mitsubishievo | [AU | for Shiro]

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[AU | for Shiro]

He was sore and aching and he texted but didn't look and see if there was a response before he headed over to Shiro's. There were a number of marks visible above the collar of his shirt, and more still on the rest of his body. The car reeked of sex, of Alpha musk and come. He'd driven Ronan back from the lot to campus like nothing had happened at all, rolled the windows down immediately, and wished that febreeze would cover up the reeking smell that filled his nose the whole drive to Shiro's.

He knew he should go back his own place and shower, scrub himself down. Since his first heat, he'd successfully dreamt up a couple of body washes that covered up the smells of his own body, and even the heavier, spicier, muskier smells of an Alpha muffled on his skin. He knew he should do it.

He knew why he wasn't, either. It was the same reason he was coming over at all, immediately ever. The reek of another Alpha on his skin, the marks on his body, two fresh, first rut loads staining him--this was a bratty, rebellious action to test the boundaries of Shiro's possessiveness, and Kavinsky wasn't sure if he was expecting a slap and to be sent out in the cold or, as he'd teased Ronan with, to be authoritatively fucked into submission.

When he arrived at the apartment, he sat outside in the car for a moment longer. It was late enough now that it was starting to get red with sunset, and Kavinsky figured if he was going to go in, he ought to go in already. It took several long minutes for him to unfurl from the driver's seat, and then it was a wobbly, bowlegged stumble into the apartment.

He dropped his bag, loudly, beside the door and kicked his shoes off. The longer he took, somehow, the safer it felt. Maybe he could just sneak into the bath before Shiro noticed, either.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's been a pretty low-key afternoon on Shiro's end, all things considered; there's an evening of sorting through assignments ahead of him, and while he's sure it won't take the whole evening away from him there's a part of him that wouldn't mind being irresponsible about it, put it off for another day — but that isn't the kind of man, the kind of teacher he is and it never matters what fleeting urge to take it easy takes hold of him, because it's exactly that. Fleeting. ( Even if a certain Omega has had the bulk of his attention for the last little while, he's always considered himself a decent multitasker. )

He's just finished with an abbreviated workout when Kavinsky pulls up outside, just enough to find a sheen of sweat slicking the back of his neck and his chest as he pads barefoot into the kitchen for a bottle of water, nothing but a pair of low-slung sweatpants clinging to his hips when he hears the front door open and close, a bag hit the floor, and a secretive little smile steals across the line of his mouth as he caps the bottle and leaves it on the counter.

( Oh, Shiro, you just don't know yet. )

He likes that Kavinsky makes himself at home here more often than he doesn't, glad that he can give him a space to retreat to if he needs, or just if he wants; quiet steps take him toward the front hall, and if the other wants to try to sneak into the bath before he catches him, he's going to have to go quickly, otherwise it's going to be a whole lot of this Alpha coming close enough to smell the stink of another on him and stop cold.

The smell of his Betas is different, something he doesn't think twice about now because it doesn't matter, and it isn't like he's ever been in any position to take anything away from him. This isn't that, this is the opposite of that and his nostrils flare just a bit with another step forward, eyes narrowing, teeth setting into a tight clench of his jaw as his gaze rakes over him, head to toe and back again, zeroing in on the marks on his neck even from that far away.

There's a sinking feeling in his stomach but he pushes it down, lets that Alpha temper take its place. For now.

"Got something to tell me?"

In any other situation, the sight of Shiro in nothing but sweatpants and sweat would be enough to set Kavinsky going. It did do something, did plenty. Started the embers burning, low and hot and building in a way that probably wasn't good right now, because Kavinsky could see the anger written clearly on his face.

Kavinsky hadn't had to deal with an angry Alpha since he killed his father. It raised something else in him. Defensive. Terrified. He made himself as small as he could, instinctively.

"Not really."

What he did in his own time was his own time. Shiro never made a fuss about what Kavinsky did before, so why should this be any different? He'd come back. Hadn't stayed out. Sure, it had been two loads, but that wasn't the point here. Sure, he was covered in bites and scratches and bruises, but he hadn't let himself be naped.

Kavinsky curled his toes against the ground. "I'm gonna go take a shower." If he said it with enough authority, maybe Shiro would just let him do it without digging in.

He knows how he must smell — that Alpha musk even thicker with his sweat — and he can see the way the other's eyes go infinitesimally wider, a little bit rounder, pupils dilating just enough to take note of and that, in and of itself would have been enough to find him pulled in close any other time, pressed back against the wall and kissed breathless.

