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Present situation notwithstanding, Alfred feels like he’s been in far worse situations before.
Granted, he’s never been pressed against a very attractive, very willing Alpha with a shit-ton of breeding pheromones coursing through his veins; his mind; his entire being.
He moans and arches when he feels sharp canines scrape against the hollow of his throat, leaving a delightfully burning trail of saliva against his collarbone. He glares (pouts; glances; he has no idea what expression he’s wearing now, not that he cares, not when the Alpha’s pressed so very nicely against him) up at the mess of ash-colored hair trying to catch a glimpse of acid green (forest green, emerald green, ocean green, greengreengreen—)
“Thas’it,” the husky voice above him whispers, causing a flush of warm air to collide with the feverish skin of his throat. “That’s a pretty boy.”
Arthur’s hovers over him, his very presence seeming to fill the entire room. He straddles Alfred’s hips, one hand supporting the older boy’s weight besides Alfred’s head, the other one exploring the smooth expanse of his chest. When his fingers (sososo cold against his feverish skin but sososo nice) brush the waistband of Alfred’s jeans, the boy groans and arches, trying to get some kind of friction because, wow, he feels like he’s going to burst and shit, that noise he just made was really unprofessional but it feels so good—
He whines when the sensation is gone, throwing his head back and revealing more of his neck, more area for the Alpha to explore. Alfred feels the vibration of the Alpha’s chuckles against his throat and the tightness in his jeans gets, if possible, so much worse. He whines once again and bucks his hips, trying to get some, any friction. His jeans rubs against his arousal and he moans even more. Above him the Alpha hums,
“I think we can do without this, yeah?” Arthur asks, tugging the hem of Alfred’s tee and slowly dragging it up, making sure that his icy fingers leave a very pleasant wake in their path against his skin. Alfred makes what can only be described as a keening noise, though Alfred can’t be sure. All he knows is that the pheromones in his body are in overdrive, every touch feels like its burning a hole through his being, and will the fuckwad hurry the hell up?!
“Might wanna lift your arms, love,” the voice purrs. Sinful. Dark. Gorgeous. Alfred obeys without a conscious thought, pushing himself up and raising his arms over his head. The shirt is off and tossed somewhere across the room, destined to be forgotten.
But, as fate would have it, the asswipe seems to be enjoying this far too much as he pushes Alfred back down against the pillow, his teeth trailing across the line of Alfred’s jaw, nipping the skin every so often while his (fucking freezing cold) hands continue to do incredible things against Alfred’s skin.
Alfred, quite honestly, still has no idea what to do with his hands so he settles with tugging the Alpha’s dress shirt, pulling at the expensive fabric and trying to tell the moron to remove the offending article before he does it himself. At length, Arthur finally seems to notice the insistent pulling and tugging because he pulls back (earning a very indignant whine from Alfred) and snatches the boy’s wrist in one of his hands, halting the poor limb’s exploration, and raises them above Alfred’s head.
In retaliation for both the action as well as the smug look on the bastard’s face, Alfred drags one of his legs up, very pointedly dragging the jean-covered knee against the Alpha’s crotch. For his part, Arthur leans forward, forehead pressed against Alfred’s collarbones and starts to make a very interesting sound that’s somewhere between a moan and a growl. Alfred feels the need to repeat the action, wanting to hear the sound again because scientifically he’s curious about figuring out if the noise was a growl or a groan.
After the second repetition wherein Alfred learns that the noise is a lot closer to a growl than a groan, Arthur bites down particularly hard against Alfred’s throat and earning a yelp from the boy in question. When Arthur lifts his head from Alfred’s chest to glare at him, Alfred glares right back up at Arthur. The hands tighten around his wrist.
“You—“
“Get the fuck on with it,” Alfred practically snarls, bucking his hips against Arthur’s and watching the very fucking obvious arousal in Arthur’s jeans. When Alfred lifts his knee to repeat his actions earlier, Arthur reacts: he releases Alfred’s wrists and hooks his elbow under the offending knee, dragging the limb until it’s comfortably draped across Arthur’s shoulder, and uses the other hand to trail his fingers (lithe, cold, musical, fucking brilliant) across the plain of Alfred’s jeans, finally cupping the boy’s very obvious arousal when Alfred releases a particularly loud whine.
