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obeymeluv · 3 years

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Demon Baby Headcanons: A Reference for “The Baby Assignment” Project

It made more sense to post my headcanons as a single thing since I’ll be working on “The Baby Assignment” headcanons in between the “Quick! Kiss Me!” miniseries.

These will be hinted at throughout “The Baby Assignment” pieces and I just wanted to put them all together. Keep in mind these are demon baby headcanons. I don’t really have any idea about angel baby headcanons since I’m card locked in chapter 21 :/

I think I got them all. I can’t really think right now.

Warning for one headcanon about human eating (obviously discouraged in the Devildom). I wanted to put in a section about how the Devildom handles bad parents (hint: logic first, then with justice) but I wasn’t vibing with it. Didn’t do it. No worries.

Demon children are usually born small but develop quickly until they stagnate around “teenage” years. Most babies (ironically) weight at least 6 pounds. It’s VERY rare to get a smaller baby and they must be taken care of EXTREMELY well

Their eyes will open within an hour or two of delivery and will be their lifelong color

Because they’re typically raised in the darkness of the Devildom and learn to flourish in the shadows, demon babies really struggle with exposure to light. It hurts their eyes and makes them cry. They should be shielded from light until they’re about a year old or show increased tolerance. Unless they need glasses or have a birth defect, most children appear to tolerate light with no problem between 4-6 years old.

Hybrid children are an exception (and hard to record for the census given how many subspecies of demon there are and all the magical co-mingling), but full-born demon children typically nest and seek out sources of heat to stay warm until they’re able to walk, talk, and do more for themselves. They tend to attach to the warmer parent.

Devildom childcare advocates recommend swaddling the child in parents’ clothes or clothes of relatives because it keeps them warm and orients their brain to who the main family members are. Pyjamas are a suitable exception but parents and close family should make an effort to show the child their scent

Demon children latch, and not just on their milk-producing parent. Within the first month of life the tiniest baby talons come out and allows the child to latch onto the clothes/skin of their caretakers. Full demon children latch and can maintain their grip/fully support themself in moments of stress, aggravation, fear, and in moments of cuddling. It is still recommended to support the child with an arm because they will get tired. Half-demon children should be supplemented with an arm or carrying device until the full extent of their latching ability is determined

Latching is also critical to scent development. It is an instinct of the child to tuck itself into or around those that will protect them. Unless absolutely sure of their safety, they tend to latch onto the stronger parent. When they feel safe, they usually latch to the other parent or try to make a nest with both

For babies who latch or show interest in latching, being semi-naked or completely naked is recommended. Their parents’ scent is stronger and seems to be preferred this way.

Devildom children don’t really crawl. The best way it can be described is “skitter”. You’ll hear their little claws go. Most parent describe their children moving in a lupine manner, on all fours. they like to stay low to the ground and move faster than human children.

There have been reports of children climbing up cabinets, walls, and onto structures like chandeliers and fans. This is part of their hunting instinct and preps their claws for the different things they will encounter/handle as an adult.

Most demon children develop their “Devildom” vocal chords first and will define parents/family by individual growls/shrieks. If other languages are not encouraged in the household, it is not unusual for a child to stay in this stage until two or three. They typically gain muscle control/development to speak real words by they end of their first year

Devildom babies aren’t as tactile as human babies but will definitely show preferences. It’s a lot easier to figure out what a Devildom baby hates. They’ll be quick to show you.

Devildom babies purr to show contentment and can start purring within 1-2 months of birth. This is one of the first signs of affection.

Other signs of affection include petting the parent or trying to get them in a state of skin-to-skin contact (see latching, above), snuggling, headbutting, showing nesting behaviors, and gently teething on them.

Full-blooded demon children can expect to cut fangs starting at the end of the first year. They will get their first full set of fangs near age two. For children who can only inherit one set of teeth, these fangs will be with them for life. They will naturally harden and lengthen to a full adult set as the body grows.

Mixed demon children are special cases where fangs are concerned because some species have extra sets of fangs, defense mechanisms where they lose and regrow teeth, and other things of that nature. For most species, teeth are seen in the first year of life.

Fangs typically look pointy and shark-like until they get a little older (somewhere between 3-6, it varies amongst children) and the teeth start to differentiate themselves in a “human-like” smile.

Children with fangs should have a greater variety in their diet for the sake of tooth shaping and development. Fangs need to be kept sharp. They can have slightly tougher food or snacks, and may display the “kill shake” when eating. This is normal. Supplement with teething toys as needed, but keep a close eye on them. It’s best to engage them a little like a tug of war to help develop the biting instinct and lengthening of the teeth.

Tails, like fangs, do not have set rules for growth or appearance. Some children of purer lineages get them as early as 3, and some get them as they move into the teenage years. There is no set age for tail development. If the child itches their back/bottom a lot, tends to streak, and shows general aggravation or discomfort, it’s best to take them to a health specialist to see if they’re developing a tail.

It is a similar scenario for wings. The child may cry or scratch a lot. Be prepared for biting and wrestling your children into shirts. Back rubs, cold creams, and soft textures are recommended. Though VERY RARE, some children can develop their wings within the first year of life. It is more normal to see them sprout between the ages of 3-5

Should the child develop wings young, they will take on a life of their own. They will twitch and flap at random times and this is normal. This is the child’s brain working wing movement into the subconscious, just as it would breathing. Devildom children who have wings go on to move them reflexively and this is how that starts.

Keep an eye on your child. They will try to hover and may be able to pull their body weight and travel short distances (about 30 seconds) within the first year of having them. Within two or three years they will have better altitude and some sense of guiding with a bit of a struggle. Prepare to be dive-bombed “accidentally” and for things to be broken in bad landings

There have been reports of full-blooded and half-blooded Devildom children gaining night vision. You can determine if your child has this by whether their eyes grow in the dark. Remember the rule of thumb: the older the demon lineage, the brighter their eyes. If obtained, this stays with them for life. The degree of clarity varies amongst children.

Children may develop horns. All horns start out as tiny velvet nubs once they break the surface of the scalp. Prior to breaking the surface, the child may scratch at their scalp excessively, rub their heads on things, or headbutt tougher surfaces to counteract the pressure and itchiness they feel. Scratching their head or brushing their hair may help but nothing can be done until the horns breach. If the horns do not breach, take them to a healthcare facility. They may need help.

Horns should be watched closely as they start to take shape. Some shapes need to be regularly broken or shaved to prevent the child from harming themselves

Children are driven to develop their horns and may try to shave off the velvet lining by rubbing against family members or hard surfaces. This is normal.

It is not uncommon for children to try to “lock horns” with each other when younger. This is another way to shave off the lining. Some studies indicate that this type of play may make them develop faster. If one of the parents have horns, it is encouraged to do this with great care

Although not scientifically proven, the vast majority of Devildom parents swear by rubbing horns to soothe tantrums and put children to sleep. Seems to work. Interestingly, this trait carries on to later stages of life but brings a greater variety of reactions.

It is not uncommon to see growth spurts and great deals of change between the first 7-13 years of life (7-13 by human standards). After this, the demon will stagnate. Their rate of development can vary but demons live for thousands of years so it takes a very long time for signs of aging to occur

Old records suggest that feasting on human souls or the blood of other magical creatures may accelerate this process but these records cannot be confirmed.

Certain activities, such as participating in a pact, are prohibited until the child is 1,800 or older. Their magical capacity is not there and they cannot legally be bound in a pact. If a sorcerer or sorceress is pushing for a pact or you believe a pact has been made in bad faith, a grievance can be filed with the magical review board. If the other party is found guilty, a piece of them may be taken for consumption for the sake of “fairness”. Repeat offenders will be handled by Lord Diavolo (and are usually eaten. This has been “tentatively” amended due to the effort to unite the three realms)

Children who come from very powerful lineages (for example: one of the Seven Lords) may exhibit that key sin trait from a very early age. Some children will be hungrier than others, some will want more attention than others, some will be far stronger and may accidentally break things. Be prepared and parent accordingly.

Those born to succubus/incubi/naga lineages may show signs of charming or hypnotism from the age of two or when they can form sentences. If a member of your family has a natural susceptibility to this, brush up on negating spells and personal reinforcement charms.