He wants to even now, even with acid churning in the pit of his stomach, blood already close to boiling in his veins at the stench of someone else on him. Another Alpha.

It goes without saying that generally speaking, what he does in his own time is his business, and not Shiro's; he does always come back, he stays when he wants to and actively seeks out that attention he's gotten himself used to, and Shiro gives him his space when he needs or wants it, takes it upon himself to be there when he needs or wants him and maybe that's just one more reason he suddenly feels like tearing into something with his teeth.

Would this other Alpha do that for him? Be that for him?

His teeth stay clenched, and his mouth curls into a snarl as he closes some of the distance between them. "No, you're not." He reaches out, takes the edge of his jaw between thumb and forefinger and turns his head to one side, then the other, taking in the marks that have been left on his neck with a low, threatening, predatory sound already building in the bottom of his chest.

His next swallow is a hard one as his other hand comes up to rest on his shoulder, and he turns him just as much as he needs to get a look at the back of his neck, almost afraid he'd find a mark there and audibly exhaling when he doesn't. At least there's that.

Shiro turns him to face him again, eyes dark, searching, every inch of him rigid with tension. "Was it good, at least?"

Was it worth it?

The flinch was small, when Shiro reached for him, and then it was nothing. Kavinsky's eyes unfocused. He let Shiro do as he wanted.

It wasn't an unfocus of pleasure. Kavinsky, for a moment, was somewhere else, a quiet teenager left in his place. Shiro inspected him, and if Kavinsky had anything to say about it, any thoughts or feelings, they were kept silent. He was aware of every bruise and bite, every fingerprint and scrape, every overlay of claim laid on his skin. He was aware of the slow stain of come in his underwear, the reek of another Alpha on his body, his own eager enjoyment sharp amongst it.

He could make up an excuse. He'd been assaulted before, though he'd never told Shiro. Who would believe him, a boy known to have a reputation like his? Anyway, it didn't matter. Shiro came to whatever decision or conclusion he wanted, and when Kavinsky was turned to face him again, his unfocused gaze stayed around the level of Shiro's bare shoulder.

He said nothing for a moment. Like he hadn't heard, or was having difficulty with the English, or both.

"May I go take a shower, please, sir," he said, exceedingly precise and enunciated, avoiding the question entirely.

It's surprising, really, that he stays quiet. That he stays still, and some part of Shiro files that away for some other time, the way his eyes go unfocused like he's never seen before; it's a point of concern that makes him want to pull him close, again, because that's the first place his mind is always going to go when it comes to him. But that flaring anger … it won't let him, and maybe that's for the best if Kavinsky is doing this just to push boundaries, to test where his limits are.

He could have made up an excuse, and maybe he would have believed him — but it would have been a different kind of anger, of course not directed at him, but the sort of thing that would make him see red at the edges of his vision because how dare anyone touch you without your permission, even if he knows in some distant part of his mind that that's just how some Omegas are treated. Like third-class citizens.

But that. That isn't the point, is it? He could have made up an excuse but it wouldn't have mattered, because nothing in that moment matters except getting an answer out of him. "Not until you answer me," comes his voice again, dangerous and low, a growl all on its own. He takes his chin between thumb and forefinger, tips his face upward. "Look at me."

And he stays like that for a moment, holding his gaze, hating that he's about to ask this question, but needing to all the same. "Did he come inside you?"

Kavinsky lifted his chin and he even made himself look at Shiro's face, but his gaze was still very far away. There were fabrications that lived on the tip of his tongue--and there was the aching truth, and the jeers he'd driven Ronan on with, the cackling way that he'd pushed him for more.

He'd used this, the gentleness that he thought lived here and was not living her now, to get what he wanted. This was, of course, how everything fell apart. Because it was always how it fell apart in the end.

"Yes," he heard himself say, felt himself say. It was quiet, but it filled the space of the front hallway, like all the animal noises and all the smells of his and Ronan's bodies had filled the Mitsubishi. "Twice."

After a long, quiet moment where Kavinsky didn't move, barely even breathed, he said, "What, are you gonna hit me or something? Just get it over with, I want to take a shower."

It feels like everything is falling apart right now — everything he's been building and building crashing down around his ears and he's powerless to stop it; he looks into those empty eyes, searches for something that isn't there and he should let him go. He knows he should let him go, because it's only going to go downhill from here, but it's like once he's gotten started he can't stop, the momentum building on itself and it's only a matter of time before the impending crash. He knows that.