“Hmm,” Arthur hums, rubbing his thumb against Alfred’s crotch. “Is this what—“
Alfred growls and bucks, shifting so that his spread legs are in full view and somehow he finds the will to look up from his very comfortable position of his pillow: Arthur sits between his legs, his figure-hugging, obnoxiously sexy, suit vest-thing in plain sight, hair disheveled, dark smirk in view, with Alfred’s long leg draped over his shoulder like a scarf and the other one curled comfortably around his waist. The prick’s fingers are still very slowly circling what’s obviously the outline of Alfred’s dick. Once again, Alfred bucks but this time he attempts to drag Arthur closer with his legs. The only outcome of this is that Arthur leans forward and presses his mouth against Alfred’s jeans, his eyes never leaving Alfred’s.
Alfred groans and falls back against the pillow. Never has he hated jeans more than now.
Alfred whines when he feels Arthur straighten up, only to yelp when he hears the noise of a zipper echoing in the quiet room. Now, even in his heat-induced state, Alfred is aware of two things. One: one of Arthur’s hands is resting against the underside of the thigh that is currently being used as a scarf. Two: that the other hand, after finishing its torturous prodding of Alfred’s crotch, had been dragged across Alfred’s leg and is now rubbing somewhat soothing circles against the other thigh currently curled around Arthur’s waist. Meaning that Arthur’s either using some strange telekinesis power that Alfred had known nothing about or he’s using his very, very talented mouth.
When Alfred forces his heavy head up, he sees Arthur’s head buried between his thighs and the zipper noise continuing.
“Holy fuck,” Alfred gasps into the empty room, earning a low chuckle from the very talented Arthur. Alfred’s not sure if the reverberations he feels are from Arthur or not but he really, really wants his jeans to be gone.
“That’s sort of the point, love,” Arthur purrs.
“Really? Because with the amount of time that you’re taking then—guck,” Alfred groans as the noise of the zipper stops completely. Alfred practically whimpers when he feels the fingers from the grounded thigh slowly trail towards his crotch. He bucks his hips again, making sure that Arthur doesn’t miss his request.
When Arthur’s fingers finally, fucking finally, make their way past Alfred’s jeans and begin to prod his boxers, he nearly cried because yeeeees. This is what he’s been waiting for the entire night!
And then the fucking door opens and Alfred is left with the feeling that the world in general hates him.
He whines as the feeling of fingers and Arthur and warmth and fucking Arthur leave him and forces his head up, hoping that the look he shoots the intruder is worthy of the magnificent Melinda May or Black Widow because, wow. He really wants to drop-kick some dickwad’s ass for interrupting the very important moment. He tries to regain Arthur’s attention by groaning and arching his hips. Unfortunately, the only response he gets is a so-called reassuring hand against crotch which helps no one and nothing.
When he finally begins to register voices, he registers an argument that he doesn’t quite understand. Something about dirty tricks and bets and being unfair and fuck, I didn’t know that he was actually an Omega and—
“Yes,” Alfred finally snarls when everything begins becoming too much and the overall need to be filled, to be warm, to be absolutely and royally fucked takes over. He barely realizes the silence that follows as he continues. “I’m an Omega. I’m a very, very horny Omega who forgot to take pills so that this doesn’t happen. Now, if someone doesn’t fuck me until I can barely walk then I will leave right now and find someone more willing because ya’ll are very slowly beginning to get on my nerves now will one of you fuck me or so help me God I will find that very attractive, very single German student that I have been eyeing since I got here.”
When there’s no response, Alfred literally forces back years of evolutionary genius and somehow manages to push himself off of the bed, rise to his feet, and begin his trek to the door. He doesn’t even make it when he feels someone grab his arm and pull him back. He’s about to tell this person exactly where he can go when he feels very warm hands against his skin, hands like silk and rich people shit. One hand cups his neck, dragging him into a very heated kiss, while the other hand rests comfortably against his hip, steady and warm, covering a surprisingly large expanse of his hips while a very warm finger dips below the waistband of his jeans to rub very tender, very sensual circles against the flushed skin.
The warm hand cupping his neck slowly drags its way up Alfred’s neck until it tangles with his hair, giving the owner of such warm hands the proper leverage to pull Alfred closer, thereby deepening a kiss that Alfred altogether wouldn’t mind getting lost in.