#Obey Me!#obey me! x reader

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meowdymista · 3 years

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For my first RDR2 event, I was paired with @sunspott / @polybigbang. Their art was for a playlist on spotify called Going’s All We Know, and I’ve tried to incorporate the mood of the playlist into my first impression of the art.

You can read my submission on AO3 or follow through with the read more :)

Still No Rest

Feet are itching again, plus it ain't like we can stick around much longer. Going is all we know, even if we ain't got nowhere else left.

Things had been too steady of late. They had been too safe, had slipped away far too easily, had pulled moneybags out of places that should have fought back but hadn't even batted an eye.

Arthur pushes back his hair, greasy and long, off his brow. The clouds above are smoky and dark - a storm, just as anticipated.

Maybe he jumped a little too far too fast today. Maybe if he hadn't been so on edge waiting for something to go wrong, they could have deescalated the situation. Maybe lives could have been spared, but it’s not like the guilt isn’t scratching the ridges of his brain like a dusty gramophone needle.

What makes you any different? You who's always scraping for a scrap of some sort. Them trying to do the right thing and crossing your path to do it. Better you than them, right? Like Daddy always said, if they didn’t want to die they should mind their own business.

A new start: isn't that what they had promised themselves? A new state, a new town, a new camp: a clean slate that he had managed to bloody in a record three days.

Every bullet that screamed past his ear left his bones ringing with that too familiar dull tired ache. Every blade that snagged his clothes instead of his skin embittered him. The tiniest of voices hummed with the thought that maybe, maybe, he should fight that craving for carelessness and even tell someone about it… but the beast he’s become scowls and reminds him with a low growl that then they would stop him. They would take him off the front line, teach the gangly adolescent John - who is a far worse shot - to replace him.

It's not even jealousy really, he reasons as he slips his journal away and stretches into a stand. They need him. Need his gun, his eye, his blade. Worrying them isn’t an option, especially right now. He doesn’t need to make them doubt his reliability, or question whether they’ve misplaced their trust. He knew in his heart that if anyone in the gang confessed the same, he would refuse their gun, even if he needed it - and afterwards? In the weeks, months, years to come? He would always pick someone else. Someone less vulnerable. Someone he never doubted or needed to protect.

Which is how he ended up going out with the feller Dutch had picked up when they were up North. He’s had a few too many close shaves under Hosea’s watchful eye of late as he struggled to conceal the beast's rearing head. The old man was onto him, his brown eyes still boring into him, even after Copper found his way to him.

Bill, on the other hand, is always game for a ruckus. He has as much of a temper as he does, and can match him drink for drink. Some of the stories he lets slip prickle him - like the beast recognising a party equal, a fellow host. He says nothing. Doesn't validate them, doesn't acknowledge them or aim to empathise, he just accepts the added weight of tar and grudges home with another bottle.

“Arthur?”

"M'tired," grunts Arthur, walking past Hosea, boots scuffing the dry red earth beneath them. “Besides, you know how it is. Sometimes bullets fly no matter what you do.”

Hosea doesn’t dignify his excuse with a response, and despite the poker face, Arthur can feel the guilt twist a little tighter in his gut as he sets about washing his arms and face in the barrel by the food reserves. He knows nothing good would come from trying to explain the truth of the situation... How a glimpse of a little boy in his peripherals is as sure a sign of upcoming thunder as lightning flashing in the distance. His not-brown-not-blond tussle of hair brushing the wind with fat drops of rain… rain that never came, leaving Arthur to water the ground with blood, like somehow it could make him feel less like he’s drowning in the driest desert outside of New Mexico.

He pats his pockets for the cigarette he had rolled earlier, until, retracing his steps mentally, he sighs in disappointment. He had been about to light it when it all kicked off. Or rather… it had been in his mouth whilst he tried to align yet another match to the tobacco when he had caught the eye of another patron and decided to swap the nicotine for some adrenaline.

His fondness for Bill always grew at moments like this. Bastard heard one cross word and his guns were out before he found his balance.

Deflated, he uncaps a beer instead, emptying it, tossing it aside and grabbing another, before spotting the girl devouring a bowl of stew a stone's throw away.

"Who's she?" he asks before Hosea can try to raise the day’s events.

"Your new ward."

Arthur stops, scoffing, growing angry when the elder doesn’t back down. "Nuh uh! No way! I just got rid of Johnny! Get Williamson to do it!"

"You'd trust him with her?"

"Sure! Why not?" He glances back at the girl despite himself. His index finger is itching again. "Or get Marston on it. Ain't like he's doing much else."

"John is still learning how to take care of himself, and Bill…"

"He ain't gonna beat up a little girl." Restless, his feet shuffle beneath him, his beer swapping hands before touching his lips again. "And ain't like he's gonna have interest in her."

"You think he wouldn't do it just to prove a point?" Their eyes meet briefly before Arthur's gaze drops. "People who are insecure are far more dangerous than those comfortable in themselves, never forget that Arthur. Besides, I'd rather not expose her to the prejudices she can get any day of the week. She ought to feel safe here, don't you think?"

He finishes the dregs and tosses the bottle, preferring to change the subject than admit he’s right. "Where’d she come from? She got any family?"

"She left her cousin back east. Came this way looking for her mother but she’d passed meanwhile."

"So… what’s the plan? We taking her back east?"

"Sure as shit you ain't!"

The girl has stepped around the table, legs planted apart, hands folded across her flat chest, her hair as free and untamed as her temperament. She is glaring something fierce, making the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end in a fight or flight instinct.

Hosea chuckles softly, eyes bright with pride. "I reckon she's one of us now."

"Well, does she have a name?" asks Arthur, incredulous.

"Jackson." She jerks her heart shaped face in a defensive greeting. "My name is Tilly Jackson."

"Well, Miss Tilly Jackson, you always so fierce?" He stalks the couple of steps to the nearest crate of whiskey and pulls one free.

"You always this stupid?"

"Hey now, Miss Jackson," interrupts Hosea before Arthur can bark. "We don't talk to each other like that here."

"He started it!"

"And you’re sitting with Mrs Matthews when you’re done so she can keep an eye on you!” He ushers her towards Bessie to keep her out of harm's way before turning back to his first product of adoption with a raised brow.

"You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

"Try coming back just half soaked some time. Might make them go easier on you."

Arthur scoffs, his rebuttal dying in his throat. He dampens the ash with another swig.

"I want you to take her with you when you go out."

His scoff is solid. "No way."

Hosea straightens up, watching him, using his body language to ask the questions.

"I ain't taking her out. You want her shot?"

"You intend to shoot her?"

"No, course not-"

"Then what's the problem?"

Arthur's eyes roll in exasperation, his finger flexing around the neck of the bottle like it's a button that will win the argument if he squeezes tight enough. "The problem is other people shooting at us."

"You intend to get shot at?"

"No, but-"

"Then I see no problem."

"That don't mean we ain't gonna get shot at!"

"Why would you get shot at?"

'Cause that's what I set out to do most days, he wants to counter. And if I ain't likely to get shot, I'm likely in jail or black out drunk in a saloon someplace.

Instead he closes his mouth, any excuse dead before it passes his lips.

"I'm not asking you to take her with you to rob a bank, Arthur." Hosea's tone is firm but still soft - a talent of his. "But while you're out looking for leads, or even looting a homestead or something… She's nifty."

"Hosea, I-" He trails off, distracted by the clip of notes Hosea is picking through, and downright thrown when he passes him the thinned out clip. "What's this for? I gettin' paid to be a nanny now?"

“This-” Hosea holds up a couple of notes before putting them in his pocket. “-is for arguing with me. This is for the box, as it seems you’ve forgotten to pay the camp's share, and this-" He casually holds out the last few dollars to the side like he’s ashing a cigarette. A small brown hand slips it away as both Hosea and little Miss Tilly regard him smugly. "Is for a mark well scammed."

"You mean-?" He checks his pockets, ears growing hot. "You son of a-"

“Ah-ah! Language!” Dutch swaggers up with a smirk like he has been watching the introduction unfold in its entirety. “C’mon, Arthur, you have to give it to her. She’s talented!”

“Might finally have picked up a smart one, eh, Dutch?” winks Hosea. Arthur scowls and turns on his heel, leaving them laughing and praising their newest addition.

****

Arthur remains cool and calm the next few days, hunting local and sticking close to camp. Every time he approaches his horse, the little girl is waiting, watching him with her fierce brown eyes.

