. "I've yet to punish you for being late after I called you up yesterday."

His words seem to fan the almost forgotten embers of the Omega's ire into a raging flame.

"You swore," Arthur hisses irately. The American shifts in order to meet those poisonously green eyes as they stare at him with a mixture of barely repressed anger. "You swore that you wouldn't let anyone in the company know of this dalliance. And yet look what you've done—congratulations, you brat, everyone in my department, no, the entire bloody company knows that I'm the heir's whore."

Such bitterness lacing the smaller man's voice takes him aback, and Alfred pauses, carefully reaching up in order to cup his cheek. A sour undertone to his scent warns of the Omega's apparent ire and sadness, further attested to as Arthur turns his head away from the other man.

"I'm not your toy, Jones," his voice has shifted from its aggressive bite into a quiet whisper, yet an almost imperceptible tremor is there—Alfred immediately responds, shifting so that he lies beside the distressed salaryman, arms wrapped in a gesture of comfort around his slender frame. "I told you that when you first coerced me into your bed during your fit of selfishness in order to satisfy your libido. I told you that I've no intentions of repeating the mistake that was that night—and yet," he laughs, his voice acrid in its sarcasm, "and yet now I still find myself in your bed, in your arms, wanting you despite the fact that I know very well that I shouldn't—hell, I shouldn't even be saying this, but I am, and I—I just—"

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. "What am I to you, Alfred? If all I am is a quick shag, a hussy you want to play around with—I apologise, but—my pride cannot allow that any longer. I am worth more than being an Alpha's mere plaything."

The silence falls between them, tangible to a point that it gradually becomes oppressive, and Arthur, unable to take it any longer, moves in order to release himself from the Alpha's embrace. Alfred allows him to, watching him with an unreadable gaze as he sits up, the blankets falling away to display the tableau of marks across his once unblemished skin. He knows that he should say something, anything, and yet the American refuses to do so; in its stead, he sits upright, resting a hand upon the Omega's shoulder. He leans forward, brushing his lips against the back of the smaller man's neck.

It's fleeting, yet gentle all the same, and Alfred murmurs a breathless litany of his Omega's name against his skin. His hand falls to rest atop the salaryman's own, and, wordlessly, he intertwines their fingers in a loose hold.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, and he closes his eyes, whispering these words and wishing that they might be enough to let this man look at him with those green eyes again. He knows that it's a long shot, he knows that it seems insincere. He knows that he is undeserving of the hand he holds in his own atop these white sheets of his bed, he knows that he doesn't deserve to be forgiven for how he's played with this man's emotions.

And yet he tries. He tries, and hopes that it will be enough.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice a hollow remnant of his obnoxiously deceptive confidence.

"My dearest."