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Christmas was in the air, and as a general point of principle, he hated it. He didn’t understand the obsession people experienced for the date, the conspicuous consumption, the senseless and undignified behavior of ordinarily rational people. He’d been raised that getting what you needed was far more valuable than getting what you wanted.
And getting what you wanted was your prerogative, on your own time, by any means necessary. It was a solitary hobby. Having other people trying to give it to you was unsporting and faintly distasteful.
Children and Americans did not seem to see it his way. In fact, if prior experience told him anything, most of the world didn’t see it his way.
It was hard to always be the right one, but Shere Khan didn’t particularly fancy the idea of being anything else.
His students seemed to be temporarily transformed into complete cretins, a slight and unpleasant change from their usual state of imbecility. Unfortunately, holidays with this many parties and social occasions necessitated a certain amount of etiquette, and there he was, preaching it. He found himself providing the proper outlines for polite, distant holiday cards and inflicting the duty of writing and sending twenty each upon his class.
That would take the glimmer out of the occasion.
He was enormously disheartened to see that some of the other professors were not immune to the influence of the season; despite her obvious distaste for the tidings of comfort and joy, Yzma couldn’t resist the opportunity to dress up, and her latest costume involved blinking lights and ponderous costume jewelry. Ms. de Vil had taken to swanning about in a truly garish red coat with huge tufts of white fur trim. Mr. Wiggins, the T.A., had made bold to try and propose a Secret Santa exchange at a faculty meeting, and for a moment, he’d really thought that the headmistress had quietly considering where she’d hang the young man’s mounted head on her office wall.
There was one thing to look forward to, however.
A week and a half’s paid vacation. And he was going to spend those days well. He’d already make arrangements to jaunt down to South Africa for a bit of an excursion. A few days in the bush would make all the difference in the world. Perhaps he’d finally use that elephant gun of his for its proper purpose.
At the moment, he wanted to use it here.
The traffic that had bloomed across the city was beginning to get to him. He had no problem sitting still in one place for hours and hours, but not when he had engagements that didn’t involve killing things. Patience was a virtue, but punctuality was more practical. He wasn’t in the most generous frame of mind at this point.
He’d been obliged to reach up and rip a sprig of mistletoe off of the casing of his door and crush it in his hand. Poisonous plants? Oh, don’t tempt him.
The children, while not openly disobedient, were beginning to embrace that strange, sullen rebellion that came in the last few weeks before a holiday break. Giving them Thanksgiving off was a terrible idea, as far as he was concerned--it whetted the little runts’ appetites and they started to get an idea of their imminent freedom. Their inattention was tedious to him.
There was a holiday ‘party’ in the teacher’s lounge at the end of the school day. The superintendent of schools would be there, and the way Headmistress Maleficent had announced the news made it abundantly clear that anyone who failed to attend would be spending their holiday trying to fit their organs back into their bodies. He was not looking forward to it.
On top of this, final exams, calls from parents, obnoxiously cheerful strangers, and constant. Inane. Christmas carols. Everywhere.
He hated this season with a burning, seething passion.
During lunch hour, he bumped into Scar, and one look at the man’s face made it clear that the feeling was mutual. Shere Khan thought about that for an instant. Thank goodness for small mercies. He didn’t have to endure his family’s presence, and while she’d been alive, he’d loved his family.
The business teacher had made a quick gesture and turned back towards the way he’d come. They fell into step together, all the way down the hall and into the janitor’s closet.
Locking the door behind them, Shere Khan blinked against the bare fluorescent bulb and pawed at Scar’s clothes, sliding his hands under the other man’s jacket. Thank God, something to take the edge off.
Scar pushed him against the door, grinding against his leg. “I had to buy a toy,” he hissed, teeth gritted and jaw clenching. Shere Khan couldn’t help but chuckle, leaning down to give Scar a rough, toothy kiss.
“Something prickly and toxic to ingest, I hope.”
Scar bit his neck. “A clown doll. The ugliest one I could find. At least the little tyke will have nightmares.”
“Uncle of the year,” he mumbled, grabbing the smaller man’s hips and holding him against his body. Anger and hatred could be such an aphrodisiac, especially when all the world around them was softness and light and hope. It was good to know that there were sharp teeth in the dark and complete and unhypocritical contempt for humanity somewhere in the world.
He was such a charming man.
“You’re a killer,” Scar said conversationally, at last addressing that little semi-secret fact. “How much for a father-son combination platter?”
“Market price,” Shere Khan replied, growling as Scar hastily undid the buttons of his jacket and shirt, leaving a line of hot, hungry bites down his neck and chest. “For you, I might consider a discount. Buy one, get one half off.”
“You might make me a repeat customer,” Scar murmured, growling softly as Shere Khan cut to the chase and shoved his hand down the other man’s dark trousers.