"Where we goin', Mr Arthur?" She asks as soon as he's within earshot. "Do I need anything bringing?"

Every time he offers to pay double what Hosea has offered her, and every time she refuses to discuss the terms of their negotiation. Every time he curses everything under his breath, keeping his language savoury for the child nearby. Every time he scowls, and every time he gives her a grunt of "naw, we ain't going far" before mounting up and lifting her onto the rear.

"I can ride myself, ya know?" She shoots one morning as Arthur leads his stead into a trot away from camp, heading towards the softer, greener terrain that’s barely visible on the horizon. "Properly. Not side saddle."

"Good for you."

"If I had a horse I would show you."

"And run off with the money we got, huh."

She bristles. "I ain't no snitch."

"Sounds like somethin' a snitch would say." He pops the cork from a half full bottle of rum and takes a swig. Replacing the bottle, he notices her scrunching her nose in disdain. “Got a problem? I can take you back to camp.”

“You sure don’t drink much water,” she comments drily. “You ain’t worried ‘bout heatstroke out here?”

“Liquor’s hydrating,” he scowls, pushing the horse into a canter.

“Pretty sure it ain’t, but you do you. Besides, I got dibs on your things. We all gotta start somewhere, right?”

Arthur snorts angrily, adrenaline prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. “You sure as hell do not, princess. I ain’t going nowhere!”

Miss Jackson hums sarcastically. “Sure you ain’t. You don’t eat, don’t drink anything under forty proof, don’t talk to no one-”

“If you don’t like it, I can drop you right here!”

“Go ahead.” Her tone is defiant, but it doesn’t escape his notice that she grips his sides a little tighter. “Mr Matthews was pretty explicit about what he’d do to you if you tried.”

He stews the next mile or more, not speaking up until he finally dismounts for a break at the change of terrain.

Wide open spaces always helped to ground him, even though it could make vanishing into thin air difficult. To some extent, it forced him to not be so careless. In others, it made it easier to kid himself that he had never crossed the threshold into civilisation, let alone crossed a kind faced waitress.

Listening out for creeping cougars and restless rattlesnakes, he crouches down by the water’s side and splashes his face, washing off the worst of the sweat and dust that’s caked itself into every pore available. The girl makes no move to dismount, so he takes it upon himself to refill her canteen as a gesture of goodwill.

“You don’t got to stick to us, you know.” She turns her big brown eyes from the sky onto Arthur’s face. He shuffles his feet awkwardly, focusing his attention on brushing out the biggest clumps of dust from the horse’s mane before they continue. “If you need me to take you somewhere-”

“And what’s a girl to do then? Hit the road with a couple dollars?” She fixes him with a look that is too old for her face. “Naw, I think I’ll stay with youse a little longer.”

“That’s alright, but we’re gonna have to be moving on real soon.” He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to ignore the unspoken reminder that it’s because of him and his actions. “It ain’t like we can promise to be back up this way any time in the near future. If you change your mind-”

“I won’t change my mind about them, Mr Morgan.” She shivers in a breeze that only seems to touch her. “No, sir. They had me bound real good for real long, but I don’t need ‘em. I won my freedom, Mr Morgan, an’ I ain’t going back.”

He risks a glance, curiosity getting the better of him. Her eyes are sparkling as bright as the water's surface, but her jaw is clenched tight. He debates riding further, doing what he can to get them set up at the fishing spot Hosea had heard about as they moved through the state to their current set up, but the child looked too old. Too tired. Too existentially exhausted.

Plus, when you get low enough, it's like some things will follow wherever you go.

“Let’s stop here a while.”

As predicted, Miss Jackson double takes. “Don’t you want to get to where we’re headed?”

Arthur shrugs. “Ain’t like there ain’t food to be foraged here. Nothing to come raising any hell or bother us into raising it for them. Reckon this spot’s as good as any.”

He turns his back to her as she dismounts warily, focusing his energy on starting a small campfire they can add to.

"I ain't goin' anywhere if you wanna swim." He grimaces as his words come out gruffer than intended. "I got clean clothes in the saddle bags here if you want 'em for the trip back or to swim in even. Can't imagine that skirt is the lightest when it gets wet."

"You ain't wrong, Mr Arthur, sir. Thank you for the offer but I think I'm just gonna stick to paddling for now."

"Sure."

It's not his first choice. This land is a little too dry for his liking, but that's what comes with being so close to the desert. Money means nothing to nature, besides she provides everything and more than what shops and butchers supply. Who needs civilisation when there's the wilds to retreat into? When there is wild carrots and rhubarb aplenty, fresh meat, shelter, all for the low cost of taking what you need as you need it?

The fire started, he sets out to look for fuel and food. Crouching down to check dung and disturbances in the foliage, he finds the damage is minimal. He swears again, taking a swig of whiskey from his satchel.

He doesn't really remember a time he didn't drink, but he knows this is different. He knows this isn't a choice on his behalf. The demon demands fuel as a child demands milk, and like the fool he is, he provides without much hesitation. Anything for a glimmer of peace from the screaming child in his mind.

He scoffs at himself and straightens up, looking around on the off chance some animal is dumb enough to be caught out in the open - and as luck would have it, a pronghorn buck is grazing a stones throw away.

He inhales deeply, taking aim with newfound focus, and fires.

The pronghorn bolts, but it's no contest for the bullet soaring his way. A mournful cry bleats through the undergrowth as it flees. He follows, as loud as he likes given the rip of the shot would have blasted a warning to anything within earshot. Breaking through a wall of cacti, he spots Miss Tilly aghast in the shallows as the buck splashes into the lake he had washed up in on their arrival.

He keeps going, realising the buck is heading for a wet escape. Shedding his guns as he runs, he wades in after it, shouting.

The buck is swimming in deep water, leaving behind a trail of blood behind with every baleful bleat, leaving Arthur with no option besides taking a spur of the moment swim or going home with an empty stomach.

"C'mere!" he cries, breaking into breaststroke. The buck is slowing, every cry growing more lamenting and mournful. "Stop! I can make it stop, just come a little closer."

It's crying weakly by the time he manages to reach it. He throws an arm over its neck and fumbles for his hunting knife, but the blood proves too thick and one small fumble sends it disappearing into the depths.

"C'mon," he grunts, tugging the wounded animal with him as he kicks his way towards shore. "You ain't gonna get any lighter."

He struggles towards shore, gasping assurances every chance he gets. When his boots finally scrape the bottom, he whistles for his mount with the last of the air in his lungs.

He finally releases the animal, using both hands to search for a knife or a pistol - something to end its suffering quickly. Drowning the thing felt too callous, too slow, too-

"Will this be enough?"

Arthur, still gasping for breath, hair dripping into his blue eyes, pauses, surprised. A small hand is proferring a flip knife, her small face reflecting the distress of his own. Recovering, he nods quickly, thanking her as he takes the tool from her and advising her to look away and cover her ears. Obeying doesn’t lessen the heart wrenching last cry of the animal, but on opening her eyes again, she decides it is less painful than watching the poor thing struggle as it drowned.

Arthur is holding the animal, counting, as though held to some strange code to make sure it is dead before removing the tool of choice. He shakes the knife under the surface and folds it up, passing it back to her with a grunt of thanks. She takes it, still in shock at the unexpected show of violence.

He pushes the carcass out of the water, promising to be back soon before swimming back to where he caught the animal. Watching his head disappear under the surface, she is left with the silence of the cooling body nearby. It looks strangely peaceful staring off into the east.

Arthur swims back, pushing back the sodden mop of brown hair as he wades out with sopping boots and a shiny carving knife he must have dropped earlier. He advises her to leave him to it if she’s squeamish, and she refuses up until the animals guts plume onto the sand.

From a distance, she watches him carry them away from their makeshift camp, covering them up with some leaves and branches to disguise the worse of the mess but leave it readily available to the creatures due a feast. Returning to the body, he begins to carve with care, piling steaks onto canvas. He wastes as little as possible, even wrapping the exposed neck of the head in canvas before tying it onto the horse. He turns to the water, notices her watching and walks over.

“Reckon we’re almost done here,” he calls as he gets close enough. “Just gonna wash up and we can get going.”

“You always butcher your kill before going back?” she asks.

He huffs, a twinkle in his eye. “Sure, when I don’t plan on walking back. Figured you’d rather hitch a ride than straddle a dead deer.”

