
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9905771.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      モブサイコ100_|_Mob_Psycho_100
  Relationship:
      Kageyama_"Mob"_Shigeo/Mogami_Keiji
  Character:
      Kageyama_"Mob"_Shigeo, Mogami_Keiji, Asagiri_Minori
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Minor_Violence, Emotional_Manipulation, Alpha!
      Mogami/Omega!_Mob., Smut, Mildly_Dubious_Consent
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-02-24 Chapters: 1/? Words: 6283
****** Advantages of Mind Over Matter ******
by CaffeineVeins
Summary
     Shigeo Kageyama manages to trigger a heat while still trapped with
     Mogami. Standard A/B/O fic with a few twists.
Notes
     I haven't written anything since middle school aside from essays so
     of course my first fic needs to be horrible, horrible smut.
     I was heavily inspired by the works and twitter posts of
     pandoras_thomg. Go check out their wonderful fics! Feel free to leave
     any sort of criticism in the comments as I desperately want to
     improve my writing capabilities. Anyway, enjoy this wonderfully
     disgusting problematic piece of work I spent way too much time on.
See the end of the work for more notes
The sunlight was just as insidious as everything else in this world. Even
though the veil of the window blinds the rays dribbled like thick honey through
the slight gaps between them when the sun rose. One needn’t rely on alarms to
awaken in the morning, not when the light would claw its way inside at the same
time every day. The moment the clock would strike six it would creep along the
floor far enough to reach the sleeping form at the center of one particular
apartment bedroom. When the intensity of the daylight would begin to tint
exposed skin pink and tingle the futon occupant would stir, pushing away his
tattered blanket and wiping the sleep from his eyes. Stiff-limbed and cloudy
headed, Shigeo Kageyama would rise from his meager bed and shuffle to the
bathroom to prepare for the day.
Most early mornings were spent alone. They consisted of cold tile floors
numbing sensitive toes, plain toast, flavorless and slightly stale convenience-
store milk, and cheap toothpaste. His morning preparation consisted of unheated
showers, peroxide on day-old wounds, the tearing of crusted bandages, and
inspecting battered skin in fluorescent lighting using a small mirror. Shigeo
no longer flinches when he buttons his gakuran up to hide his bruised throat.
He is no longer bothered by the stares of strangers on his commute, nor is he
surprised by the sight of Minori’s group waiting at the gates of the school no
matter what time he manages to drag himself there.
This morning, however, is not like most. Under normal circumstances, Shigeo
would awaken to the sun-prickled skin, aching bruises, and the smell of his
tiny apartment; cheap detergent, dust, and salt-laden instant meals. Today his
room is permeated by the scent of rain on pavement, soap, musty fabrics, and
freshly brewing coffee. The light that tends to sting exposed flesh has yet to
reach him despite his internal clock asserting that he may actually have
overslept. Only when the numbness of sleep starts to fade from his nerves does
he notice something is touching him. Cool, rough hands frame his face and idly
brush his bangs from his eyes for a moment. Shigeo wrinkles his nose
instinctively and those hands retract, chilly air bleeding through warm pajamas
as the blanket is pulled away from his chin. Shigeo cracks open his eyes and
allows the world to come into focus, starting with the shadowy figure leaning
over him.
Visits from Mogami are not uncommon, though it is rare for the man to appear in
his home without warning or invitation. “You slept in today Shigeo.” The
spectral man hums out a greeting with that snide tone of his. His voice is
gravel against the young esper’s ears, as rough as the material of the blanket
he is kicking away from himself feebly. It still manages to cause the slightest
slivers of warmth to bloom within the younger male’s chest. “Good morning.”
Mogami continues as he readjusts so he is sitting cross-legged on the carpet,
giving the sunlight the space it needs to frame the floor around him gold.
Shigeo cannot help but smile lethargically at the man despite the fact that he
distantly wishes for those hands to return.