The heady smell of arousal and want and complete and utter, animalistic lust fills the air, making it hard for Alfred to focus on any one thing, making his head spin and his body shake and holy shit, this man has a very, very firm kiss and its positively delightful when he bites down on Alfred’s lower lips just like that—
And then another set of hands joins the warm ones, hands that are thin and lithe, icy and slowly trailing a sinfully attractive line down his spine and the mouth at the back of his shoulder, biting down against the tips of his shoulder blades, at the tips of his wings. While one icy finger trails down his spine, the other one rests against his hip, dipping beneath the waistband of his jeans without so much as a by your leave.
Heh. Some fucking gentleman you ar—ahh—
Alfred arches and moans when a frigid nose presses against his shoulder, a sharp contrast to the very warm, very wet mouth that begins trailing kisses down and against the shoulder bone. He arches even more against the warm body when the icy hand presses against the small of Alfred’s back.
Considering that Alfred still has almost no idea what to do with his hands, he decides to press them against the warm body in front of him, earning a noise of approval from the man as he tilts his head, changing the angle of the kiss, his tongue languidly exploring Alfred’s mouth and a very distant part of Alfred’s mind tries to remind him that he needs oxygen and that the dizzy feeling he’s getting right now is not at all good for his health.
Alfred breaks the kiss with a gasp, but arches forward with a whine when he feels canines once again biting down against the skin of the back of his neck before a tongue laps over the bite.
The warm man in front of him chuckles, dragging the tip of his nose across Alfred’s cheek and untangling his hand from Alfred’s hair before slowly trailing down to once again cup his neck. The cold hand at his side slides languidly across Alfred’s stomach to play with the blonde hair below Alfred’s belly-button.
Alfred whines at the two very opposite sensations and leans forward, burying his head into the neck of the warm body. He feels rather than hears the man’s answering chuckle, as well as the feeling of lips against his temple.
He doesn’t know when the tangled trio begins moving, only that one minute he’s pretty sure that he’s standing, pressed between two very different temperatures, and the next thing he knows he’s lying flat on the bed, his legs hanging off the side, and the warm figure crouched between his spread legs. Near his head, he feels cold fingers brushing against his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, and begins shifting his head, trying to find the source and wanting something from those cold fingers. Between his legs he feels warm fingers brushing lightly (so very, very painfully lightly) against the bits of skin below the waistband of his jeans and right when his lips seeks out and find the cold ones, the warm fingers lift his hips and sensually drag the offending jeans from his hips, smoothly down his legs until Alfred can’t feel the rough fabric anywhere. Instead, he feels the warm hands on either sides of his hips dragging his boxers down, down, down, following the same path as the jeans before them.
At his head, the icy fingers against his cheeks are now drawing slow circles against his cheekbones while Arthur’s tongue begins exploring Alfred’s mouth, all open kisses and honest curiosity. Alfred doesn’t even try to fight for dominance, just goes with the flow, easily dragging his tongue against Arthur’s when the occasion calls for it and—
Alfred gasps and breaks the sensual kiss, arching forward as he feels something warm, wet, and entirely unfamiliar envelope his crotch.
Maybe it’s honest curiosity, maybe it’s some instinctual reaction, but whatever it is, it forces Alfred to push himself up on his forearms and stare down at the beautifully tangled, golden blonde hair between his legs. Behind him, and currently being used as his leaning posed, Arthur’s cold hands begin exploring the expanse of Alfred’s back while the smooth lips follow their trail.
Alfred is completely entranced by the man in front of him, between his legs. He tangles his fingers into the beautiful, silky, soft hair in front of him leaning forward and whimpering as the figure’s tongue twirls around his head. The noise Alfred releases when the man finally looks up, leaving Alfred staring at eyes that could rival almost any shade of blue—waterwater? Indian Ocean, his mind supplies, seeming to be working not only on overdrive but with blown fuses. Like the sky or some shit—is not something that he’s ever heard and, to be honest, not something he wants to repeat but if this man does that with his tongue again, or trails his fingers against the underside of his dick one more time then, yes, there’s a really good chance that that stupid noise will be heard again and—
There it goes again because the man at his back had just bitten down on that very sensitive spot at the neck, right below Alfred’s right ear, and wow, that man’s tongue is very impressive too.