But there is a shift in his expression, just for a moment, a crack that sees him softening at that question — are you gonna hit me? — because nothing, nothing could ever bring him to that, and if the way his hold on his chin loosens a bit is any indication, he almost wants to give up this farce in its entirety, but he recovers before it makes much of a difference.

"I'm not going to hit you." He sounds incredulous, shakes his head, letting his hand drop from his jaw and rest on his shoulder, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt and guiding him down the hallway. Toward the bathroom. "But I am going to be the one that cleans you up."

You don't have a choice in this. Sorry.

Kavinsky didn't believe him, but he kept things close and quiet, everything tightly wound in his chest. Shiro put his hand on his shoulder, tight in his collar, and Kavinsky came along because there was nothing else to do but that.

In the bathroom, he stood silently for a moment, and then jut proficiently stripped. Without the uniform on, the extent of the bruises, scratches, and bites sprinkled across his body became apparent, and besides that, the messy leak of come tracking from his ass down the inside of his thigh.

Now that Shiro wasn't holding onto him, he put his face back down, kept his gaze averted. Fuck, why had he thought this was a good idea? He should have just gone home and pretended like nothing happened, until all the smell faded, and the memory too.

"How do you want me?"

He would never hit someone he cares about — someone he cares about too much, it seems like, but he pushes that thought from his mind for now — and he might guide him with a firm hand, but the touch is still gentle enough. He would undress him himself but he doesn't get the chance, and instead finds himself watching as all of that smooth skin is exposed to him as it has been countless times before, though never before has it been so marked. At least without his own involvement.

His throat constricts in a tight, dry swallow as his eyes rake over him, catching first on the angry-looking bite mark on his collarbone, down to the nail scratches on the insides of his thighs and back up again to the finger-shaped bruises on his hips. It takes everything in him not to growl, and it still builds in the bottom of his chest like something tangible, something living that crawls upward as he moves around to his back, stares openly at the mess slowly leaking out of him.

"This is fine for now," he hears himself murmur distantly, even as he reaches to press his fingers between his cheeks, almost gently probing at his hole, testing its stretch. He doesn't comment on it just yet. "Did you come?"

Kavinsky bit his lip, hard, so he didn't make a noise when Shiro prodded at him. He was knot-stretched still, not nearly as gaping as he got with Shiro, but rather neat and wide and still obvious. He was slick, and not just from the two loads he'd taken. Those prodding fingers didn't help that he was slick, nor did his general, obvious attraction to the Alpha looming angrily behind him.

The question burned in him. He wasn't sure if he should answer, or how. The truth was damning, a lie proved nothing.

In the end, he did as he had since Shiro had first confronted him, and leaned into the honesty. The sooner Shiro figured out that he wasn't worth it, the sooner he'd cut ties, and Kavinsky could work through getting over it.

"Yes," he said in that same dull honesty. "Once."

He is loose, that's unmistakeable, but nowhere near what he would be if he'd taken Shiro's knot instead of another's, and there might be something about that that placates him a little, soothes the anger welling up inside him that will, soon enough, threaten to spill over. His fingers press in deep without preamble, and he watches as more of the mess dribbles out of him, coats the insides of his thighs like his slick so often does.

His eyes skate up over the expanse of his back, and there are fewer marks here, which means he'd been bent over; on his knees, maybe, knowing that's one of Kavinsky's preferred ways to be taken and there's something about that, too, that soothes a little more. Whoever it had been wouldn't have been able to see the pleasure on his face easily.

There is one mark here, though, another angry-looking thing on the curve of his shoulder that's too close to his nape to keep that building growl from peaking, low and sharp and dangerous and possessive as he reaches with his free hand to brush his thumb over it, the bruise it will make once it's started to heal, the threat of broken skin that hadn't quite been reached. "At least you didn't give him your neck," he murmurs, almost a whisper as he gives in to the sudden urge to ghost his lips over his nape, not a tease, but —

"Thank you for that."

( Is that proof enough, yet, that he isn't about to decide you aren't worth it? )

Kavinsky made a soft noise as Shiro shoved his fingers in deep, and then doubled down on being quiet, biting his lip harder. A shiver worked through him, something suppressing everything, a moment of aching hardship. He just wanted to scrub off the stink, clean himself out and sleep. Wrap himself up in Shiro's smell and let it sink back into him.