“Good morning.” Shigeo’s own voice crackles rawly when he replies. His tongue
sticks to the roof of his mouth as he forms each syllable and the sensation of
his voice bubbling up from his throat irritates the aching skin inside. Despite
how cold it had been the night before it feels stiflingly hot inside his room
today. “I didn’t know you were coming today.” The sentence is punctuated with a
yawn and reflexively Shigeo combs his fingers through his hair to get it out of
his eyes. Strands wind up clinging to his clammy forehead, causing him to
grimace as it clumps together in tufts. Gross...he was sure he had showered the
night before.
If Mogami notices anything strange about the boy’s behavior, he doesn’t
vocalize it and instead opts to continue by saying, “I’ve made coffee, hope you
don’t mind.” He stands by drawing his knees to his chest and pushing off the
ground with the very tips of his fingers. Even when he is upright his posture
is curled inward, his spine bowing over slightly as if the very earth is trying
to drag him back down to it. “The good kind, dark roast.” Each word is spelled
out not only with the man’s chapped lips but his thick-fingered hands as they
lazily sway. He shoves one into his coat pocket and scratches at his stubble
with the other. Shigeo cannot look away if he tried.
Well, that is until the spirit cocks his head towards the kitchen with a jerky
nod and adds, “I got breakfast too.” From where Shigeo is folding up his sheets
he can see past the threshold and into the kitchen. Plastic grocery bags adorn
the tiny table pressed to the wall, bulging with whatever Mogami decided to
stuff them with. It’s a shame that the plastic is too opaque for the boy to see
through; he actually has to unpack them. Finally, when the sheets are smoothed
out at the edge of his bed he too stands. Popping sounds echo from his spine
when he stretches his arms over his head, his shirt riding up and exposing a
sliver of skin to the air. He is quick to tug it down and shuffle after the
spirit to the other room.
His kitchen is pitifully small and consists of only a few counters, a table
with two chairs tucked beneath, a table-top stove, fridge, and a single half-
dead potted fern balanced precariously on the windowsill above the sink.
Everything is a shade of off-white except for the wobbly table, which is marred
with deep scratches and stains of various colors. It is all he can afford at
the moment, so he does not complain, not even when the faucet drips steadily
and the draft from the window reaches him even at the furthest recesses of this
tiny, three-room apartment.
“No, of course I don’t mind. I did dishes before bed last night so there should
be clean mugs on the top shelf.” The grocery bags on the table promise a real
breakfast. They offer sweet snacks and fresh milk in addition to relaxation
before he trudges to school. Relaxation means more time to spend with the only
being who expresses any true decency towards him in this place. Mogami’s
casually brazen laugh reverberates through the cramped space they now both
occupy. Quickly, it is drowned out by the sound of rustling plastic and the
scraping of cardboard. Shigeo makes quick work of unloading the contents of
each bag, silently organizing each item on the counter beside the coffeemaker.
Apples, milk, dish soap- ah, there. Stashed beneath an unopened bag of coffee
beans he can see a familiar label.
The man glances over his shoulder at Shigeo at the sound of tearing paper. “I
spoil you, you know that right?” He taunts, busying himself with pouring their
drinks. Steam clings to the window while the sound of a spoon hitting the
inside of a mug rings through the air like a bell. By the time he finishes
adding the last scoop of sugar to the boy’s coffee and carries both mugs to the
table, the younger esper has already taken his seat. Shigeo pays him no mind
and carries on popping cinnamon donut hole after donut hole past his lips. He
knows they’re covered in powdery sugar but doesn’t care enough to clear it just
yet.
He only bothers to wipe the sticky mess from his lips using his pajama sleeve
when Mogami slides the cow-print mug in front of him. While the man’s coffee is
black and bitter, his own is nearly as white as the milk a few feet away and so
saturated in sweetener that the granules settle on the bottom like a paste.
“Ah- I know,” He mumbles with a nervous, breathy tone, “thank you.” Though he
is sitting upright in his chair only the tips of his toes scrape against the
linoleum, allowing him to kick his legs absentmindedly beneath the table. “You
didn’t have to. I still have bread left.” He keeps his gaze lowered and his
head bowed slightly as he speaks, fingertips twining around one another.