Every sensation is now too much and Alfred whines and arches when the cold and the heat interact and wow, he never thought that some stupid evolutionary procreation thing could feel so could—
Alfred whimpers when he looks down at the angel between his legs, Indian Ocean blue locking onto his gaze, holding it there, and then those very pretty, very noble cheeks suddenly become hollow and something in the very pit of Alfred’s stomach tightens, and then suddenly, Alfred finds himself whimpering and arching away from the icy fingers behind him as suddenly he feels the basic need to release, to come and he whimpers, fingers tangled in the man’s hair tightening, his hips arching, his entire being needing to just release.
The man between his legs brushes his fingers against Alfred’s thighs soothingly as Alfred comes, the need to release in the pit of his stomach doing just that and the ocean-blue eyes never leave his and Alfred feels very, very desperate for something and the cold fingers behind him drag up his neck, against the line of his jaw, and then tug Alfred’s head to the side. The cold fingers trail down his spine as the Alpha engulfs Alfred’s mouth with his own, Arthur’s tongue dominating Alfred’s mouth and swallowing the whimpers and moans that Alfred releases.
Alfred whines and he feels the mattress near his legs fall as weight’s added to it. Blearily, Alfred breaks the kiss with a small gasp to turn and see what the disturbance is, only to be attacked by another pair of lips, these ones softer, gentler, with a much stranger taste, though Alfred really has no qualms as the kiss brings the warmth so much closer to him. His only complaint can be the sudden sharp pressure on his shoulder. He breaks this softer, saltier kiss to turn to the pressure.
He turns and blearily watches as the silky, curly hair leans forward and kisses Arthur behind him, though Alfred can’t ignore the icy finger stroking up and down his spine.
Alfred whines and leans his forehead against the scratchy face, only to hear a low oath in what his hazy minds calls ‘French.’
Francis.
Alfred releases a bark of laughter as the phrase ‘royally fucked’ comes to mind but groans when he feels Arthur tugging his shoulder in an attempt to get Alfred to face him. Alfred turns and is dragged down atop Arthur. Alfred now straddles Arthur, Francis at his back, with two pairs of vastly different hands on his hips. Alfred’s hands are on either side of Arthur’s head and in the distance, hazy confines of Alfred’s head, Alfred wanders what are they—
He groans (whines, whimpers, maybe even screams?) when the cold and warm hands pull him down, the somewhat familiar sensation of being filled overwhelms him. He arches his spine and leans forward, his hands on either side of Arthur’s head and Alfred’s own head bowed.
He then feels another strange sensation: warm hands (Francis, his mind reminds him frantically, this is Francis) on his ass cheeks, spreading his ass cheeks and before Alfred can get some question (or noise. Alfred has little control over his vocal cords right now. Or anything, to be honest) out, he feels what he assumes another cock very slowly entering him, spreading him. The sensation is both painful and so very much incredible and the stretch is tight and everything is tight and everything is so much more vivid and amazing and incredible and fuuuuck—
Alfred gasps when Francis is fully sheathed within him, his warm hands still on Alfred’s hip when suddenly, Arthur’s icy fingers dig into Alfred’s skin before he bucks, sending a thrill of something through Alfred’s very being and creating little sparks of light behind Alfred’s now closed eyes. Alfred whines and grips the sheets even tighter and delights when he hears a low, sensual moan from Arthur.
Alfred has to bite back a somewhat manic giggle when he feels Francis’ warm fingers dancing across his skin and then wrapping around Alfred’s waist, firmly grasping Alfred’s cock between his hands, dragging his nose and positively wonderful lips and tongue up and done Alfred’s spine, confusing Alfred’s entire being of where should I arch? Away from Francis? Away from Arthur?
Arthur answers the question for him when he bucks once again, this time hitting a bundle of nerves that cause fireworks to shoot off in the recesses of Alfred’s mind. Alfred leans forward, his forehead almost touching Arthur’s shoulder. Francis, not to be outdone, slowly drags his smooth fingers across Alfred’s already hard cock, rising slightly from his crouched position behind Alfred—withdrawing his cock a bit—before slamming back into Alfred, hitting the same bundle of nerves as Arthur.
From there, it seems like a competition between the two—a competition of who can make Alfred reach his climax first?
Alfred doesn’t even know. All he knows is that he’s lost count on the bucking and arching until he’s no more than a quivering, whimpering mess with his ass in the air and his forehead pressed against Arthur’s sweaty chest. Alfred bites down against the skin and delights when he hears a low moan from Arthur. In retaliation, Arthur digs his icy fingers into Alfred’s now sweaty hip, no doubt leaving half-moons, and bites down on the closest bit of skin that he can reach—the area right below Alfred’s ear.