Every moment of gentleness vibrated through him, wound him tighter, more on edge. He couldn't anticipate through the gentleness. Shiro was still mad, and Kavinsky didn't know when that was going to snap.

"I told him not to," he said. He'd appreciated that Ronan had listened, despite the strength of his rut. It would have been easy to disregard, in the middle of everything. To see the almost permanent welt that Shiro had made of his teeth on the nape of Kavinsky's neck and work a mark in there as well. Kavinsky would have really fought then, not just playfully thrashed.

"May I please wash him off now?" He could smell him under his nails. The mess down the inside of his legs, the stretch of Shiro's fingers, was starting to work him up, and there was that curious guilt rolling in his stomach again. What was he supposed to do with that? He wished Shiro would just be properly angry with him. He could do with that.

"Just...yell at me and smack me around for it and let me wash up already, yeah?"

There really are no words to convey how grateful he is that there isn't another mark on the back of his neck, the one bit of claim he's laid there for himself, the only tie he has that allows him to be possessive in the first place; every time it heals over, he sets to bringing it back, and back, always back because he likes seeing it there, and Kavinsky lets him do it in the first place, and it just soothes something rough-edged in him that he can't accurately convey.

"At least he listened," comes his rough reply, mumbled against skin that reeks of some unknowable presence and it's only then that he pulls away again, withdraws his fingers and steps silently over to the shower to start the water running. He waits for it to heat, strips himself down in the interim and returns to curl an arm around Kavinsky's middle. "I told you, I'm going to be the one cleaning you up."

He ignores the bit about yelling, about smacking him around because he isn't going to, doesn't want that to be what the other expects if he equates something he does with misbehavior; every movement is precise, but still with an edge of gentleness that always lingers as he guides him beneath the water's spray and cards his fingers through his hair, wetting it, absently tracing over the points of his cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs.

It's too soft for how that anger still seethes, rolls in the pit of his stomach, but he can't reprimand him like he wants to, not when he isn't going to be anything but quiet and subservient and so unlike himself that he has to wonder what had gotten him to that point in the first place. He could ask, but he won't, not now —

Later, maybe. Later.

"Well, Jesus," Kavinsky said, after a couple more moments of contemplative, maladaptive silence. All the gentleness in the world felt like too much. It was smothering. He was going to go insane like this. Something in him was shaking, and it took a moment, standing under the shower and letting the water slough off him like that, to realize it was just him. He was the one that was shaking.

"Jesus, you could at least give me a fucking lecture about it," he finally said, voice breaking in the middle. "You--you're pissed. You're all bristled up. Even if you won't, I know you want to give me a smack for it, so--Christ, just. It's waiting for a fucking shoe to drop, so just get it over with, already."

He couldn't stand the sweet gentleness that Shiro was trying to pour over him, some soothing motion like he'd earned any respect. Some part of him, driving back here aching with bruises, unwashed, filled with another Alpha's smell, had wanted jealousy and violence and the real risks involved.

Kavinsky jerked away from Shiro's kind hands. The longer that Shiro was good about this, the more it boiled over in Kavinsky as bad behavior, as misdirected, anguished rage himself. He shoved himself under the spray of the water and scrubbed at his scalp, his face, the back of his neck and his shoulders.

He should have known it would only be a matter of time before something spilled over, before this whole delicate line of tension broke and one of them shatters, and as difficult as it has been up to now to keep himself in check? He'd thought it would be him that fractured first.

He should never have discounted how volatile this boy could be at any given time, and he'll have to remember that, if this happens again. ( What does it say about him, about what he thinks about Kavinsky that it wouldn't surprise him if it did? He's young, he has every right to do what he wants when he wants it and shouldn't feel obligated to keep coming back to him if he would rather be somewhere else. But that's a thought for another time. )

Shiro lets him speak his piece, stays quiet through the whole of it until he pulls away from him to begin his own scrubbing, forceful with it, and something in him snaps. Like he's been expecting, anticipating, though it's not quite as deep as it could be.

He presses in close again, lines them up from the curve of their shoulders to the backs of their knees and he hisses in his ear, one hand pressing possessively to the flat of his stomach while the other curls around his throat and it might look like he's about to finally lose the rest of his composure. But.

It's a simple, possessive thing, the way he holds him, and the growl of his voice is threatening, but still somehow level, composed. "Yes, I'm pissed. Yes I would really, really like to tear into something, but it would be him, not you." Even as his teeth hover above the beat of his pulse, sharp and waiting, wanting. "I've never been violent without cause, and I'm not about to start now, even if I hate that you came into my space smelling like another Alpha." There's a dangerous pause, a beat of silence that nothing but the sound of the water falling around them breaks.