“If I don’t do it, who will?” The man waves him off with the twirl of a hand
and sips from his mug. The throb from bruised lips and scabbed cuts is enough
of an answer, at least to Shigeo. “You can’t do it on your own.”
“I guess so…” The boy replies with a whisper. He takes a sip of his coffee to
distract himself from thinking further, his knuckles nearly as pale as the
liquid contained inside. Scalding liquid pours down his throat when he lets
some into his mouth, however, he hardly feels the sting. The bitter substance
chases away some of the soreness and washes away the feeling of cotton at the
back of his tongue. Still, it does little to ease the sticky feeling clinging
to the rest of him. Shigeo feels as if he is coming down with something. “I
don’t feel well.”
“No? You have school today, right?” Mogami speaks between audible swallows.
“You should at least try to go.”
“I haven’t missed any classes yet.”
“School’s important Shigeo.” A dull thunk sounds as the older male sets his mug
down. His words are lulled with all the calculated calm of a parent scolding a
child; it makes Shigeo want to shrink further into his seat. He tries to focus
on the coffee instead of what the man is saying but the drink is only making
him feel more flushed around the face.
“I don’t really want to go…” Hesitantly, Shigeo tries to object but he knows
deep down that it’s a losing battle. Sighing, he sets his cup down and seals
the donut bag shut with quick swipes of his fingertips.
“At least get through half the day. You’ll be late if you sit here and argue
with me.” They never speak much during these visits, but today is different in
that regard as well. Normally, Mob would do his homework at the table, eat, and
retreat back to the bedroom. He’d sort through books with broken spines and
mud-crusted papers until it was dark. Mogami would lurk at the peripherals of
the room until the young, now powerless, esper would pat the futon beside
himself. The silence was enough, especially when it was broken by their slowly
syncing breathing. Rustling sheets and rain hitting the window was a static
white noise beneath it all as Shigeo leaned against the man when he grew tired.
He would fall asleep tucked into the spirit’s side and dream about the times
when he wished he had the courage to lift his blankets to invite Mogami beneath
them-
He is so entrenched in that train of thought that he spasms in surprise when
knife-edge knuckles drag gingerly across his flushed cheekbone. “I’m fine-” He
immediately spits the words out from reflex alone. The hand only lingers a
moment but it’s enough for Shigeo’s mind to short-circuit momentarily. Eyes
stare blankly at the man as his brain reboots, telling him to close his
slightly agape mouth first before Mogami notices. He snaps his jaw shut and
shies away from the other’s touch, pushing himself away from the table. The
chair scrapes against the tile and screeches ear-piercingly, snubbing out the
apology that the boy chokes out. What the hell is wrong with him today?
Mogami blinks and gives Shigeo a resigned look, but merely grunts and shrugs
his shoulders when the teen gets to his feet. “Your forehead is warm, not hot.
Once you get on campus I’m sure you’ll start to feel better.” He stands as well
and collects both mugs with one hand, a single finger hooked through the
handles. “Go get ready while I clean up.” Shigeo doesn’t move. Mogami’s upper
twitches and his brow knits together as he stares the younger male down. “Now
Kageyama.” It is no longer a suggestion and he knows it. For the first time in
a while he catches a whiff of the other’s commanding alpha scent as he scurries
past him; he knows he’s irritated the and does his best to hurry through his
morning routine.
Shigeo changes as hastily as he can manage and heads to the bathroom. His
pajamas lay abandoned on the floor of his near-barren bedroom but he can’t
bring himself to bother putting them in the bin. He brushes his teeth and
studies his reflection. He’s pale and sickly looking today, though he doesn’t
think he looks deathly ill. Allergies, a cold, strep; really it could be
anything minor. When mint has replaced the acidic aftertaste of coffee and his
face has been cleared free of sleep and sweat, he returns to the kitchen to
pack his bag. Mogami is still there, dumping the rest of the kettle’s contents
down the drain and filling it with water lest the glass crack when he places it
back on the burner. “That was quick.” Shigeo ignores him and runs fingernails
through his matted locks of hair. It still looks horrible but at least the
majority of it now lays flat.