He gasps and arches, once again coming, though this time the intensity surprises even him, causing him to whine and bury his head into Arthur’s shoulder, biting down against the skin to stifle a moan. He then nuzzles the flesh when he tastes copper.
Of course, just because he’s done doesn’t mean that either Francis or Arthur are: Arthur, currently bucking up and gripping Alfred’s thighs like his life depends on it, continues his actions, though now there’s definitely something sporadic about his movements. Francis, hands trailing up and down Alfred and Arthur’s slick and come-soaked stomachs, his practically spooning Alfred, trailing lips and tongue and teeth along the narrow set of Alfred’s back and shoulders, marking certain areas and biting down a others. His actions, in response to the half-masted look of pure lust directed at him from Arthur, along with the musical whines and moans of the Omega beneath him, are also very frenzied now, to a point where Francis knows that both will come soon, both will fill the slight Omega beneath him with their seeds. The thought is thrilling and, with the picture of both mates covered in sweat, slick, and come as well as blue and green gazes darkened with lust staring up at him, Francis bites down hard against the beautiful, graceful, well-marked neck of the Omega and comes, releasing his seed and watching in hazed satisfaction as the Omega (Alfred. Brave, clever, loyal, an absolutely perfect mate) writhes and whines, arching and digging his nails even more into the sheets. He also notes the way Arthur arches and feels the way his legs curl up beneath them.
Francis leans over Alfred and kisses Arthur over Alfred’s well-marked beautifully tanned shoulder, enjoying the taste of come as well as sweat and lust. Unlike with Alfred, both Alphas fight for dominance and Francis, knowing it’s a cheap shot, bites down hard on Arthur’s lower lip, drawing blood. Always the masochist, Arthur finally hits his peak and arches into Alfred, groaning and releasing his own seed into the perfect little Omega above him.
Francis, his hazed gaze watching both mates, twitches and whines, gracefully arching his spine and a very distant part of his mind wanders how he’s never before noticed what a graceful arch and flawless back Alfred has. Well, once flawless. Now it’s covered in an array of nail and bite marks. Francis frowns when he sees a particularly large bruise and leans forward to drag his tongue against it. Alfred whines, the noise sounding tired, and both Alphas are very aware of the new smells that surround them: the smells of lust, the heady scent of sex, and now the heavy scent of exhaustion.
Francis and Arthur frown at each other, both gazes then trailing to Alfred laying limp atop of Arthur, head buried in his shoulder.
Francis moves first, sliding out of Alfred with a somewhat arousing ‘slick’ and he watches, smug, as slick and come trail down Alfred’s thighs.
His seeds, he thinks with a smirk. His.
Despite moving, at the moment the very last thing he wants to do is completely leave the Omega, so he slides one of his hands from Alfred’s hip, down his thigh, across his legs to rest atop his ankle and, if he just so happened to spread some of his seed and Alfred’s come in the process, well then, oops.
Arthur, in a more precarious position, pushes himself onto his forearms and making Alfred sit up in the process. Arthur leans forward and lifts a hand to brush some of Alfred’s sweat-soaked hair out of his face. He then leans forward and mutters something far too low for Francis to hear but which causes Alfred to groan, but slowly move, throwing one leg over Arthur’s waist so that he’s no longer straddling Arthur.
Alfred whines and sits up, though Francis still refuses to release his grip. He eyes the Omega, wondering if he has even the slightest idea how absolutely fuckable he looks at the moment: Soft, golden hair a disarray; slick, come, and Arthur and Francis’ seeds mixed together and covering practically every visible inch of Alfred’s still sun-kissed, smooth skin; legs prettily parted and inviting; mate marks, nails, and bite marks also very visible; extraordinary blue eyes wide; and red, well-bitten lips partially opened.
In all honesty, Francis is about to drag his hand up the smooth leg and try for another round, when Alfred releases a wide yawn and then rubs his eyes, the action as well as the following expression so innocent that Francis just wants to curl up next to him. Beside him, relaxed and looking much like a modern Adonis, sits Arthur, eyeing Alfred the same way that Francis had been just moments before.
