
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11379477.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Fantastic_Beasts_and_Where_to_Find_Them_(Movies)
  Relationship:
      Credence_Barebone/Original_Percival_Graves
  Character:
      Credence_Barebone, Original_Percival_Graves, Tina_Goldstein
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Mating
      Cycles/In_Heat, Teacher-Student_Relationship, Omega_Credence_Barebone,
      Alpha_Percvial_Graves, Consent_so_dubious_ponzi_schemes_look_legit, Hurt
      feelings_all_around
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-02 Chapters: 1/3 Words: 2313
****** first bud ******
by nicholese
Summary
     Credence Barebone's Beta status changes completely one month into the
     fall semester.
Notes
     Helpfully edited by ali~
Credence Barebone's Beta status changes completely one month into the fall
semester. 
 
He's loping along the sandy yellow track at Ilvermorny High, quick feet
carrying him past a couple of stragglers, but not so quickly as to keep pace
with the front runners and their expensive Nikes, tanned golden skin and long
legs moving fluidly above the ground. For a moment or two, they seem to hover,
even fly. Credence wonders what it would be like to have such confidence in
your skin, to be so certain in your attempt to succeed at the impossible. He
ducks his head as if to avoid this futile line of thought. 
 
To covet is a sin. Unbidden, Ma's voice rings sharply in his mind, and the old
shame pushes his attention away from those sleek, slender limbs. 
 
Nobody admires the lanky Credence Barebone, skin stretched taut on an overlong
frame. Sometimes, he feels spread too thin, scraped raw, the badness Ma tries
to beat out of him seeping from under the flesh like mist. It envelops his
limbs and neck, before creeping up towards his face. 
 
Such dreams always end badly. He never remembers anything other than darkness.
Darkness and screaming. 
 
Strangely enough, today has been better than most. Credence had managed to sit
through trigonometry without breaking anything, the usual mind-numbing
frustration strangely absent. The rowdy pack of boys who enjoy harassing him
are gone, at least for awhile, with hockey season starting up. Now: gym class,
feeling oddly powerful with the wind whipping through his bad haircut. 
 
Two laps. Three. The afternoon wears away in a sun-bleached haze, and
Credence's breath comes painfully now, hot breath puffing out over his
shriveled tongue. He thinks longingly of water, and the dryness hurts more.
Reflexively licking his lips, the sour taste of saliva makes him gag. 
 
Just ahead of him, a couple of students peel off the track and high-five each
other. They're blisteringly fit, t-shirts hugging sculpted bodies that glisten
with sweat. Most annoying of all, none of them appear to even be  winded. 
 
Alphas. Swaggering, they loudly catcall the girls who jog past giggling. Feet
spaced apart the breadth of their broad, powerful shoulders, strength and
vigour and something more primal laces their very biology, dominance written in
flesh and blood. Some call this a sign of good stock, a pedigree to be proud
of. 
 
Credence thinks them snobs, pretentious, though deep down he may truly believe
that they're better than him. He stares at them with no expression at all, and
they briefly fall silent, smirking and dismissive. 
 
He isn't anything to them, or anyone else for that matter. Just a quiet loner,
a sexless Beta tucked at the back of class. Perhaps he should be envious of
them, these golden children born and bred to be the best, the top,
overachievers destined for places far beyond his imagination. Nature and
nurture both working in their favour. But Credence isn't somebody prone to
envy, anyway. He tucks his head down and stays out of trouble, long accustomed
to the mean whispers and rude stares. He clenches his bruised knuckles to hide
red-lined palms and hunches over at the back of class, trying to look as non-
threatening as possible. Usually, it works. 
 
The dull monotony of the passing scenery repeating again and again in an
endless loop makes his mind wander. Below him, his legs are getting tired, and
the feel of sweat sodden cotton is abjectly horrible. He slows down, suddenly
aware of aching muscles. The waning autumn sun seems far too bright, glinting
painfully off the grass into his eyes. Bird cries cease to be background noise,
and instead shrill in tandem with the pounding of his head, the too-quick
beating of his heart. His vision blurs for just a second, and Credence crumples
to the ground. The aching realization that the stitch in his side is something
worse keeps him sprawled face down, breathing hard. 
 
Somebody nudges his foot, and with great effort Credence sits up and stands on
shaky legs. Briefly, the world tilts and wobbles. The gym teacher appears, his
gaze dark and questioning. 
 
"Mr. Graves- " he manages to choke out. "I- I don't feel too good. May I go to
the bathroom?"
 