Once his backpack is zipped and the straps have been adjusted he turns his
attention to his gakuran. Fresh plasters coat his fingers. No matter how
diligently he guides the buttons to the slits in the fabric made to hold them,
the bulky cotton mutes his precision. He only manages to get one into place
before he lets out a frustrated huff. “Ah..Mogami could you-” Large, blocky
hands nudge his own away from his coat before he finishes his statement. The
spirit leans in close in order to aid Shigeo, bending at the hips in order to
better reach the buttons of the teen’s shirt. The man’s face is so close to his
own that it makes his heart squeeze, each breath forcing him to take in more of
his alpha scent. At this proximity, he can see every detail on Mogami’s face,
every single fine line, plane, and shadow. The bags beneath his eyes are more
noticeable when his gaze is cast downward, especially in the shadow his creased
brow creates. It’s almost endearing how hard the man is focusing on his task;
Shigeo notices that his lips are pulled taut and his nose is scrunched in
concentration.
He follows the man’s line of sight to watch the buttons being done up,
mesmerized by how deft those fingers were. Each movement is so precise, so
calculated, yet still so relaxed. It takes everything in the younger male to
choke down the instinctive revulsion of having the man so close, to swallow
down the heat that sparks back from his chest and into his throat like rising
bile. A tingling sensation pulses through the boy’s fingertips as the fleeting
thought of grabbing hold of those dark locks and dragging the man’s face up to
his own flashes like a snapshot through his mind. He wrenches his focus away
from Mogami’s face, knowing full well it’s disgusting how disgusting he is for
imagining something so horrible.
He chooses to break the silence by asking, “Will you be back here tonight?” The
final button is snapped into place as he speaks and Mogami straightens himself
out once more so that he is once again towering over the shorter male. His line
of sight doesn’t leave his handiwork until Shigeo shifts nervously, switching
his center of gravity and weight from one foot to the other. “Um..” Those eyes
flick up to meet his own, expressionless and dead. Of course, they’re dead;
Mogami’s been a spirit for a long time. It’s reflected in the swirling voids of
his pupils, all-consuming black holes that threaten to steal the teen’s breath
from his very lungs. He wants to drown in them.
“Perhaps. If I am not occupied elsewhere, of course. There are some things that
require my attention.” Mogami reaches out once more to adjust the younger’s
shirt collar for him, his blunt nails scraping along the juncture of Shigeo’s
jaw. God this man is going to be the death of him. Before his thoughts can
spiral back into that forbidden territory the man clears his throat and
gestures a hand towards the door. “There. Out you go kiddo. If you feel like
you’re going to get sick just go to the nurse and lay down for a bit. Don’t
come home unless it’s an emergency, understand?”
Shigeo swallows the lump that has settled at the back of his tongue dryly
before he scurries for his front door. He nearly stumbles when attempting to
slip on his shoes and staggers out the door with one of his heels crushing the
back of the footwear down. When the door is shut and he’s found his footing by
bracing his back to the thick wood he takes a moment to fix the strap. Normally
he’d be halfway down the stairs by now, but today he cannot seem to will
himself to take even the first step. The man’s scent clings to his gakuran’s
fabric almost chemically, as if he’d doused it in air freshener before leaving.
In the windowless, isolated hallway he is sheltered from the prying eyes of
strangers. It couldn’t hurt, he tells himself. With wavering hands he grabs the
front of his collar and hikes it up to his nose, burying his face into the soft
material. When did he start to become this way? Even Shigeo couldn’t say for
certain. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter now. Comfort thaws the ice in
his chest and eases his nerves, though he can feel his heart pick up and hammer
away impatiently behind his ribs.