At Alfred’s yawn, though, his expression shifts from lust to alertness in seconds, before he tugs Alfred’s shoulders and drags him down. Alfred, needing no more convincing than this, willingly allows himself to be dragged down before curling into a ball and burying his face in Arthur’s chest. Not a second goes by before a soft snoring fills the room and something else joins the array of smells: content.
Much like a cat, Alfred’s contentment rolls over them both and seconds later, both Alphas are yawning. Arthur shakes his head and wrinkles his nose but wraps his arms tightly around Alfred’s waist and, with a last look at Francis, buries his face in Alfred’s hair.
Francis allows himself a slight grin as he playfully tugs in Alfred’s ankle but releases it, only to grab the closest comforter that he can find. He then tosses it over the two before crawling into bed with them. He stops next to them and tiredly studies the back of Alfred’s gold head and leans forward to kiss it, enjoying the soft tendrils against his nose and cheeks. He then glances up at Arthur and kisses the tip of his nose. When neither wake, he tangles one arm beneath Alfred and wraps it around his shoulder and then throws the other one over Alfred’s waist so that it rests against Arthur’s arm as well as against Arthur’s hip. He then leans forward and rests his forehead against the back of Alfred’s head. Relaxing, and happily embracing the contentment rolling off both mates, Francis is lulled to sleep by the easy presence of both of his mates.
…
Alfred wakes up with a heavy scent in the air, his ass hurting like absolute hell, his shoulders and, well body, feel very well-abused, sandwiched between two very warm bodies, and covered in… things that he can’t quite name at the moment. Granted, it’s comfortable as hell, but the fact remains that he feels like he just did something that was really, really bad.
And then one of the warm things shifts and Alfred feels something at the back of his head, something like air brushing against it, and he stiffens, hoping and praying beyond anything that the people are not who he thinks they are and that this is just a dream. A horrifyingly vivid dream that he’ll wake up from any moment now.
Fuck, his cover’s definitely been blown.
A distant part of Alfred’s mind tells him to take in stock the, ahh, wounds that he feels and he comes to the realization that his cover most definitely is not the only thing that’s been fucked and blown.
Damn, Alfred really needs to get his mind out of the gutter.
However, when one of the legs from one of his sandwich buddies moves, brushing against his somewhat hard cock, Alfred realizes that a dirty mind is the least of his concerns right now.
Then, of course, once again the figures move and Alfred is well aware of the fact that both are somewhat conscious, if not completely, and that he is the only one yet to ‘wake up’. He uses that to his advantage and closes his eyes to listen. It takes a moment before a conversation even starts,
“Well… this was all unexpected,” a smooth voice begins and Alfred is somewhat ashamed of how his mind automatically knows the speaker before he even finished forming his first word. Damn Arthur for having such a unique morning voice. Against the back of his head, he feels something brush his skull and hears the resounding, low chuckle of Francis,
“Unexpected? Yes. Unwanted? Far from it.”
Against his hip, Alfred feels warm fingers slowly begin to draw smooth circles against the skin. Alfred wants to ignore how soft and calming the repetitive action is and focus on the conversation but he ain’t gonna lie. It’s hard.
“I never said it was unwanted,” Arthur mutters, running his hand through Alfred’s hair. Once again, the action is calming but Alfred has to fight back the urge to purr—err, fall asleep. Not purr. He wasn’t a damned cat. “I was merely surprised by, well, everything.”
“I told you he was an Omega from the start,” Francis mutters and Alfred picks up the smug tone beneath the Frenchman’s voice. Alfred kind of wants to kick him but then that might stop the warm fingers at his hips—no! He means the conversation. Definitely the conversation. The conversation’s the most important part right now. “But… I will admit, he covered it well.”
“Fooled us all right from the start,” Arthur hums in agreement and Alfred is surprised that he doesn’t hear a lick of anger from either of them. If anything, there’s pride. He then feels something brush against his forehead. “Wonder if your mother knows.”
“Possibly,” Francis hums and Alfred hears something shift and then a soft pressure at his shoulder, “nothing seems to get by maman.”
Arthur hums in agreement and Alfred listens in even more carefully, dutifully ignoring both very calming sensations. The lull in the conversations is merely a pause, a gap. Not the end of a conversation. Alfred can feel that. Finally, Francis takes a deep breath and asks in a voice hardly above a whisper, as though concerned of Alfred overhearing,
“Where does this leave us, then?”