Mr. Graves excuses him from the lesson with a nod, and he gratefully staggers
away.
 
Halfway there, Credence realizes that he isn't going to make it. He's dying,
insides liquefied into fire, and there's a disgusting wetness trickling down
his inner thigh. It could be blood. He slides a hand down to check, and no:
it's worse. 
 
A clear, viscous fluid coats his finger, and when he lifts it up to his nose
for closer inspection: sweet. A strong, unmistakable odour.
 
The truth of it sinks in bone-deep, nestling among the other incongruities of
his screwed up life. He, ugly and undesirable Credence Barebone, is Omega.
Despite the proof wetting his finger and shorts, the wrongness of it stings.
Credence knows that he's odd, and the strange timing of his presentation just
makes everything worse. Autumn, a time of death and dormancy, is completely out
of sync with the usual Omegan cycle which tends to peak along with nature. 
 
He makes his way into an equipment shed and slams the door shut, trips over
something and nearly sprains his ankle. In the cool darkness of the shed, he
can hear the rush of his pulse, an insistent ebb and flow. The dampness between
his legs intensifies, spreading into a sticky puddle underneath his
thighs. Credence aches so much with the want of it, but the smooth polyester of
his gym kit glides uselessly against oversensitive skin, teasing, caressing.
Utter torture against his virginal hole. He pushes one finger in, then three,
but it's hopeless. The long, crooked digits fit horribly when his body is
preparing itself for something, someone, else entirely. He lets out a helpless
mewl in the dim half-light, plaintive and so horribly bestial, partially glad
that there's nobody to see. 
 
The tattered pages of his biology textbook come back to him, second hand and
two editions out of date, but nonetheless accurate. The anatomy of a male
Omega, sliced open in a cross-section, livid red guts and pert ass revealed.
Helpful labels pointed out the various characteristics that facilitated
breeding. In estrus: the glands overflowing, pumping out the sweet, lubricating
slick. Vocalisations which attract Alphas with notes of piteous distress.
Prostrate, kneeling in the appropriate position for easy penetration, though it
seems like a sort of base worship.
 
Credence remembers the stories he'd heard, whispers between bent heads at
recess of those who'd invariably screwed themselves up. Omegas were notoriously
prone to be victims of domestic abuse, dragged into bad relationships for sex
and the instinctive comfort that came with heat bonds. Some tired of being a
slave to their biology and overdosed on contraceptive drugs, trying to become
infertile but getting cancer instead. Now, one of them, with the same carnal
desperation flooding his senses, Credence becomes acutely aware of his
vulnerability. 
 
This sense of fear is irrational, ridiculous even, but hotwired into his very
marrow. A biological imperative for Omegas to bond, find a mate and propagate
the species. He's become nothing more than a cockholder, a breeding vessel.
It's true - society may trumpet equal opportunity for all, but Alphas are by
far the dominant gender. Alphas run the government and make decisions, trapped
too by their instinct to protect Omegas. Some say stifle, but there are few,
too little to make a difference. A bill to give Omegas the right to ownership
of property and the like has gone nowhere for the past seven years, bogged down
by conservative senators.
 
Since his sixteenth birthday came and went, Credence has always assumed that he
was a Beta. Blissfully unaware and complacent, he has none of the protective
measures potential Omegas usually have on their person. Pills, sprays and even
single-use syringes loaded with a chemical cocktail of suppressants. 
 
Credence hears the door open, and panic grips his heart, makes it stutter
rabbit-like, feeling very much like prey. He looks up as another person enters
the small, cramped space. 
 
"Hey, kid. Are you alright?"
 
The low baritone of Mr. Graves' voice does somethingto Credence, jerks his back
up and curves the vertebrae into a bow. Mr. Graves sounds like music, like an
order Credence cannot help but follow, because he isgiving one, albeit
unintentionally. A quirk of evolution he's tuned to obey, hindbrain racing with
long-buried impulses, pheromones coursing through his blood. His vision
sharpens to focus on the bright red whistle that hangs from Mr. Graves' chest,
his teacher's distractingly muscled chest. This is all too effortlessly ignored
by his heat-crazed mind. 
 
Here, Mr. Graves is Alpha, and Credence is fucked. 
 
A whimper escapes his lips, high-pitched and strained. He doesn't miss how Mr.
Graves' gaze sharpens or the subtle shift in his posture, the way he leans
forward slightly. Something inside Credence is deeply excited by this reaction,
and he quickly turns away, embarrassed.
 