The fact that that Mogami was an alpha wasn’t one he had ever paid much mind
to. Prior, it was a passing thought, an aspect that he needn't focus on for
long. Mogami smells of rain, of soil, detergent, but there its very presence is
one that signifies possession. Ownership. Ownership. He mules the word over
like a mantra, letting it distract him as he finally descends the complex's
stairs. The pheromones that cling to his clothing are the most assuring things
he’s felt in awhile. The fact that the man has marked him is a surprisingly
reassuring idea to the student, but one that forces him to acknowledge the fact
that the bubbling in his stomach has begun to reach a dangerous level. Nausea
rocks the stairwell beneath him and beckons for him to return home but he
ignores it as best as he can. He’ll try to get through today for Mogami. For
his alpha.
---
Early morning train rides always blur by like a dream to Shigeo. Under normal
circumstances, he would merely sit with his hands in his lap whilst keeping his
eyes cast downward. Strangers would never get too close, they didn’t dare take
the seats beside the gloomy schoolboy covered in too visible bandages. This
allowed him some time to think. There is only one other person in the shuttle
car today, a man with a grey-violet suit, gaunt skin, and thick, heavy set
brows riding low over his eyes. Thankfully, he ignores Shigeo and stares
blankly at the newspapers clenched in gnarled his fingers. Not once does his
gaze shift to indicate he is actually reading nor does he ever blink. Shigeo
debates with himself on whether or not the man is a corpse. Admittedly that’s a
tad rude; he recalls having a ghost as a friend long ago, one that wasn’t
Mogami. He can no longer remember a name or face to match the recollection. At
some points, he wonders if he too is dead here, but the thought makes him
uneasy so he quickly buries it whenever it decides floats back to the surface.
Sweat prickles the back of his neck as he watches the city pass by outside. The
air conditioner must be broken, he reasons. He wipes at the irritated skin and
presses his face to the cool window, each exhale through his nose causing his
breath to imprint itself upon the glass. Outside, the very edges of the horizon
are obscured by fog no matter how clear the weather is; Mogami’s world can only
recreate so much of Seasoning City before it begins to fizzle out into
nothingness. He stares blearily into the distance, picking at the soft skin
around his fingernails distractedly. When the glass is so opaque from his warm
breath that it does him no good to try and see through, he takes to staring
into the dim corners of the compartment.
When the train finally pulls into the station and Shigeo departs it, the
swirling vortex of voices that is usually so deafening falls on muffled ears.
Someone laughs, he’s sure, but it sounds distorted as if he were listening from
outside the building rather than a few feet away. He’s sweating again. Gross.
Perhaps there is a warm front hitting the city. He drinks stale water from a
fountain and takes his leave before he’s swept by the bustle by the tracks. It
isn’t a far walk to campus, but it is one that grates on his nerves. Each step
adds more weight to his shoulders and saps the breath from his lungs. No matter
how much he attempts to prepare himself for what’s to come he always ends up
blindsided.
Thankfully, the beating at Minori’s hands does not last long. Agony is just as
muffled as his hearing it seems. Within moments of stepping through the gate he
is swarmed, fingernails digging into soft flesh and tearing at his clothing.
Bees, he thinks disjointedly, they’re like bees. Minori’s voice is scraping
metal, her shrill laugh drilling into his cotton swab eardrums like a rusted
nail. A foot collides heel first with his gut, sending him reeling back into
the concrete. Copper floods over his tongue, a few hard bits of gravel
embedding itself in his cheek and lower lip. There’s a sharp sting over his
left canine; hopefully, it hasn’t been chipped from the impact.
Resistance doesn’t help, not when they can muscle his arms away from protecting
his skull and pin his hands to the pavement with the bottoms of their shoes.
Minori doesn’t call out the order though and instead opts to crouch in front of
him as he lays on his stomach. Fingers latch onto his shirt collar to drag his
head upward until his face is level with hers. “You’re late.” Her tone is
fermented sugar, all crusted over and rotten. It makes Shigeo’s stomach churn.
“Class started ten minutes ago Kageyama. You should thank us for waiting for
you so patiently.” She reeks of alpha, heavy and stagnant on her skin, acidic
within his sinuses.