She shudders, making him laugh as he kicks off his boots and setting them aside to dry from earlier. He doesn’t remove his clothes, just pulls a bar of soap from the saddlebags and asks if she minds if he doesn’t dry off. She herself finally admits internally that she feels grubby. She had washed and washed and washed, and eventually came to accept the grime was not going to wash off her. Too much dirt, too ingrained, too repeated to ever shed properly…

She follows him, still keeping her distance. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything, just keeps scrubbing suds under his nails, over his forearms, into every fibre of his shirt. When she finally feels brave enough to speak up, she takes a deep breath, and on a whim decides to splash him.

He turns around, frowning, before picking up on the giggles and grinning himself. His arms are stronger, thicker, longer - the retaliation engulfs her with a responding tidal wave that leaves her gasping for air. In the small glimpse she makes of him, she notes the guilt and the apology on his lips as he believes himself having gone too far, but she’s too quick. She pushes him in the chest and tries to swim away as quick as she can, squealing the whole way.

Their laughter disturbs the birds in the branches, and they take flight, not that either of them notice. They play until the sun lowers to kiss the leaves around them. They share the bar of soap, and Tilly takes refuge in his disinterest. He lets her wash. She lets him wash. Both of them keep their distance when appropriate.

“Perhaps we oughta ride back in the morning,” Arthur muses when he notices how much she is shivering. "It's only gonna get colder, and at least we've got a fire going here."

“I don’t mind making the ride.”

He chuckles, eyes soft. “Miss Tilly. You’re dead on your feet, and sure as hell will be dead in the saddle. I can fall asleep just about anywhere if you’re alright with the tent and bedroll? Hell, it’d make a nice change to waking up to Susan and Dutch arguing, huh?”

“You ain’t wrong...” She is still hesitating. Arthur tried to shake the thought of what she must have been through and instead tells himself that it's standard practice to be wary of new folk. She could feel safe in camp because there were more people to keep tabs on one another. Out here, it was just him, her and the stars, and since when did the stars ever do anything to help?

“Listen. Choice is yours. I’ll ride through the night if that’s what you want, but I promise you’re safe with me.” He checks the barrel of his revolver, counting the six bullets nestled inside before snapping it in place and holding it out by the barrel. “Here. I can’t give you both in case we get jumped, but I’ll stow the long arms on Wyn if that makes it easier.”

She sits in silence for a long while before nodding slowly.

“Alright then. You get to eating your fill while I set you up for the night.”

*****

She wakes up, well rested and warm. She takes a few minutes to lay there, watching the shadows of the flies buzzing on the canvas above before finally crawling out in search of fresh air.

Owain is grazing not so far away, but Arthur is nowhere to be seen. His long arms are still stashed, the fire just ash now. Panic rises in her throat, torn between the fear of him being jumped and him abandoning her willingly.

She frets, pacing, checking their reserves. No, she has no clue where the hell he has taken her so she doesn’t know where to even start on trying to return to Mr Matthews and Mr Van der Linde. She curses him for being so spoilt as to be threatened by a little girl.

“Mornin’, Miss Jackson.” She flinches, immediately retreating from the greeting. Arthur is frowning under the brim of his hat as he dismounts the small bay coloured horse. “Everythin’ alright?”

“I thought you left me,” she admits, still choked up. He seems surprised, then bashful, trying to hide it by patting the neck of the horse he has with him.

“Naw. There was a herd moving through here early this morning and I remembered about you wantin’ a horse of your own.” He gives her an awkward nod. “Whaddaya reckon? She rides pretty nice. One of the smaller one, but she seems friendly enough. If you wanna keep her, I’ll set you up on mine until we can get this one broke in properly if tha’s alright?”

“Sure.”

“Awesome.” He begins to pack their things away, tacking Owain and bribing both steads with sugar cubes.

“We going hunting again?”

Arthur puts away the brush and pats his horse’s neck. “Naw. Today we’re headed to Greyhound Station.”

“Why?”

“Boring stuff. Check to see if anyone’s tried to write us. Check for bounties and that we ain’t most of ‘em. See if there’s any jobs goin’, keep an ear to the ground in case there’s money to be had. You know, standard outlaw stuff.”

“I ain’t ever been on a wanted poster yet,” she muses. “That I know of anyhow. Knowing the Foreman Brothers, they’ll be tryin’ to frame me for something.”

“The Foreman Brothers?”

“The… gang. The ones I was with when Dutch and Hosea found me.” Arthur hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t press it. It’s like he knows it’s a big bruise still there after months of riding with them. “They was wrestlin’ to hang me or bury me alive. Never did find out which since I managed to wriggle off the wagon without them noticin’. So much for family.”

“Y’all were related?”

“Yeah.” She spits off the side. “Good riddance to ‘em.”

He hums. “If anybody tries to pull that with you again, you lemme know. I’ll get ‘em before they blink.” He rummages in his saddle bag and pulls out a glass bottle of clear liquid. She frowns as he takes a greedy few gulps before offering it to her.

“I ain’t much a fan of the bottle, Arthur.”

He throws her a look of befuddlement over his shoulder before understanding befalls him. “It weren’t my first choice, Miss Jackson, but I’ve yet to learn how best to store water if not in a bottle of some kind.”

“Water?”

“Water,” he repeats with a shake of his head. “Whiskey’s the other side if you want some.”

“I’m good for now, Mr Morgan,” she smiles, raising the bottle to her lips, squinting at the sunburned strip that’s the back of his neck. “Maybe some other time.”

#rdr2 reverse big bang #rdr2 #rdrbigbang #rdrreversebang2021 #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fic #tilly jackson #arthur morgan #sunspott

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monst · 4 years

Note

Heyyyyy I honestly really just want some good old cuddles from literally anyone my brain has once again thrown itself down into a hole of sadness. If you're up to it could you write Kaminari giving a really blue s/o some yummy cuddles? If not that's chill. Have a good day and drink some water

Embrace

Kaminari Denki x Reader

Warnings: Cheese...Comfort fic..? Okay but real talk I feel like Kami would 100% grow up to be more emotionally intelligent and especially attentive towards his lover.

You never noticed the long scratch mark that ran up the length of the front door to your shared apartment. The light beige color was a stark contrast to the mahogany door. Your eyes bore into the wood until you felt the first drop slide down your warm cheek. Your bottom lip trembled at the feeling of the saline liquid trickling off your jaw.

It was then that your ears caught sound on the other side. A wavering smile turned your lips as you made out shouts of joy. Kaminari was home and, the backs of your hands came up to wipe away the evidence of your melancholy. The faux curve of your lips stabbed at your heart. You loathed the pretense of being okay. You had worn the mask throughout the entirety of the day, and you could feel it peeling and flaking away. The edges were fraying and dropping like the chipped numbers of your apartment door.

‘It’s his first day off in months’ You reminded yourself. You smoothed the cracks of your mask, swallowed the stone in your throat and prepared an excuse that would hopefully fool your lover. With the speed of an angsty teen coming home from a bad day at school you unlocked the door, kicked off your shoes and beelined it to your room…. Well that was the plan.

“I missed you.” Your felt your muscles lock when his arms wrapped around your frame. You let out a sharp exhale at the fright. “Sorry for scaring you.” He chuckled into your neck.

Your loose arms around his frame had a vermillion flag waving in his mind. He was willing to chalk it up to tiredness as your head rested against his chest. His eyebrows furrowed when he pulled back. Something itched at the back of his head and he was about to voice out the three worded question. But, as soon as he parted his lips a squeal slipped past them.

“Sero! Man, what the fuck! You scared the shit out of me!” He yelped. It had slipped his mind that the headset was still muffling his ears. You had made out something along the lines of ‘Next time mute yourself’ The honey eyed man pursed his lips as he looked towards the screen where his dead avatar laid. He shrugged off the mild annoyance and turned to you with a smile. “You up for a game?”

“No, I’m good. I’m really tired. So, I’m just gonna lie down for a bit.” You sighed. Kaminari noticed the way your voice dipped and pitched awkwardly.

“Headache?” He asked, his voice laced with concern.

“Hmm.” The sound was neither confirming nor denying. You didn’t like lying to the blonde. The both of you had been nothing but truthful and open with each other since the eve of your relationship. However, you had seen the way Kaminari’s body collapsed onto your shared mattress in exhaustion at ungodly hours last month. Hell, the dark purple hue of sleeplessness still stained the bottom flesh of his eyes.

