mitsubishievo | [AU | for Shiro]

Entry tags:

[AU | for Shiro]

For the most part, most of the boys at Aglionby were Betas or uninitiated Alphas. This, one had to assume, was by design. The sons of dignitaries, the rich and famous, sportsmen and spokesmen, scholars, senators, politicians, and whatever else, these were the next generation of power and influence in society. There was no sense in letting more than a handful of Omega onto the grounds at a time, especially as they all got a bit older and hormones got a bit wild. There was a constant expectation, among young hormonal boys, that there was going to be some experimentation. At least if it was largely Alphas and Betas, there were very few risks to run.

Joseph Kavinsky, for most of his childhood, had been firmly convinced that he was a Beta. He hung around Betas. He moved easily and well in Beta circles. He showed no specific signs of being anything but a Beta. Sure, some of that was probably because his father had spent a lot of time cuffing him about the ears and insisting that no son of his was going to be some breeder bitch. Even his own wife was a Beta, so the genetics weren't there.

He was seventeen now, and things--well, things were looking decidedly less Beta with each day. He'd known, for some months, that girls were never going to be a thing for him, Beta or otherwise. But there was a sneaking suspicion, with every gym class and every substance party and every lingering, fucked up, high out of his mind moment with his dream pack, that maybe he wasn't a Beta.

And then, fuck him sideways, he got his heat.

It blindsided him. Crept out of nowhere like some sort of thief in the night and punched him in the gut. He thought about excusing himself to the nurses office, saying he had food poisoning or something, driving himself home so he could hide in his bedroom or his basement or his in-home theater for...until it passed. Instead he shifted uncomfortably in his seat and tried to make himself disappear. This was certainly one way to confirm he wasn't a fucking Beta, but did it have to happen in school?

He pretended like it wasn't happening. Ignored it. Sprayed himself down between classes with his body spray to cover up the reek of it and kept his chin up and his smile sharp. Even did a couple deals with people he had arrangements with, which was always a dangerous game to pull on school grounds. But if he changed how he acted now, people would notice. Better to keep on doing it and ignore the way that some of the boys he knew were Alphas were sniffing around. Wasn't the first time. Wouldn't be the last.

He was just pulling a dime bag out of his backpack when a shadow passed over his desk and he looked up at the teacher. Smiled sharp but professional.

"Can I help you, Mister Shiro?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He hasn't been at the school for long — an opportunity he couldn't overlook at such a prestigious institution — but he's been there long enough to get a feel for the student body, the boys he teaches and they're all good on some level or another, even if coming from well-off families has a tendency to make them brats in some way or another. They've been raised to expect the best be given to them, and it shows in the way they present themselves with the sole exception of, maybe, a handful of students he sees occasionally.

And it's a good thing, really, that the boys were mostly Alphas or Betas, not just because it makes more sense when taking into consideration the families they're coming from, but because an Omega being thrown into the mix would disrupt the delicate sort of balance the school holds; being an Alpha himself, he knows the sort of distraction that comes with one just being around —

Much less in heat.

It's almost as though Shiro can smell him before he steps foot into his class for the day, no matter how may times he's sprayed himself down there is no hiding that smell and it plays hell with his head, with his better instincts, and by the end of the hour it's taking everything in him to keep his composure as he approaches the lean frame that drapes itself in his seat, nonchalant as anything, keeping up appearances for the sake of it.

He's always thought that sharp smile meant trouble, in a number of ways, but this is something else entirely.

He folds his arms over his chest, keeps an easy stance even as his gaze narrows; he gestures to the dime bag that's made its way out of his backpack, an easy enough segue into conversation as there could be with someone like Kavinsky. "You know I don't tolerate that garbage in my class," he says, voice low, maybe a bit rough around the edges but it's only because of how he smells, sharp and sweet, something he can't ignore.

And if a muscle begins to tense at his jaw? Well. That's neither here nor there, either.

Kavinsky had known Shiro was an Alpha the first day he'd stepped on campus, and some primal part of him had decided he was going to add that notch in his belt then. He didn't know how, but he'd convinced himself, and Kavinsky didn't back down from challenges he set for himself. But the teacher had proved a particularly hard nut to crack, moreso than some others.

Right now, Kavinsky looked at him and tried to hide the way he squirmed, the way his nose flared a little bit, catching the spicy, musky smell of him. It was always there, but it was stronger right now.

He was still holding the dime bag. The student he'd been meant to pass it off to had beelined straight away, even before Shiro had appeared on their exchange.

"I mean," he said, as nonchalantly as he could manage. The rest of class was already filtering out, and Kavinsky waved off Skov and Prokopenko, who were lingering a little bit in concern for Kavinsky potentially getting some sort of demerit. "It's already here."

Try to add that notch to your belt, if you want, he really is a hard nut to crack — he sticks to his morals and that includes not sleeping with his students, though it stands to reason that's generally an easy thing to avoid when ninety percent of them are Alphas like himself, or Betas that don't even factor into the equation.