“Thank you..” Pink-tinted drool dribbles past split lips and down his chin.
Minori considers the apology for a few, tense seconds. Manicured nails sink
hard into the skin of his scalp when she reaches her verdict. Her nose
twitches, her fingers going slack before her nails can draw blood. She studies
him for a moment until her eyebrows spring upward, glossed lips curving like a
hook in amusement. The group around them waivers, chattering impatiently behind
them. The majority of them are betas, though some alphas and omegas are
intermingled amongst the ranks. Minori straightens and wipes her hands clear of
mucus and blood using Shigeo’s own shirt. “God, you reek. Did you seriously
come to school like that? You’re lucky I’m so nice to you.”
Saliva lands in Shigeo’s hair. She is standing above him now, muttering
something to her group that is indecipherable to the boy’s muddled brain. Every
breath sends pins and needles through his chest. He stares up at her with an
out of focus gaze until she releases him entirely with a grimace. “Fucking
freak.” The alpha hisses as she finally waves her gang back. Once his
assailants are no longer audible he pushes himself onto his back. It takes
several minutes for the pain to anchor his cloudy conscious back to the ground.
He is thirty minutes late to class by the time he finishes patching himself up
in the first-floor bathroom. Today, he skips homeroom.
---
Shigeo does, however, manage to attend his second period. For one reason or
another, he cannot sit still despite the exhaustion set heavy within him like
tar in his veins. He takes to chewing his pencil without thought while the
other students work in small clusters around him. Despite the fact that this
was a group assignment not a single person offers to join him. The words on his
paper fail to register properly, the ink slurring together as he becomes more
and more entrenched in his own imagination. The teacher’s droning steadily
melts away, a mere static to the scattered images dotting the teen’s mind.
The scene from that morning is replayed like a broken record, the broken shards
consisting of hitched breath, hands peeling back layers of clothing, and
stifled moans. Rather than Mogami’s hands guiding flimsy plastic buttons into
place, they are instead tearing them away. In Shigeo’s vision, they wind up
scattering across the floor when the fabric is ripped, torn clean off from his
narrow shoulders. He is backed up by the urgent nudges of Mogami’s larger body
against his own. His hips hit the edge of the counter as he seeks balance.
There’s a mouth on his throat, a tongue against his own, his thumbs dipping
below his waistband and tugging downward- A full-body throb wracks Shigeo hard
enough to rip him free from the scene.
That same acidic bile builds back up and threatens to overflow. When he forces
the seething heat back down his throat with a strained swallow it travels
further than before. It drips like magma through his insides and settles deep
within him like a dead weight. Shigeo doesn’t notice that he’s been biting the
pencil harder until the tip snaps, causing him to flinch. Thankfully, no one
seems to notice as he swipes his tongue over his palm to clear away the
graphite. Liquid pools at his hairline and lip for the umpteenth time that day
although it is not confined to only his head. There’s a wet sensation that is
growing between his thighs when he presses his knees together. That
is...strange. It seems slicker there than anywhere else, not to mention the
fact that the same sticky feeling that plagued him earlier is returning full
force.
His digits are trembling as he dares to wipe his brow, inhaling sharply when
his own skin singes his fingertips. This isn’t good; if he wasn’t sure he was
feverish he is now. Cotton is still wicking moisture from his tongue, stuffed
all the way to the back of his throat so that the dryness nearly chokes him.
However, at this time that seems to be the least of his worries. While he has
never been oblivious to scenting out others’ dynamics it was never so
overbearing. Something about this illness must be triggering him to be more
alert to everyone’s aspects toady. Perhaps he is sweating instinctively out of
unease for there are far too many alphas in this classroom, too many threats to
his sickness weakened body. As an afterthought, he notices that the sickly-
sweet scent of omegas has not escaped detection as well.