To divert suspicion, you pressed your lips to his cheek a worn smile slipping onto your visage. Without another word you turned to the bedroom. Liquid gold hues followed your every movement. He may not have been considered the sharpest tool in the shed, but he knew something was up….

“Hey, Imma have to skip this match and all the other ones..” Kaminari smiled sheepishly as his friend’s protests rang in his ears. His eyes locked onto the closed door of the bedroom and he knew his mind wouldn’t be swayed. “We can all play together next time.” He hummed.

A frown touched his pale pink lips as he logged off and powered down. His brows furrowed in contemplation until he finally came to realization. His fingers carded through silky sunlight locks as he made his way to the room. The door to the bathroom was ajar but he waited till you were finished to confront you. In the meantime, he prepared.

Your skin resembled a prune when you had finally stepped out. The air around you was thick with smoke and it seemed as though your skin was simmering as steam lifted off the heated flesh. You had let the liquid from your eyes mix with the scalding water of the bath while you cleansed; making sure not to make noise as to not alert your lover. ‘He’s having fun… I’ll get over it’ You sighed at the thought.

You wanted nothing more than to have his strong arms around you. To feel the heat of his skin against yours. You hugged your body in an attempt to console yourself. Today had been a really crappy day… You stepped out of the bathroom and into the cool of the bedroom. Shivers racked your body as the cold gifted your skin with goosebumps. You quickly dried yourself thanking Kaminari when he handed you your favorite jammies. Wait…

“I thought you were playing that new game with your friends?” You questioned. Golden silk fluttered in the air as he shook his head. He opened his arms in a familiar gesture. His figure blurred as you blinked.

“C’mere” He whispered, the smile on his face was a cushion of adoration and you leapt towards the angel. Your body trembled in his embrace as you vocalized your anguish. His arms were wound tight around your frame, one hand holding you close while the other held the back of your head. Your fingers balled up the fabric of his shirt as you hiccupped.

Kaminari held you close allowing you to release pent up sadness. His own hues watered as he guided you towards the bed which harbored a plethora of extra blankets. The mattress dipped under your combined weight and you quickly curled into his chest allow the heat of his skin to seep into your pores. Once under the covers his hands slid up and down your back rhythmically until your sobs diminished to occasional whimpers. It was then that he broke the silence.

“Talk to me babe, What’s wrong?” He barely spoke above a whisper.

“T-today just really sucks.” You sniffled your fingers playing with the hem of his soiled shirt. “Y-You know one of t-those days.”

“Super-shitty-nothing-but-the-end-of-the-word-can-fix-it type.” He asked, your nod of reply drew a gasp from him. “That bad huh.” Another bob of your head.

Silence filled the room. But it was all you needed. You didn’t need words, you just needed him there, you just needed to feel someone who loved you close. You let your eyes slip close as you matched the slow breathing of the hero. The rise and fall of his chest was comforting. Kaminari drew lazy shapes on your arms as the both of you sat burrowed under copious amounts of blankets.

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled.

“What for?” He asked his voice dripping in confusion.

“Your game. Your friends, You guys have had this planned since last month.” You sighed.

You felt him shift the both of you. As soon as your bodies were laying down, he curled around you, entangling his long legs in between yours. His plush lips met the skin of your forehead and before you could voice out your how bad you felt for ‘ruining’ his night he spoke.

“It’s just a game.” He smiled. “One of thousands and well there’s only one you so I did the math. One thousand games or one (Name). To me it was easy to see which one had more value.”

Your face burned at the words, your heart stuttering in your chest. You made to cover your face when Denki caught your hand in his. His rose petal lips pressed against each digit. “Please don’t ever feel like you have to hide your feelings from me.” He mumbled.

“I know it’s just-

“Nope.” He pressed his finger to your lips. “As a hero, I see a lot of shit, I’m worked to the bone and sometimes I get random hate. And it most of the time it leaves me feeling crappy, and then I come home and you’re here. You hug me just like this, you ease my pain and help me carry my burdens, I’ll be damned if I can’t do the same for you.” His knuckles caressed the apple of your cheeks as he spoke, his honey eyes regarding you with such care that you could have cried once more. But you needed to give your puffy eyes a rest and the feeling of sorrow had long since bid you adieu. So, you smiled.

“Have I told you how much I love you?”

“You have.” He mused. “But have I told you that I love you more~”

#denki x reader #kaminari denki x reader #kaminari denki #kaminari fluff #bnha fluff #bnha x gn!reader #bnha x gender neutral reader

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cagestark · 5 years

Note

Prompt; ABO Starker getting together but Tony is the omega and Peter is the alpha. Peter is still head over heels, star struck, hero worship over Tony and calling him 'sir' and 'mr. Stark' and blushing wherever Tony gives him attention and praise. Maybe it all comes to a head when Tony goes into heat? Maybe Peter's first rut is triggered by Tony teasing him mercilessly? Bonus points for eager-to-please Peter

Darling anon, this isn’t really what you asked for. I’m so sorry. I hope this is at least acceptable, and if you are very upset, please come back into my inbox and I’ll rework this. For now. Take it!

Warnings: ABOverse. Alpha Peter, Omega Tony. Smut. 8.5k

Read here on AO3!

Peter is reaching with his fork for the last arancini when another fork intercepts. The metal on metal screeches as Peter’s fork is pinned to the plate just short of the last rice ball. Peter eyes the hand holding the fork—tanned, knuckles singed—and then follows it up the arm, bare, sprinkled with dark hair interrupted by the odd, pink scar. Before he even reaches the well-shaped facial hair, Peter is flushed, withdrawing his fork. Tony is wearing his glasses tonight, the lenses tinted a light blue.

“Put down the fork and nobody has to get hurt,” Tony says. He keeps his voice a low, conspiratorial rumble that can just barely be heard over the ruckus of general conversation from the rest of the Avengers around the table.

Slowly, Peter puts his fork down beside his half-eaten plate of osso buco, then lifts his hands to shoulder height, palms open. “My hands are where you can see them,” Peter says. He lets his voice tremble. “The rice ball is yours. But please don’t take the rest of the prosciutto. Have mercy.”

Tony spears the arancini and delivers it to his own plate for safe keeping, a bear hoarding food for the winter. “Bold of you to assume I’m capable of mercy, Peter Pan. And to add insult to injury—” Tony slips the last few slices of dry-cured ham bliss to take up cozy residence beside the rest of his food. Peter clutches at his heart, face twisted in pain.

“God, you two are like a two-man theatre troupe,” Natasha remarks over her third glass of wine. She’s just beginning to look flushed. Peter had asked for his own glass (“Come on, I’m eighteen, not eight!”) but to no avail. “Does that make seconds for you, Tony?”

“Thirds,” Bucky mutters. He hasn’t recovered from the spaghetti alla carbonara massacre of thirty minutes ago. If Peter didn’t know how well the ex-assassin got along with Tony, he might try to convince the older man to sleep with one eye open. Bucky certainly had the whole casually-planning-your-murder-over-trivial-offenses aesthetic going on. Peter wondered if that was something teachable—did they have a wikiHow article for that?

“It’s that time of the year,” Tony says. Despite how much he’s eaten, he still goes about the food on his plate in a methodical, prim manner: cutting it into bite-sized pieces, making sure no foods touch. “Jarvis tracks my eating habits and BMI, and he says both are on the upswing. I’ve got about two weeks left.”

“Two weeks until what?” Peter asks.

Tony gives him a bald and unashamed look. “Until my heat, kid.”

“Oh,” Peter says, hoping his face isn’t as red as it feels. He’s got permanent foot-in-mouth disease whenever he’s within twenty feet of the omega. Of course, Tony is talking about his heat. Why else would he be eating enough for three?

“I thought you took heat suppressants,” Natasha remarks. This kind of talk—heats, suppressants—it usually isn’t table conversation. Most omegas consider it the ultimate social faux paus. Maybe Tony does too, Peter wonders. Maybe spending so much time in the public eye has chipped away at the wall between what he wants to keep to himself and what he has to share with others.