“Well, I had it in the bag to begin with, so—“
“I was the first to not only come, but have him release, so—“
“That wasn’t the agreement!—“
“The agreement was the first to bed him,” Francis ‘reminds’ Arthur. Alfred, shocked at the turn of events (as well as the strange, heavy feeling in his chest that’s evolved from both Alphas’ words) allows the slowly seeping-in numbness to sink in. he knows that, with the heavy scent of sex and pheromones in the air, the subtle shift of emotion will go unnoticed. Alfred listens to the rest of the conversation with a sort of detachment that he hasn’t felt in years. “As it stands—“
“How was I supposed to know that he was an Omega in heat?” Arthur demands lowly, still running a hand through Alfred’s hair. “Fact of the matter remains, if it weren’t for the scent then you never would have known and I would have won! Therefore, I’ve won now.”
“Non,” Francis argues, fingers now circling the dip of Alfred’s waist. A part of Alfred wants to shove both hands away, but to do so would mean that he’d blow his cover even more.
And you’ve done a fantastic job so far, part of his mind whispers caustically. Alfred fights back a wince at the words, trying to ignore them for the time being. When he’s alone, he can sort through everything but right now he has more important matters to deal with.
“I was the first to bed him—“
“You were the first to make him orgasm,” Arthur interrupts flatly, sounding more than a little out. “And the means through which you did so are hardly fair—“
“I think it worked wonderfully—“ Francis practically purrs. Days ago, the sound would have won an exasperated eye roll from Alfred. Now, he just wants to leave.
“A blow job? On an Omega in Heat? That’s playing dirty and you know it.”
“It tasted anything but,” Francis once again purrs and, once again, Alfred has to force back a shudder, though he can’t tell if it’s one of disgust or attraction. He honestly feels disgust about the fact that he’s also attracted to them. A lot.
Arthur neither denies nor confirms the statement, “be that as it may, I think I’ve won the bet.”
“And I think I’ve won,” Francis counters ruefully and Alfred tries to ignore the pang in his chest when Francis’ warm fingers stop their circling. “I believe, my friend that we are at an impasse.”
Arthur hums, but his fingers are still running through Alfred’s hair, every now and again playing with a curl here and there. Alfred listens in but finds himself nearly yelping when he feels a warm finger pressing against a particularly sore part of his shoulder. He relaxes, against his will, when the pad of one of the warm fingers brushes softly against the skin, soothing the bruise. Alfred hears a harsh breath behind him and imagines that Francis has sucked in a deep breath.
“We left quite a mark,” Francis comments quietly while the pad of his finger continues its soft rotation. Alfred finds himself relaxing even more when a much cooler finger pad joins in the revolution.
Arthur offers a hum and drags his hand up and down Alfred’s arm. Alfred relaxes further. “Not quite sure what we’ll do now. This,” Arthur’s thumb presses softly against another sore part of Alfred’s skin. “And this,” his finger joins Francis’. “Are both mating bites, though as you can no doubt tell, they’re both different. S’not entirely uncommon for Alphas to have multiple mates, but for an Omega? A travesty indeed.”
Francis snorts softly, “Yes, because we have proven numerous times that we fit the norm for any mating relationship out there.”
“This is different,” Arthur argues, still running the pads of his fingers along Alfred’s skin, “This is something else entirely.”
“We’ve never much cared for societal norms before,” Francis argues softly and, yet again, Alfred feels the warm fingers tracing odd patterns against his back. “Why should now—“
“Because now it affects someone else,” Arthur argues back softly, though with no less intensity. “Before this was something that only affected us and we were both more than willing to bear the brunt of the stigma. But, now? Now this affects someone else entirely and despite what you feel, you have to admit that it’ll be… somewhat alarming, at the least.”
“I think he’ll agree,” Francis argues, rubbing a figure 8 between Alfred’s shoulder blades. “He hardly fits the societal norm for an Omega and if we try talking to him then maybe…” Francis trails off and the silence that follows is heavy. Finally, Alfred feels a heavy gush of wind against his forehead before he feels chapped lips against it. “Maybe,” Arthur muses softly, pulling a particular curly curl. Alfred can picture exactly where the curl is, having named it Sigmund months ago. “I’m curious about what he’ll think…”
I bet you are, Alfred thinks, not sure of the thought is biting, hopeful, sarcastic, or bitter. Somehow, he thinks that it’s all four and more. So, so much more.