Mogami had told him that morning to endure, to get through the day
but...something, everything is wrong. By now he has the slightest inkling of
what could be occurring, yet he is apprehensive about believing it. The
increased sensitivity to pheromones, the flu-like symptoms, that goddamn
boiling heat rippling through his gut and spreading between his legs. No, he
doesn’t want to believe it...but even Shigeo understands that he needs to get
home immediately. He tries to regulate his breathing before he finally works up
the backbone to raise his hand into the air.
Like the flip of a killswitch, the entire classroom falls silent. Chatter is
replaced by swiveled heads and leering stares, hard lines on the edges of
mouths as they are drawn back into silent snarls. He can practically feel the
animosity as he utters out, “Teacher.” Nothing. “Teacher, I feel sick. May I go
to the nurse?” The man ignores him entirely and continues writing. Chalk
squeals as it is dragged across the sandpapery blackboard with vigorous strokes
so Shigeo attempts once more, lifting his hand higher and calling out louder.
“Teacher.” He’s more urgent this time and braces an elbow on the desk so he can
lean forward. When he sits up straight nausea in his gut surges in protest, but
he still fights against it so that he may whisper out a “Please.” Eyes burn
through his body until finally, he curls in upon himself in the seat in defeat.
A girl gives a giggle from the front row in response to the whimper that
escapes him. Apparently, that is finally enough to grab the teacher’s
attention. He puts down the chalk and turns to his class, his face contorted
into a hardly readable expression. Dried-leather skin is hard set into the
perfect blend of rage, revulsion, and amusement as he stares the obviously
very, very sick teen down. There is no sympathy in those cold eyes of his, nor
is there the barest hint of apprehension as he begins to speak. “Kageyama. Do
you have something to add to this discussion? Why don’t you have a partner?
This is a group assignment.” He snatches a ruler from the desk with meaty hands
and tightens his grip on it until it bends and creaks.
“I need to go to the nurse,” Shigeo repeats this again, trying his best to
avoid falling into a pleading state. He’s gripping his desk like a lifeline as
the floor heaves beneath him; should he let go he feels as if he would faint.
“You look fine.” The weighted, uniform gait of the heavy-set man drowns out the
pounding of the teen’s heart in his ears. He cannot pinpoint where the man is
until there is breathing directly in front of him and he catches a glimpse of
the man’s legs at the very peripherals of his vision. It would be suicide to
lift his head now, a challenge to authority. Unfortunately, he has no choice
and cannot avoid conflict. He flinches when the man barks out “Look up.”
Begrudgingly he complies though it’s almost as if a film has been placed over
his vision. It is steadily becoming more difficult to clearly see the edges of
objects in the room. To him, the teacher’s blurry form is nearly
indistinguishable from the blackboard behind him.
Impatiently Shigeo awaits the impact of the ruler to the side of his face and
hopes it will snap him out of it. By now the teacher would already have him on
the ground holding a swollen, throbbing cheek. However, the blow never comes.
The man is still inspecting him, leaning down now to properly look Shigeo over.
Ashamedly, the teen whimpers again and recoils instinctively. He knows he’s
pervading the room with hormones by now. Even he isn’t so blind that he cannot
tell that it is drawing a reaction from everyone around him. Thankfully, his
shame is short lived.
“Disgraceful...Get out.” Spittle flicks his desk as the man withdraws. That
tone is venomous and borderlines threatening territory. Still, it seems like an
act; the teacher is a beta and poses no more of a threat today than any other.
When Shigeo does not react immediately the man tells him to leave again, though
this time a growl rattles his voice and spurs the teen into action. Shigeo
Kageyama nearly makes a fool of himself in class more so than he already is as
he stands. His feet hardly obey his commands, his knees nearly buckling as he
stands, swaying. His bag is left behind when he slips past the other students’
desks. To prevent a fall he uses them for support as he passes, only managing
to draw in a breath when he is alone in the hallway. The teacher does not
protest, thankfully, when he nearly slams the door behind himself. Should he
decide to actually go to the nurse it will most likely end up with him being
force-fed suppressant pills and sent back to class. Down the hall, however, are
the restrooms. It is an easy decision to make.