Face down, ass up like a typical Omega slut, Credence feels his cheeks burn. He
doesn't know if it's from embarrassment or a natural elevation of body
temperature, warming up in preparation for an Alpha's knot.He trembles,
breathes shallowly through his mouth. The poorly ventilated shed is filled with
desperate Omega scent.
 
Behind him, Mr. Graves is eerily quiet. Some animal instinct worries at
Credence, makes him spread his legs wider, show off the weeping hole that begs
for the Alpha to stuff  his cock in, knot him full of seed. The dusty cement
floor is hard on his hands and knees, not that it makes any difference.
Apparently, he is past bothering about bacteria and germs.
 
Credence has never been more excited in his short, sad life. He can smell Mr.
Graves, finding out things he never knew or cared about before. His blood sings
with a litany of neurotransmitters.
 
Mr. Graves. Older, but no less potent. The pups he'll sire will be strong. And,
most importantly, unbonded. He could just take Credence, right there and then.
Mate him on the dirty ground like their savannah ancestors, re-enacting the
age-old tableau. Slick wells up in fat rivulets at the thought, dribbles down
his pale, flushed thighs. His soaking wet shorts have long been forgotten,
kicked off skinny ankles and discarded. 
 
Long seconds, then an eternity, pass. What if Mr. Graves doesn't want him? He
wants to turn around, spare a glance at the man taking his own sweet time as if
inspecting the goods. Anticipation churns deep in his gut, followed by some
measure of revulsion. He needs this so, so awfully. The solution for the
aching, painful emptiness within him stands within touching distance. Hating
himself, Credence hears his voice break as he cries, way too loud and needy in
the dirty shed, alone with his teacher and less than two goddamn feet
separating them, but more besides in professional boundaries. Or the fact that
Mr. Graves is a little over twice his age. 
 
"Please," he sobs, uncaring, and ready to die of shame at the same time. 
 
A large hand presses tentatively over the small of his back, warm and
reassuring. Credence himself is shocked by the immediacy of his response, and
even more by the pleasure it brings. His shoulders hitch, pushing back into Mr.
Graves' hand. Yet, instead of drawing back, Mr. Graves' makes an appreciative
noise and trails his hand lower, stroking the bony jut of Credence's hips with
his big thumbs. 
 
Credence moans at that touch, low and keening. Lewd, even. But it comes nowhere
near satisfying him. He shivers with impatience. Mr. Graves laughs softly. 
 
"Steady, boy,"he says under his breath, as if trying to calm a skittish animal.
 
Credence supposes that he is one at that moment, on the verge of losing all
control and setting himself on somebody with easily forty more pounds of muscle
mass. Crazed by the hormones running wild in his blood, he is practically
nothing more than a bitch in heat. 
 
Hurry, Credence thinks, hurry before I burn up and die. The world has narrowed
to the musty confines of the shed, and his consciousness is fully occupied by
the sensation of Mr Graves' rough, callused skin on his, toughened by years of
physical training. Every fibre in his being yearns, an overwhelming wave of
desire that floods his mind with pure want. 
 
Mr. Graves' hand dips lower, brushing against the very bottom of his tailbone,
the coccyx,the unresistant entryway into Credence's wet, dripping need. It's so
close to breaching him that he hisses at the touch. 
 
Suddenly, there's a creaking sound as rusty hinges protest against opening. The
shadowy corner they're in washes over with weak sunlight, and Mr. Graves
instantly removes his hand.
 
Credence can't help but cry out at the loss.
 
"Um." A woman's voice. Miss Goldstein, the one who patiently explained sine
ratios that very afternoon.
 
Mr. Graves stands up and walks towards her, predator-smooth in his movement.
There's a hint of a growl in his voice when he speaks to her, but it disappears
when she slaps him, angrily saying something indistinct. Mr. Graves seems to
snap out of a trance, and leaves the place almost running.
 
That's when Credence scents her unoffensive Beta odour. He looks up, furious
and a little concerned, because she has a completely devastated expression when
she turns to him.
 
"I'm sorry," he whispers, then lets the wracking sobs claim him, mourning the
absence of heady Alpha scent. 
 
Fighting tears herself, Miss Goldstein looks away from the scene. She types
absently into a phone, dialing for help, although it is less of a protective
response than a severely delayed one. A useless gesture for the confidential
report that she would have to write for the relevant authorities. 
 
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