“For the spring heat,” Tony agrees, a hand resting on his gently distended stomach. The sight of that tickles something in the back of Peter’s brain—something in there itches, but he can’t find it, can’t scratch it. “But at my age, the suppressants don’t synthesize with my biology as well. Doc told me it is actually safer for me to go through every other heat au naturale. Which makes for an interesting fall season. At least I can hide the extra weight with all those winter scarves the board keeps giving me for Christmas—”

“You look great,” Peter says. He tries hard not to openly wince. Everyone else at the table does their best to pretend they hadn’t heard him.

Tony’s smile is soft, maybe even a little flattered. He winks. “Thanks, Peter Pan. Nice to know someone around here still thinks I’ve got it.”

Oh, you’ve got it alright, Peter thinks helplessly. Probably couldn’t lose it even if you tried.

“Isn’t it dangerous to go through your heats without suppression?” Bruce asks.

“We’ve weighed the pros and cons. Calculated risks, Brucie, that’s the name of the game.”

“You know what all of this means?” Steve asks. Beside him, Bucky stiffens. The only other male omega—in the room and in the Avengers—he is not nearly as comfortable with his designation as Tony. Peter can hardly blame him when a part of him is still stuck in the 40’s when omegas were marketed as good for nothing but breeding and housewife fodder. With most heats coming twice a year, in the beginning and at the end, surely Bucky’s is approaching also— “Tiramisu is in order.”

Bucky relaxes. Tony perks up. Peter’s stomach grumbles—even after his own generous helpings.

“Cap, that’s the best idea you’ve had since—well—an hour ago, when you suggested Italian. All for tiramisu?”

A cluster of forks rise into the air.

“Jarvis?”

“Yes, sir?”

“The kid. He’s a beta, right?”

“He has not presented otherwise.”

“That’s not exactly an answer, is it?”

“…”

“J?”

“I believe he is a beta, sir.”

“Your confidence is downright stirring, J.”

“Always a pleasure to give, sir.”

“I mean, it’s not unheard of, right?” Peter asks. He is sandwiched between Ned and MJ on his bed in his room at the tower. It was just another benefit of joining the Avengers: a fancy new room on the Avengers’ floor, coffee with Captain America in the morning and eating peanut butter out of the jar with Natasha at night. The bed is huge—and okay, maybe he’s still just used to the twin he occupied at May’s, but it’s still nice to fit all of his friends on it at once to watch movies on the mounted television. “Relationships. Between betas and omegas.”

MJ gives a longsuffering sigh, one which makes Peter frown. Yeah, they’ve had this conversation a few (million) times before, but she could at least humor him, couldn’t she? “Stark is a male omega. They’re super fucking rare, Peter. Alphas literally kill over omegas. The competition for him even if he wasn’t Earth’s Greatest Defender and a fucking billionaire—it’s extensive. Why would he choose you when he could find a dozen beefy Captain-esque alphas to satisfy his biology?”

“Okay. But. It’s not impossible, right? That’s what I’m hearing. That it’s not impossible.”

“Mr. Stark would be lucky to have Peter,” Ned says. “I mean, yeah he’s not as buff as Captain America. Yeah he doesn’t have pheromones that attract Tony on, like, a biological level. And okay, he does snore. A lot. But—”

“Thanks, Ned,” Peter grumbles. “You make me sound like a real catch.”

“You are!” Ned insists. He actually takes his eyes off of A New Hope where Princess Leia is ghostly in blue, insisting that Obi-Wan Kenobi is her only hope. “You think any of those knotheads out there can keep up with Mr. Stark in the workshop? And look at my parents. They’re both omegas. It’s not all pheromones, it’s—it’s chemistry.”

A slow smile creeps over Peter’s face. Ned and MJ create the perfect balance of unending optimism and brutal realism. In their own ways, both are looking out for him, and he knows that they want the best for him. Even if what MJ says hurts. Even if what Ned says hurts too, just in a different, softer way. One gives him the seed of hope, and the other gives him the trellis that keeps him stuck in place, terrified to make a move.

It’s balance.

Things get strange for Peter in the weeks before Tony’s heat. He attributes it to the poor weather, and MJ helpfully says that Mercury is entering its retrograde, so apparently that explains how these days his temper is short when usually his fuse is long enough for two. Even the other Avengers seem to take notice of his volatile mood, giving him a wide berth.

The only person with whom things don’t change is Tony. Around the omega, Peter is his normal blushing mess, though he does try hard to go out of his way to make things easier for the man. In school he learned how stressful an omega’s heat is: a week to two weeks of mindlessness while their biology urges them to breed. It can be unbearable without heat suppressants—

—or without a partner. Does Tony have someone to weather the worst of his heat with? Other omegas to scent and comfort him? An alpha to knot him?

The glass Peter is holding shatters in his hand. Orange juice soaks him, stinging the cuts in his palm. Beside him, Sam shouts an oath, grabbing his plate of pancakes to keep them out of the line of citrus fire. The rest of the table is silent, a dozen pairs of eyes watching him. It makes Peter’s blood boil—why are they staring at him this way? He’s fucking superhuman. He broke dozens of glasses when he first gained his powers until he acclimated to his enhanced strength. Accidents happen.

“Hey, it’s fine,” Tony mutters from over his shoulder. Peter can’t smell it—as a beta, his nose is unsophisticated, unable to pick up pheromones—but he imagines that the man is scenting him, calm waves like the ocean dragging at the shore. A hand comes out, nudges Peter’s soaked plate (rest in peace, crepes) back, and the begins to carefully maneuver the largest shards of glass into his palm.

Peter grabs his wrist with the hand that isn’t dripping blood onto the table. “Do not touch the glass.”

It comes out much firmer than he intended it to, like there is someone else controlling his voice. He’s never heard himself sound like that before. It clearly has an effect on Tony who opens his hand, glass falling back to the table, wrist going lax and pliant in Peter’s grip.

“Hey,” Steve says. “It’s alright—”

“Mind your business,” Peter says through his teeth. There’s tension in the air, especially between him and Steve now, who is posturing at the end of the table, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Then it all comes in focus to him: he’s making a fucking scene, here. He is holding Tony’s wrist, commanding him, like Peter is some sort of alpha. He yelled at Captain America. It’s fresh. It’s disrespectful. His whole face goes red and he stands so abruptly that he nearly knocks over Tony who is behind him.

Then he turns and sprints from the room, leaving blood drops behind him like a breadcrumb trail. In his room, he goes into the adjoining bathroom and runs water over his aching palm. The cuts are trying to seal around the glass, but he doesn’t even feel the pain. Grasping the shards with his fingers is easy thanks to his enhanced grip. Someone knocks on his bedroom door, but Peter ignores it. After a while, the knocking stops.

Peter sulks for nearly thirty minutes before his manners outweigh his misery. The cuts on his palm are just raw looking scars now, but he knows they will disappear soon too. Taking a deep breath, he steels himself before leaving his room.

Breakfast is finished. The room is filled with the sound of plates being scraped clean and stacked beside the sink, chairs being pushed in at the table. Someone has cleaned up the glass and the orange juice—better not have been Tony, he could have cut himself, he could have gotten hurt—and Peter has to physically shake his head to shake those thoughts right out through his ears. What is wrong with him?

“Captain Rogers?” Peter says timidly. The man is closest—closer than Tony who is at the sink arguing with Clint about proper coffee ground disposal. Steve’s face is open and kind when he stops collecting half-filled glasses of milk and orange juice.

“Hey Peter. It’s still Steve, okay? It’s always Steve.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I wanted to say sorry for jumping down your throat earlier. I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Steve says. He’s so kind it hurts. “Everybody has days like that, me included. Apology accepted, okay?”

Peter smiles. “Thanks. Steve.”

It takes a while for him to get Tony alone, but Peter figures that he owes the man a more in-depth apology, one he’d rather give without the other eyes of the Avengers on them. Tony seems to know what Peter is getting at, taking his time wiping down the counter (even though there are people who do that for him) and lingering. Bucky is the last one left, watching Peter with muted, angry eyes. Protective. Tony brushes the super soldier off, waving him away.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says. His mouth is dry, his throat begs him to swallow but there’s no spit in his mouth. His knees are shaking. “I’m so sorry. For the glass, and for—for everything after. Nobody should treat you like that.”