Fortunately for Shigeo, the only person within the halls is himself. The
restroom is also clear of others when he enters it. Only when the door is
locked and every stall is checked, confirmed now to be free of lurking
students, does he allow himself to relax. He forces air into burning lungs with
slow drags and fills them until they are near to bursting. This room is so
choked with alpha that it makes him want to vomit. Amazingly, his body
apparently thinks differently. His slacks are far too tight and that slick
sensation is worsening. By now he has no doubts that there is a wet mark along
the crotch of them. He undoes his belt and slips a hand between his legs to
test and sure enough, when he retracts them there is clear, viscous fluid
clinging to his fingers. It dribbles down his palm to his sleeve as he inspects
the damage; gross.
The teacher was right, it was disgraceful for him to attend class in that
state. Even when he’s rinsed his hand he can still feel it linger on his skin
from where his own hormones remained glued to its surface. He knew he’d never
be an alpha, as he lacked a strong will and physical strength that came
standard for them. He lacked the wit of a well-balanced beta. Somehow, he also
lacked the curves and gentle features of an omega. Shigeo Kageyama was an
enigma, a being with asphyxiated emotions, an inaptitude for socialization, and
an inability to learn on a level with the rest of the class. Whereas most
people presented by the time they were twelve with subdued symptoms thanks to
regimented suppressant pills, Shigeo was only doing so now. Partially, he is
relieved that he even has a dynamic even if he is presenting as an omega; his
status does not bother him.
When his thoughts begin to wander his core reminds him of his predicament by
giving a sharp stab of something he has no word for. It is akin to pain, hollow
and consuming, but there is that tingling along his nerves that he could
distinctly call pleasure. Emptiness, he realizes with growing despair, his role
as an omega is to be filled. That idea is consuming his thoughts the more he
focuses on it, causing fear to sprout like a thorny sapling from his heart. It
claws its way upward until the branches are lodged atop his tongue and its
roots grasp of at his insides. Should he remain here any longer the need would
only worsen. He’s seen the movies and he knows full well what happens when an
unbound omega is left alone in the throes of their heat. Should an alpha find
him here he would most likely offer himself for them without a moment's
hesitation.
Shigeo turns the sink handle to the coldest setting he possibly can and scoops
handfuls of water to his face. With each splash he can feel the haze in his
mind part momentarily, grounding him back in reality with disjointed thoughts
sporting tidbits of clear reasoning. It quelled the heat inside him momentarily
at least. It wouldn’t last, though he is grateful each frigid mouthful he
swallows down offers another moment of clear-headedness. He’ll need it to make
it home lest he succumb to his wailing nerves, dulled sense of morality, and
raging hormones. His unmasked, un-bound scent is a beacon, an invitation for
anyone in the area to take him. There is no doubt that he would be all too
willing even if he knows that without medication he would not be free from the
risk of reproducing. He needed someone to watch him, someone he trusted.
Mogami. Another shudder rocks his lithe frame, this one more urgent than the
last. The name alone was enough to make his insides seize. Mogami was someone
he could trust, someone he would not mind being marked by, someone who would be
kind during this difficult time. The repetition of the spirit’s name is enough
to cement the idea. Finally, Shigeo leaves the restroom and heads with haste
towards the school doors. Should he reach him in time he would be safe. Should
he reach his apartment in time the man might know what to do to curve the
heat’s length, intensity, or both.
The journey home bled into one sensation; desire. The passage of time was
irrelevant, consumed by that one emotion welling up inside the horribly
frightened young omega. He repeated the spirit's name in his head obsessively
for a second time that day, the same warble that had run through his brain that
very morning. This time, however, it escapes the confines of his brain, falling
past his lips as he barely manages to stagger home. By the time he makes it
inside that name has snuffed out any cognition Shigeo had left.
End Notes
     I apologize if there is an overabundance of mistakes: Don't be scared
     to call me out on them! Google docs is not an optimal word processor.
     Come talk to me @EsperCorral on twitter! I am open to requests,
     critiques, and casual conversation about Mp100 and this fic in
     general!
     Thank you so much for reading!
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