And here we have one ( 1 ) Joseph Kavinsky, currently testing both patience and composure with the way he grins up at him so easily, like he doesn't have a thing in the world to worry about that isn't what's right in front of him, and that's not even a thing to worry about in the first place, because he knows how to deal with his teachers.

Except Shiro isn't your average teacher, and it goes without saying that he throws a few curveballs when he can, just to keep his students on their toes, and that includes one ( 1 ) Joseph Kavinsky.

Up to the point at which he starts smelling more and more like something he wants to devour, and in this very moment it's taking every single thing in him to keep from pressing in closer, from pressing his nose to the source of what smells so good. Get your shit together, Shirogane, and keep it there.

He reaches out and takes the bag from his fingers, mouth trained into a firm, thin line. "It is, which means you're staying after." Detention, boy. How do you feel about that?

"Hope you don't have any plans."

"Hey!"

The protest fell on deaf ears. Shiro had already taken the bag and was moving away from him, and Kavinsky was left baffled and startled that he had just done that. Nobody had confiscated drugs from him, despite catching him with any number of pills, powders, dime bags, bottles, and flasks on campus, in the last three years.

"You can't do that!" he snapped, rocketing out of his seat and stomping after Shiro. "Besides, what are you going to make me do? Write lines? Clean your fucking beakers? Jesus, what a crock of shit..."

He crossed his arms over his chest. It came off appropriately haughty and dismissive, and covered up, for the most part, that he was practically vibrating with some primal need to sidle as close as he could get to Shiro.

"C'mon, Shiro, man," he whined. "Don't be such a hardass about it."

It absolutely falls on deaf ears, and he slides that little bag into a pants pocket as he turns away from him, ultimately turning back as he braces himself against his desk, hands resting on the edge of it as he sets the other with a look that says try me.

He stomps after him and Shiro looks at him like he's setting a challenge in place, something that he wants the other to rise to and the tension between them is already so thick that it could be cut with a butter knife.

"I can do what I want," he hears himself saying, a curve to his mouth that begs some sort of test to it, and he knows for a fact the other will meet him in the middle given half a chance. His eyes narrow, and his nostrils flare as he breathes him in, as much as he doesn't want to, but here he is.

"I'm just going to make you sit here," he rumbles, stepping a bit closer, arms still folded, "because I know you hate it." He bends low at the waist, smirks for the sake of it because he can.

"Enjoy."

There's something electric, impulsive, driving about the whole thing. Kavinsky could feel it under his skin and he hated how it felt in his skin and his lungs and all the way down to his fingertips. Like dreaming, like waking up from the dream and being frozen for a moment. But so, so much better, and worse, because there was nothing to show for all of it.

He didn't sit. He stood right where he was, face set in discontent and (pouting) rage, hip slung with more sass than he normally let anyone see him with.

Shiro leaned in close, and Kavinsky snatched a hand toward the pocket that he'd slipped the dimebag into. So what if they were so close that all he could smell was Shiro, the sharp spice of his cologne and him? So what if being so close made his breath catch a little, made his stomach twist into an uncomfortable knot of hormones and instinct?

He wanted nothing more than to prostrate himself and beg, but he wasn't going to. The last ten years of his life had been highlights of learning how to be a Beta, and he wasn't going to let a little thing like the shivering need of his first heat get the better of him.

It's taking everything in him to be still, to behave just because of how he smells and he likes to think he's always been better than that, better than giving into his instincts and it's coming round and round again, staring him in the face and leaving him with a clenched jaw.

The hand that snatches toward his pocket is met with one of his own, fingers threading because it means keeping him close, even if he knows he shouldn't, a small, muffled growl sitting in the back of his throat because there's nothing else there. Nothing else he can give aside from holding that hand out, just short of pinning it to the desk behind him, attention elsewhere.

"You'll have to ask nicely," he rumbles, leaning in a bit closer, close enough to give the implication but not enough to take it for something else, soft where he wouldn't be otherwise, especially with the way he smells.

"No," Kavinsky snarled.

It came out a bit more like a whine, a bit more like a petulant, bratty sort of protest. He squirmed and tried to both snatch his hand back and go for the pocket all over again.

"I shouldn't have to ask nicely for you to...to just..." He was losing the vein of what he meant, flustered and overwhelmed by being so close, by being surrounded by the smell of him, and being close, so the heat of him too. Shiro was taller than him. There weren't a lot of people at Aglionby who were, but right now he was feeling those inches, how narrow his shoulders were, how his uniform sat on his skin.

Everything was flush, burning, prickling. He was too aware of everything. His lips parted and he felt like he was panting, desperate and feral.

"Give it back," he hissed, quiet to cover up how husky his voice was suddenly, how breathless. "Give it to me."

There was a deliberateness in the last four words, a different sort of tone, a shift. He wasn't just asking for the dimebag. But how the fuck was he supposed to ask for something like that? In the last months, last couple of years, he'd fooled around plenty, but it had never been like this. This was different. The supplicating need to expose his throat and turn up his body and prostrate himself to this Alpha was burning from his belly outward.