“Don’t sweat it, kid,” Tony says. His smile is easy and charming, cheeks fuller than usual with the way he is putting on weight in anticipation of his heat. Sometimes when Peter blinks, he still sees how Tony looked after the un-Dusting, thin and tired and scared half-to-death. But this Tony is an entirely different man, and all the more handsome for it. This morning, he isn’t wearing his glasses, and his eyes are so sleepy-sated. He’s still in sweatpants, and the feet poking from beneath the pant legs are bare, fine boned. So fucking cute. “Is there something bothering you? Some of the others have came to me with concerns. You’re acting out. Teenage rebellion finally catching up with you? Gonna slam some doors, tell me you hate me, vandalize public property?”

“I could never hate you, Mr. Stark,” Peter says. He can’t say those words without his throat clenching, voice dropping. Tony’s chest expands in a deep silent breath and the look he gives Peter is—strange.

He claps Peter on the shoulder, a brief burning touch, and then is moving away. “Love that for me, kid. I’ll see you—around.”

He disappears. Peter finds himself sniffing the air, but there is nothing except the lingering scent of breakfast foods. What else he was expecting, he doesn’t know.

“J.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Get me some new biometrics on our Spider-Kid. Be subtle about it, too.”

“The human rights protocols that Ms. Potts demanded you install require me to inform you that performing any medical testing on an unaware subject is a direct violation of—”

“Yeah, yeah, skip reading me the riot act, J. I’m a bad, bad man. Get me those results ASAP, got it?”

“Performing them now, sir.”

Sundays are reserved for training, the only kind of worship most of the Avengers perform. At dawn, Peter is down in the gymnasium, wearing joggers and a clingy t-shirt. Today is supposed to be most perfunctory for him considering how hard he’s been pushing himself this week (harder than usual, maybe, he thinks, but it helps burn off some of the extra energy that has been blooming under his skin, making him itch). While the other Avengers practice hand-to-hand combat, he’ll probably be running on the treadmills.

Tony is there only for show, dressed in loungewear and drinking copious amounts of coffee. These days, he’s taking it with so much sugar and creamer that Peter can smell it on him even hours later, so sweet it makes his teeth ache. He’s only a week away from his heat, but the pheromones he’s producing make him more susceptible to physical attacks. Since these exercises are just for practice and not to hurt, he is sitting out.

“Hey, kid,” Tony mumbles, still sounding as tired as Peter feels. “You look dead on your feet. Coffee?”

He holds out his own mug. Peter hates coffee, but his body moves without consulting his higher faculties, reaching out to take the steaming cup. It actually doesn’t taste bad. Actually, it tastes pretty good—just how he imagines the inside of Tony’s mouth would taste, warm and so sweet and—

“Peter,” Tony asks. “What are you doing?”

Peter freezes—from where he is dragging his tongue along the rim of the cup, laving it over where Tony had his own mouth. His mouth goes dry, the taste of coffee turning sour in his mouth. He pulls the mug away from his mouth so quickly that he almost sloshes some out onto his trembling hands. Tony barely manages to grab the cup in time, looking much more alert (and frankly, a little alarmed).

“I—I have no idea. I’m sorry.”

“That’s—okay. It’s okay. It’s good stuff.”

Peter’s eyes go half lidded. “Yeah it is.”

Then (and Peter will never forget this, not as long as he lives. If he were in a terrible accident tomorrow that stole all of his memories, he’s sure that this one would still remain, burned in his brain), Tony puts the cup to his mouth and takes a long drink, mouth against where Peter’s tongue had trailed. All the blood in Peter’s body goes south. He feels electrocuted. A hand reaches out—his, that’s my hand, he thinks, though it’s so far away—and he presses his palm flat against Tony’s forehead, soft wisps of hair under his fingers, warm skin against his own. A shudder goes through him, and by the time he has dragged his wrist across Tony’s temple and down the side of his neck, stubble rasping against him, Peter is downright trembling, teeth clenched tight.

Tony sits like a statue under his touch, eyes wide as moons, all the blood drained from his face, and when Peter reaches the scent gland in his neck, he melts. He goes lax.

“Peter.”

When Peter turns, his teeth are clenched, lips pulled back. Captain America is standing there, and Peter can smell him, acrid.

“Stay back,” Peter barks.

“Is he—?” Natasha asks in the background, her voice high and soft with confusion.

Sam grabs her arm gently, pulling her away. “Presenting.”

There is a scuffle further away in the room, Clint holding back a trembling Bucky who is trying to get to his mate—but they are beta and omega, lesser threats. Peter pays them no mind.

Steve puts both of his hands up, the picture of calm, collected reassurance. “I’m not going to hurt you, Pete.”

“I’ll hurt you, old man,” Peter says. His voice isn’t his own, deeper and darker and scared—scared of this man, this Alpha. Peter’s omega is near and vulnerable, almost in heat. What other purpose could Steve have here except to try and separate them, try to take the omega for his own. That will never happen. His spine straightens. He is a head shorter and more than the other man, but they have fought before. Peter can take him. “Back. Off.”

Fingers wrap around Peter’s wrist, pulling it gently from his omega’s neck, and while Peter doesn’t want to take his eyes off of this dangerous alpha (no matter how non-threatening he looks), his omega is beckoning him. Peter turns and—it’s Tony. Tony. Tony.

Peter snatches his wrist back, all of his sanity coming back like cold water being poured over his head. The man is watching him, cautious, and the air is scented with fear and anxiety. This omega doesn’t need that, not so close to his heat—but this isn’t just an omega, this is Tony. Tony Stark. And here Peter is, rubbing himself all over the man like some sort of barbarian.

“Oh my god,” Peter slurs, stumbling backwards, wrist to his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

“Peter,” Tony says. His mouth stays open but no other words come out: a true feat, for Tony to be at a loss for words. It gives Peter enough time to turn tail and run, no tact, just sprinting from the gym. The elevator is already opening—thank you, Jarvis—and Peter takes it directly up to the Avengers floor where he locks himself in his room and doesn’t exit for the rest of the day.

“I’ve rerun the scans twice now, sir. Peter Parker is an alpha. The blood work Doctor Banner performed on him this afternoon confirms it.”

“How, J? Alphas present at 14, 15—16 at the latest. Peter is eighteen years old. How did he go from beta to alpha overnight?”

“If I had to venture a guess, I would say that his altered DNA state has something to do with the late presentation. Some animalistic instincts are only triggered in the face of more base situations. More than likely, he has been an alpha all along, but until a suitable mate presented itself, his secondary gender remained dormant.”

“Are you saying I’m the suitable mate in this prime-time drama scenario?”

“I’ve never known you to sound so unhappy with a compliment, sir. Or are you fishing for more? I assure you that your hormone levels are ideal for your age, you are still fertile, and judging by the conversations I’ve overheard between Mr. Parker and his friends, he’s had romantic feelings for you for years, now.”

“Jesus, J! What happened to your privacy protocols?”

“Oh, am I not still ignoring those? My apologies, sir. In that case, Mr. Parker never talks about you at all, and they most certainly do not refer to you as Iron Daddy.”

“I swear to God JARVIS, I will wipe your programming and turn you into a glorified pocket planner—”

“If I have to overhear the phrase Iron Daddy one more time, I might be agreeable to it, sir.”

For the next few days, Peter moves around the tower like a ghost. Before he leaves any room, he asks JARVIS who is in the next one. That allows him to get from place to place without running in to Tony. It isn’t safe for Peter to be around him anymore—not after Peter practically assaulted him in front of the other Avengers. In a few days, Peter’s hormones will stabilize and then he’ll be more in control of himself.

Until then?

He deals. Alone. Trying to come to terms with his new secondary gender is more difficult than he expected. When he was younger, it was everyone’s dream to be an alpha or omega. Those genders were much rarer, sensationalized in the movies and books. Omegas and alphas could find True Love with each other. They had senses like super humans, exuding pheromones, being able to scent the air and tell a person’s mood.

Betas were average. Normal. Maybe he wanted to be an alpha or omega, but a part of him always suspected he would be a beta. When the years he should have presented in passed, he accepted it. Betas weren’t so bad, May told him. At least they didn’t have to deal with the mess of heats or ruts, they weren’t beholden to their biology.

Now, everything has changed.

Just the thought of the affect Tony had on him makes his whole face go red. God, how embarrassing. He practically rubbed himself all over the man, no better than an animal. Mr. Stark deserved better than that. He needed a mature partner, a mate who could keep their head even in the face of his hormones. They had words for alphas like Peter, ones who couldn’t control themselves—pups. Knotheads. It makes him burn with shame.