"I want to fuck him out of you, gaki. How's that for the other shoe dropping?"

He squirmed, briefly thrashed, in the grip on him. Even though he'd told Ronan that Shiro would, he hadn't actually thought--had he? Maybe he had. And now, here it was, that hissing, possessive promise of it pressed into his skin, fingers pressed into his skin. Kavinsky didn't deserve it, not really, and he knew that. This wasn't a shoe dropping.

This was him getting what he wanted.

He squirmed and whined softly, shoved his hips back against Shiro and rubbed himself against him. Let him feel how slick he was. The wet of the water, and the natural slickness of his ass, and the residual, filthy slide of another Alpha's come dripping out of him. Kavinsky breathed, slow and heavy. He looked up at Shiro, pressing his throat into that grip as he braced a hand on the wall of the shower.

"He was in his rut," he said, low, a little dangerous. This was a fragile line to walk, one he wasn't sure he should try. It was different, in the car with Kavinsky, teasing and infuriating him, riling him up about another Alpha. It was different because if Shiro snapped and decided he was done, that was it. That was it. "I think I could have made him come three or four times, if I really tried."

He lifted his chin, Defiance, but also supplication.

Maybe on some level, he understands that this is something he wants — some unconscious realization that he's feeding right into everything that gets him what he wants in the first place, playing the part of the possessive, jealous Alpha that he's always convinced himself he would never be. Because he's always been level-headed, calm and composed, and then along came Joseph Kavinsky to fuck everything up.

He's getting hard already, the thick length of his cock pressed nice and snug against the curve of his ass when he rolls his hips back, and he knows where all that slick has come from, knows it isn't his body's natural response, but that mixed with what had been left behind by the other Alpha, and he hates that he can still smell it on him, that he'll see the marks for days until they finally fade away, back into nothing.

Kavinsky lifts his chin and he can practically taste the defiance in him, and if his eyes hadn't already gone dark at the corners, now they would have been likened to a coming storm, silver fire like lightning as he bares his teeth, brings his hand away from his neck to brush fingertips over the still-bite-swollen line of his mouth. "Did you give him this?" Did you let him kiss you? Fuck your mouth?

How hard did you try?

Feeling Shiro get harder just drove him on. Kavinsky squirmed and wiggled, that playful thrash. He couldn't do his full sort of struggle, like he had in the car, because the shower was slick and wet, but he could still squirm, and it rubbed him right up against Shiro.

He didn't answer the question, not just yet. What was the point. Yes, they'd kissed. No, he hadn't sucked his cock. It had been strange to be kissed by someone else. He wasn't sure how he liked it. Even his boys didn't kiss him, not on the mouth, except Prokopenko, and that was a special sort of thing.

He reached down and gripped Shiro's cock, stroking him behind his back, encouraging the rub of him against his stretched hole. Taking him now would be an effort, but that was probably for the best. If they were doing this, It ought to be something that forced any thought of Ronan out of him.

That he doesn't answer starts a thread of speculation in him, something that slides up from the base of his spine and curls around the bottom of his ribs, something sinking that has him thinking yes to any little thing that might see its way into his mind — but there's no real use in lingering on it, not when he doesn't know for sure, and Kavinsky isn't giving up any of his secrets.

He shouldn't ask, anyway, because knowing the whole of it would just see that anger flaring higher, even knowing it wasn't just some random, grown-ass adult. Knowing that it was one of his students. One that he sees every single day, provided he decides to come to class in the first place —

There's a hiss of breath between clenched teeth and he reaches to grab the other's wrist, pull his hand away from him despite wanting little more than to be touched by him, even if it's for the sole purpose of goading him into action; he growls, shakes his head minutely, fingers tightening, flexing in their hold very briefly. "You don't get to touch," he grinds out, even as he teases the head of his cock against his slick hole.

"Not yet." This isn't your game.

Kavinsky swore. The grip was rough and glorious, the nudge of his cock, and Kavinsky rocked his hips. The rim of his ass caught at Shiro's cock, took the head, and he whimpered. It was a needful noise as he tilted his head up, looked up into the shower spray. Every aching moment was too much. He needed him, almost as desperately as if he were back in his heat.