“That fits the trend,” Shere Khan purred, thinking affectionately of the few times they’d visited this closet before. He undid his own flies with one hand, smiling as Scar returned the favor. He imagined that they weren’t going to get particularly far this time--he’d not at all prepared for this kind of thing, pleasant surprise that it was.
Scar reached up and tugged on the dangling string that controlled the light. Plunged into darkness, Shere Khan operated by touch as he pulled himself out and groped along Scar’s legs, feeling for bare skin and mapping out the man’s body by feel. Scar fitted their pelvises together, pushing Shere Khan between his legs and clenching his thighs around him.
He growled softly, biting at Scar’s shoulder. The press of the muscles couldn’t be compared to anything else, really, but it was tight and slick and the man’s blood ran hot, and even in the dark, he could feel how thin and tense and razor sharp he was, fingers clenching on Shere Khan’s shoulders and tearing red lines in their wake as he dragged them down his chest. Scar bit his mouth, softening it into a hard kiss as they nudged and rocked together, the smaller man’s hard heat pressed against Shere Khan’s bare belly. He wanted to shove Scar against the far wall and take control, but he knew that there was no surer way to end this. If he tried to use Scar in a way he didn’t initiate, one of them would have to die. And this was too lovely to waste.
Honestly, he didn’t mind favoring the other man’s delicate ego. Scar had his little complexes, didn’t we all, and it wasn’t much of a hassle to accommodate his overwhelming insecurity. If he wanted a rough roll with a willing--or slightly unwilling--submissive fellow, he could find that with no cost to his comfy little arrangement.
Scar panted hot, moist breaths against his skin, biting and tearing at him, body growing more and more rigid as they moved. Shere Khan returned the favor, fisting his hand in man’s long, dark hair and tugging a little, just enough to get a hard buck and a little sigh from his companion.
“Knew I could count on you,” Scar muttered. Shere Khan couldn’t tell if that was romantic, insulting, or some strange combination of the two that he didn’t want to spend too terribly much time thinking about. Thinking often led to feeling, and nothing could make a lovely situation awkward like feeling.
“A pleasure to be of service,” Shere Khan growled, taking a forceful kiss and gripping Scar by his head and hip, thrusting heavily between the man’s thighs. Scar had been hard as soon as the door closed, running hot with hate-fueled energy, and now he was reaching his limits, desperate to satisfy himself.
Shere Khan sympathized. He decided to offer something similarly romantic. Maybe it’d get him off. “Perhaps I’ll shoot your brother through the eye and through the back of his skull,” he murmured, purring into the other man’s ear. Scar went entirely rigid. “Your nephew through the chest. Imagine it. The sound of the gun, the splintering bone...the mist of red and the splatter of blood on the concrete sidewalk...liquified brains, half of his head simply gone, as he sinks lifeless to the ground and lies there as a rotting pile of meat...and your little nephew crying, and then the second shot...the gurgling last breaths...” he hissed, kissing down Scar's jaw.
Scar growled desperately and bit his shoulder, hard, thrusting his hips against Shere Khan’s no-doubt bruising pelvis. Hot, sticky fluid splashed against his belly and he smirked, pleased by a job well down.
Scar surprised him a bit, pulling away. Shere Khan was about to become annoyed, when he felt hot hands on his thighs and a puff of breath against his prick. “Such a good dirty talker. Maybe I’ll do this for you while you blow them to smithereens.”
A deliciously warm mouth closed around him, and Scar very graciously let him hold him in place by his hair and fuck his throat. He had a feeling that Scar liked doing this more than he let on--he wouldn’t put it past the dear, sick little man to like the idea that a millimeter’s lowering of his teeth had the power to make a man scream in agony or ecstasy.
As a consequence, he was very good at it.
Scar swallowed twice and cleared his throat delicately, standing up. They panted together quietly, each redressing and composing themselves in the dark. They leaned together for one last kiss, a little parting flick of something obscene in the dark. Shere Khan wished for a cigar, and wished harder for the end of the week and the smell of jungle dirt beneath his shoes, and decided, reluctant and blinking in the fluorescent light, that this was the best he could do for now.
They left the closet--how apt--and wandered down the hallway together, each ostensibly off to teach the brats more important material their tiny brains couldn’t handle.
“Plans for the break?” Scar asked, casual.
“Actually, I am taking a vacation,” Shere Khan replied. “South Africa.” He tucked a smirk back in the far corner of his mouth. “Fancy joining me?”
“Hmm,” Scar said, tilting his head in just the right way to lightly imply that he’d rather pierce his eyes out with hot, rusty railroad spikes. “How kind. I regret that I must decline.”
Shere Khan was hard pressed not to grin outright at the image of this prim, fastidious, effeminate man in the bush. Italian suits and jungle conditions do not mix. “Perhaps I’ll bring you back a pelt.”
“All I want for Christmas is a skin,” Scar drawled. “I suppose I’ll see you at the meeting.”
“À bientôt,” Shere Khan murmured, and they parted ways.