He's heard of the rumours even before he first stepped foot into the carefully polished, monochrome halls of the Williams-Jones corporation's main headquarters.
A devil in disguise, a wolf in sheepskin, a terror and a daydream in one horrifically beautiful figure—Arthur Kirkland has heard of it all. He's no hormone-driven idiot, no matter how his fellow Omega colleagues alternately swoon and shake their heads at the slightest mention of him.
He will not be swayed.
He will not be one of the many casualties.
Therefore, the company president's son is to be avoided at all costs in order to prevent such an atrocity.
Arthur huffs as he catches a whiff of a sickeningly sweet scent once again. He wrinkles his nose, sparing a glance at the female Omega he unfortunately shares a cubicle with.
Hideously flushed cheeks, a scent which smothers any and all Alphas (even a few Betas) in the near vicinity, bright and excited brown eyes—yes, it's clear that this poor employee is quite besotted with an unreachable goal. She leans back in her seat, pigtails bouncing in anticipation, attempting to catch even a glimpse of him when he passes by their corridor.
Arthur doesn't have to glance around to know that the rest of his colleagues are doing the same thing.
This happens twice a week, a fact he had taken notice of ever since the British Omega had began work in this same establishment nearly a year ago. He will walk—or, more appropriately, strut down the halls, peeking into randomly chosen rooms filled with supposedly working employees and often leaving with a devilish smirk and a wink. If those employees are lucky enough, the company president's son will give them a wave and a cheery greeting—sometimes it is, "How ya' doin', my lovelies?", and on one particular occasion, "The hero is here to relieve your boredom!"
In that particular event, he had, supposedly, walked through the rows of cubicles and terrorised each employee—either by pulling the plugs of their computers from their sockets or dumping an employee's preferred beverage all over their hair with a booming laugh. (A certain troublemaking Frenchman had all but rampaged his way out of that room that day with wine colouring his once-pristine suit and dripping from his hair, grumbling in French about injustices—not that Arthur knew that was what he said. He'd only heard all about it from the bubbly Beta intern, Feliciano Vargas, the day after.)
Despite the recollection having given him an opportunity to privately smirk triumphantly at the mortification of his sworn enemy even now, six months after the event, Arthur remains adamant on his stand: he will not be swayed by the antics of the company president's son.
Not even after—
"Howdy, my lovelies!"
Arthur instinctively reacts—his stomach immediately fills with dread, numbing his senses as he forces himself to glance up, shoulders hunched and fingers paused in their journey across his keyboard, towards the doorway. He stands there, leaning against the doorframe in his trademark black jacket, violet shirt and black slacks, paired with polished leather shoes. There's a new purple streak in his hair, but that same mischievous grin is still the same, as well as those blue, blue eyes which peer at the Briton from behind silver frames.
His arms are occupied, the Omega notices belatedly. Occupied with a bouquet of—
His heart seems to shrivel up and his stomach ties into anxious knots.
Roses. Blue roses. Irises in every shade of violet and blue. And forget-me-nots. Dear God, why?
(He's barely able to breathe, turning his head away as a voice whispers against his ear. "You've been so obedient so far, sweetheart," a hand, brushing against the curve of his waist beneath the olive green shirt he's wearing, fingertips feather-light and lingering. "So beautiful, and you're all mine. That deserves a reward, don't ya' think so?")
He swallows thickly, forcing himself to take deep, steadying breaths. Pure, unadulterated anger forces past the wave of dread and anxiety curling in the pit of his stomach.
("I'm not yours to toy with, Jones," he hisses as acerbically as he can muster—only to be rendered ineffective as a soft, smooth laugh caresses his cheek, and those devious hands divest him of his shirt, tossing it somewhere in the darkness of the man's lavish penthouse.
Arthur gasps uncontrollably as he's soon pinned against the wall, its surface cool against his bare skin and contrasted by the overwhelming warmth of the Alpha who cages him in, a leg pressed between the Briton's own, located dangerously close to his straining arousal. "I don't exist to provide you with carnal pleasure."—a grunt, and he can't help but roll his hips forward in response to the other man's persistent grind against him. He fights back a weak moan, forcing himself to scowl—"There are other Omegas who'll be more than willing to spread their legs for you.")
He narrows his eyes into a glare, all the while desperately hoping that he hadn't forgotten to apply the scent inhibitor that morning. (He doesn't need to risk any more than this idiot is doing, recklessly charging into the room where Arthur works when he expressly told him not to.)
(A smirk plays across the taller man's lips, "But I only want you, Arthur," he murmurs against the top of the smaller man's head. "No one else compares to you." And then he's leaning in, a hand running up and down the nape of his neck—Arthur can't control the shudder which ripples through his body as the Alpha captures his mouth in a kiss which rattles his once unshakeable resolve. He senses it when his slacks are soon unbuttoned and unzipped, pulled down to rest in a tangle around his ankles.
A nip at his lower lip and he instinctively opens his mouth in a breathless whimper. He feels the way the taller man smirks as he takes the opportunity, pressing in close as he sweeps in to plunder the Omega's pliant mouth—every nook and tiny crevice, he leaves none untouched as he draws the Briton close, fingers tangled in his sandy blond hair.)
"What brings you here, sir?" A pretty female Omega asks, batting her eyelashes at the obnoxiously confident Alpha. The company president's son ignores her heated gaze, as well as the stares of the rest of the employees.
Arthur knows that he's here for one reason, and one reason alone, and with dread freezing his senses, he remains stock-still in his seat, unable to tear his eyes away from the form of his tormentor as he advances.
A devil in disguise, a wolf in sheepskin—a terror and a daydream in one horrifically beautiful figure. Such is the anomaly known by the name of Alfred F. Jones, son and heir of the CEO of the Williams-Jones corporation.
He walks closer, closer, every step loud in the suddenly silent office. He leans in, resting his hands on one end of the desk, and those sinfully perfect blue eyes glint in that same way that sends a delightful shiver down Arthur's spine.
("Do you want me?" He holds him close, trapped in his arms as Arthur lies upon the sullied sheets. Green eyes meet with blue, unobstructed by the glasses the younger man had set aside earlier on in the night before they fell deep into the throes of lust. Alfred leans over him, a hand carefully cradling his cheek as he gazes thoughtfully at the Briton.
His lips are swollen and red, his cheeks still flushed and bruises litter his once porcelain skin. And a whisper slips from between his lips as the Alpha leans forward to swallow his response in another kiss.
"Yes.")
He doesn't move as Alfred presses deep into his personal space, and it's not long before the Alpha's lips brush against the hollow of his throat when he murmurs, husky and dark with desire.
"I'll see you later, darlin'."
YOU ARE READING
Blue, White, Red
Fanfiction"What are the colors of the love you hold for me?" [ § ] [ a Magical Strike, Omegaverse USUK fanfiction originally posted on Tumblr. completed. ]