"Daddy," he sighed. He shivered. He pressed his hips back for more. His fingers flexed as Shiro kept the grip on his wrist and refused to let him touch him, no matter how much they both wanted it. "Daddy may I pleasure your cock?"

Something in him shifts, gets precariously close to shattering with the way his hips press back, as he takes the head of his cock without much trouble at all, and that isn't even it when it all comes down to it; it's how he asks for it, knowing good and goddamned well what it does to him and it brings another growl to the surface, a rough thing that lingers as he drops his head to his shoulder, pressing in just a little bit more, nearly halfway before he recedes, teases him with it, because he's not entirely convinced he deserves it yet.

"You don't deserve to," he finally says out loud, an echo of his thoughts as he stills the movement of his hips, stays just inside him, because he honestly can't bring himself to pull all the way out. He wants it too badly.

The slow press, not deep enough, not nearly deep enough, had Kavinsky whining from low in his chest. He tried to press back for more, but then Shiro was grabbing him, holding him, keeping him still. Then his whine was loud and desperate, begging, absolutely furious to be denied what he wanted.

"No," he agreed, shaking his head, thrashing as best he could. "No, but I'm good at it. I'm good at it."

He peered over his shoulder at him, eyes big and dark, mouth parted in eager invitation. He looked desperately fucked out and eager for more, and his gaze was only on Shiro, fixated on him. No one else was in his mind.

"I came back," he said softly, "because only you can clean me out. Please, daddy." He flexed his fingers a little. "Daddy may I touch you, please."

It's going to be too much for them both before too long, Shiro's jaw clenching as he makes a valiant attempt to keep from thrusting into him without further preamble, teeth clenched so tightly that it actually hurts — Kavinsky is shaking, trembling around him and some deeper, more feral part of him loves it, loves being able to reduce him to this, regardless of what brings them to it in the first place.

"You are good at it," he agrees, swallowing thickly around a guttural sound in the back of his throat as he turns his head just as much as he needs to scrape his teeth over his nape. Another tease for the sake of it, because he doesn't allow himself to bite just yet, even if he so desperately wants to. "I'm sure he knows, now, doesn't he? How good you are?" In a very general sense, he knows he's only breeding the tension between them, but there's another part of him that can't quite help it, even if he'd thought to try at all.

His teeth scrape again, just a bit more sharply this time. "You said you could have made him come three or four times," he drawls, staying close but not pressing closer like he wants. "Why didn't you?"

Kavinsky whimpered a little bit more, squirmed a little bit more, because this was its own kind of torture. He wanted, and badly. He knew that Shiro would be wanting too, and he wasn't entirely sure what this got either of them, this lingering sort of tease. He tried to pull his hand away from Shiro's grip, just so he could put both hands on the wall and brace himself and just have a point of steeling contact.

No luck. He made a fist of that hand and leaned his head down, making a soft noise that was mostly swearing.

"M-more fun to send him home with a fuckin' rager," Kavinsky finally gritted out. And it had been. How he'd squirmed when he'd gotten him hard again, and how Kavinsky had cackled about it and promptly slid back into his seat and refused.

Ronan could have pushed. There was the stink of it, the power, the capability. If Kavinsky had stayed to close, if he hadn't started driving, he thought he might have. That was the risk of a rut. Kavinsky kept his head down and couldn't look at Shiro.

"It was his rut." So he'd been cruel about it. "He's not my fucking responsibility."

It takes everything in him not to push forward like he wants, to effectively impale the other on his cock and hear him scream with how badly he needs him, and he only keeps from it with the way those words wash over him, an excuse in every way and yet still a very poor one, given over like it actually means something.

It was his rut. He's not my responsibility.

It both excuses his actions and brings into question why he'd allowed himself to be taken in the first place — if he hadn't been forced, mind — and there's something in Shiro that wants to press that bit, pick away at it until he has the most basic, honest answer he can get out of him, even if there's another part of him that doesn't want to know anything more than he already does. Because that would just fuel that temper, that anger, find it flaring higher and in need of an entirely different outlet.

He takes in a breath, exhales as he gives in to the urge to press forward, fuck into him a little deeper, but just to fill him up a bit more without the promise of following through with anything else. He's almost bottomed out, almost to the swell of his knot and it takes everything in him again to keep from pressing further, deeper, chasing down the pleasure he knows he can find in that willing body.

"He wasn't your responsibility," he starts, teasing with his tease against his nape again, "but you still got him off twice." There's the subtle roll of his hips, because that just adds to everything he's holding back from. "How kind of you."

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