This close, he's pretty sure he could get drunk on the scent of him, thick and sweet and nearly enough to make his mouth water with how badly he wants to spread him out, spread him open, devour him —

But he's trying to prove a point, a point that needs to be made because this boy shouldn't be allowed to get what he wants just by demanding it. He's been floating by like that for too long, and Shiro has had enough.

( Though, damn it, that petulance is getting to him in the very way it shouldn't, brattiness that plays on a much more basic, primal part of him, a part that wants nothing more than to sink its teeth into him and bear down. )

He swallows hard, pulls him infinitesimally closer, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, a growl sitting in the back of his throat that he couldn't hold back even if he'd wanted to. "Words," is the only thing he says at first, low and almost threatening. "Be specific. What do you want?" Another pause, and he leans in fractionally closer, almost bringing them nose to nose.

"Even if I don't really have to ask. I can smell it on you. Everyone can."

It was being close that set him off, really. The way that Shiro pulled him in, how close he was, the smell of him all around. He could hear his breathing this close, the hiss of that inhale and the soft groan in the back of his throat, the growl of it, the promise of something disastrous.

A year ago, there had been an educational pamphlet circulated through the halls of Aglionby about Alpha-Omega dynamics, about the necessary evils of heat and rut. It was slanted for Alpha boys, what it would be like to be around Omegas, especially Omega women when they were in their heat, and how to approach them without turning into obnoxious little predators. Kavinsky had read the pamphlet and then spent two days trawling the darkest parts of the internet, trying to find websites with Omega guys in heat.

Nothing had prepared him.

"Shut up," he said, but it was more like a whine. He pulled his arm, trying to get away from the hold Shiro had on him. It was completely ineffectual, especially because he was baring his throat back, exposing himself, breathing roughly and raggedly. "You--there's nothing to--shut up."

He likes to think he isn't your typical Alpha — doesn't let his more basic instincts rule him — but he also, generally, doesn't have time to get wrapped up in anything with an Omega, busy as he is with attempting to keep up with the boys at this school.

And that, in and of itself, is a test to his patience that he doesn't think anything could have prepared him for.

There's another low growl that builds in the back of his throat when the other bares his, as he tries to pull away and reclaim some distance between them and it takes everything in him to keep from scraping his teeth over corded muscle, everything in him to keep from pressing forward and claiming what clearly so desperately wants to be claimed.

"Nothing?" he asks, low and predatory, eyes gone dark but still sharp at the edges as he keeps him right where he is. Refuses to let him have any of the distance he's trying to reclaim. "Are you sure about that?"

A shiver worked its way down Kavinsky's spine and he let out this noise that was soft, needy, primal. He didn't want to make that noise, because it meant something that he didn't know how to articulate. Shiro had told him to ask nicely. Kavinsky never did anything nicely. And he certainly didn't ask for things, nicely or otherwise. The whole idea of it was a travesty. People gave him things. People did what he told them to do. People owed him.

The smell of Shiro's musk just grows sharper, more full, the longer they stood this close together. Kavinsky was practically shaking, this fine sort of vibration under his skin that he couldn't control. He'd lost all control of himself, he felt like, heat heavy on his ears and the back of his neck, and in his belly. Every breath he took felt like a little whine.

How could he ask for something he didn't really understand? He wasn't prepared for this. He didn't know. If he'd been a Beta, this wouldn't be a problem, because this never would have happened. He would have slipped through life completely unnoticed, normal, average, just another boy. Why did he have to end up not just some Omega, but one that wanted to prostrate himself for the first Alpha that wasn't willing to put up with his smart-mouthed, bratty shit?

Kavinsky licked his lips. He scraped his teeth against the full lower one. He leaned in toward Shiro a little bit, head back, bringing his free hand up to loosen his uniform tie and the first button. A waft of his smell, unadulterated by body spray, escaped from under his shirt; even Kavinsky found it a little heady, to smell himself and how desperately he wanted everything he could imagine to happen to him.

"Give me my shit back," he said, "and I won't tell the dean you were sniffing me like a fuckin' jock strap in some cheap budget porno."

He knows, without a shadow of a doubt that this one has never been made to ask for anything, nicely or not and it's that fact alone that makes him want to press for it, press and press until there's nothing left for the other to push back against, effectively backed against a wall and with a decision to make.

Kavinsky brings that hand up, loosens his tie and the first couple of buttons of his shirt and it plays hell with his better judgment, has him wanting to press his nose into the line of his throat just to breathe him in, to feel the way his pulse stutters and trips over itself in the interim, but he knows better. Knows better, but it still doesn't stop him from grazing his teeth over muscle drawn tight there, a tease of something more should the other think to ask for it in the first place.

"And which one of us do you think he'd believe?" he asks quietly, coyly, nosing up along the line of his throat to the shell of an ear, nipping there just because he can. "You've set a reputation for yourself, Kavinsky. And in this situation, it doesn't really work in your favor." He drops his head back down, mouths over the rise of a collarbone.

"Think about being nice," he murmurs, "and I'll think about giving you what you really want."

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