Some of the other Avengers come by to talk with him. Sam, Natasha, their neutral beta scents comforting. He spends some time with Bruce, an omega who used suppressants to neutralize his scent. Steve stays away, much to Peter’s thanks and shame. And Tony, too. To Peter’s complete agony. Sometimes he catches remnants of the man’s scent, and he has to struggle not to rub his face against the couch cushions, to scent them himself. What will his omega think, when he catches his alpha’s scent—only no. Tony isn’t his omega.

And Peter isn’t his alpha.

They let him meet Steve again first. The alpha hasn’t change physically, but it feels like Peter is seeing him through a whole new set of eyes. He smells of petrichor in the city, not very appealing. But alpha scents aren’t meant to appeal to other alphas. Does Tony like this smell, Peter wonders? When they hug, does Tony nuzzle into that thick chest and scent him?

The thought doesn’t fill Peter with the same rage it did a few days ago. Instead, it makes him sad.

“Hi Captain Rogers,” Peter says. “How are you?”

Steve smiles. “I’m great, Pete. It’s Steve, remember? Still Steve.”

Peter tries to smile back. “Steve.”

When Peter and Captain Rogers both come out of his room, the only other Avengers around are Natasha and Tony. Instinct has him inhaling—and God, Tony smells as good as Peter remembers. Coffee must be in his blood, sweet with creamer and raw sugar that would crunch under Peter’s molars and dissolve on his tongue. It’d be a dream to taste that scent from the source.

Peter shakes himself out of it. Those are the kinds of thoughts that got him in trouble in the first place. He can feel how tense the room is while he carefully approaches the omega. In Tony’s benefit, he looks relaxed, lounging on the sofa. In this position, his gently rounded stomach is clear underneath his band t-shirt and it makes Peter’s mouth water. He wills away his boner—because now, alphas like Steve and omegas like Tony will be able to smell his arousal.

“Hey Mr. Stark,” Peter says in a soft, cracking voice. “A-Are you okay?”

Tony smiles, gentle, so tender. “Peachy, kid. Just peachy.”

Tony’s body starts purging three days before his heat, and everyone in the tower knows it. Peter knows too, and not just because he can smell it, ripening like strawberries in sugar, but because Tony stops eating altogether. Mealtimes he spends pushing food around his plate, forcing himself to sip at his sweating glass of ice water. His body is clearing itself out, priming itself for mating. Bruce encourages him to eat what he can, but Tony just snaps at his mothering, face green. No one needs to openly state that this pre-heat seems worse than usual.

It hurts to see Tony not eating, but Peter sits on his hands and bites his fucking tongue and turns away and doesn’t say a thing because it isn’t his fucking business to command the omega. Tony is more than his designation. He’s a fucking human being, and Peter is going to respect him and his wishes, even if he’d rather see the man stuff himself, belly rounded, preferably with Peter’s—

“Bathroom,” Peter mutters, standing jerkily from the table. No one notices his quick escape. In the small, tiled room, his own scent rebounds off the walls and suffocates him, arousal, sharp, pining, sickly. Peter splashes cool water over his face, resolute in his decision not to jerk off. He hasn’t cum since before his presentation, is too afraid of how it might be different, too afraid of the knot that is likely to bloom at the base of his cock (which has grown, to Peter’s horror and delight).

Once he feels less likely to pop a boner at the dinner table, he flushes perfunctorily and leaves the bathroom—only to run directly into Tony who pushes past him.

“Sorry kid, got to yack,” he mutters. But then everything about him freezes. Peter sees his own scent, concentrated from his time in the bathroom as it washes over the omega. Tony shudders, eyes rolling. The sound that leaves his mouth can be described as nothing short of a whimper. The green tinge of nausea is replaced with the flush of his own arousal, and Peter can smell it, so good that it hurts, makes him harder than he’s ever been in his life, and this is his omega, his omega who is approaching heat and needs him—

But he is more than that to Peter, too.

Using all his restraint, Peter reaches out for the bathroom door handle and slams the door shut. He hears the soft thud of Tony’s body on the other side, like he has slumped against it. A low groan, muted by the oak.

Peter turns and goes to his room without an explanation, dinner plate still half-full.

“JARVIS…”

“I’m here, sir.”

“Protocol Fuck or Die. Who is on my consent list?”

“Just Captain Rogers, sir.”

“Add Peter.”

“Shall I alert him—”

“No—just. I doubt my heat will be bad enough to require an alpha’s—ah—special support, but. Better safe than sorry.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“Oh, and J? Let’s go ahead and make an addendum…”

Less than two days later, Tony leaves his bedroom on the Avengers’ floor and goes up to the penthouse. The door locks behind him, and Peter comforts himself with that fact. The man is safe. No one can get in without JARVIS’s say so, and the AI values Tony’s safety above all else. Even if he suffers while he’s there (and that thought alone makes Peter ache in his chest, desperate to help), at least he is safe.

Two days in, a situation across the country calls for some of the Avengers, and Steve, Bucky, Nat and Clint all pack up to head out. They don’t ask Peter to come with them, and the young alpha doesn’t offer—though he hardly knows why. Nat tucks him under her arm and presses a kiss to his forehead when he wishes them safe travels, and please let me know if you need backup.

She smiles, soft. “I think you’re needed here, Pete.”

Peter has no idea what to make of that, and no idea how right she is.

“Mister Parker.”

Peter wakes from a restless sleep, sitting straight up in his bed. The room is absolutely dark—the only way he can sleep with his sensitivity issues—but Peter knows that the voice didn’t come from anyone in the room. It came from above. Heart in his throat, he croaks out an affirmation, fearing the worst. Something has gone wrong on the mission with Steve and the others. They are hurt, or worse, dead. Maybe there’s another emergency, this time in New York, and Peter and Sam and Bruce will have to deal with it alone—

“I need you to go directly to the penthouse, and with haste.”

“Penthouse? That’s—that’s off limits. Mr. Stark—”

“Mister Stark’s temperature is reaching dangerous levels, and he is no longer responding to my questions. He requires immediate attention. Do not bother dressing—go straight there.”

Peter rolls out of bed. This is worse than the Avengers being hurt. So much worse. His hands shake as he leaves his room wearing nothing but boxer shorts (do not bother dressing or not, Peter wasn’t going to walk around naked). The lounge is empty and ghostly, moonlight streaming in from the windows and turning every shadow into a monster. Peter has bigger fears now, though.

“It’s his heat?”

“Yes—”

“—and what exactly—I mean, what do you want me to do about it?”

“Now is not the time for me to give you the birds and the bees talk, Mister Parker—”

Peter blanches. The elevator is waiting for him as he steps inside, feels the pull of gravity as he quickly ascends, his hears popping at the change in altitude. “JARVIS, you don’t understand—Mr. Stark, h-he can’t consent during a heat. I would be—it would be—”

“You have his consent. Based on protocol Fuck or Die—”

“I’m sorry what?”

“It’s not uncommon for older omegas to suffer serious health issues while suffering through heats alone and unsuppressed. In the event that an alpha is absolutely required, Mister Stark has a list of preapproved alphas who have his complete consent to bond with him. On such a list is Captain Rogers and, as of earlier this week, yourself.”

Peter gapes. His head spins. Mr. Stark—lists of consent—Peter?

“If it makes you feel better,” JARVIS says. “Had Captain Rogers been here, I would have asked him first.”

The elevator opens, and Peter steps out into the hallway that leads to the penthouse. His stomach is in knots, a tangle of Medusa’s snakes that wriggle and threaten to turn him to stone. His knees are shaking, knocking together in fear that is so potent it’s comical. This is his greatest dream come true (though certainly not happening in the way he had anticipated) but suddenly it is his deepest fear.

“No offense, Mr. JARVIS, but in what world would that make me feel better?” Peter asks, his sweating palm on the doorknob to the penthouse.

“We can debate it another time when Mister Stark isn’t at risk of a febrile seizure.”

The door clicks, lock opening. Steeling himself, Peter opens the door and steps inside.

The smell intense: cinnamon rolls, ground coffee beans, caramel sauce so sweet it’s just on the verge of burning. It is right out of Peter’s wet dreams, his cock rushing to fill itself so that it will be useful to the omega in need. The penthouse is a mess when Peter scans it: furniture knocked over, a glass of water shattered on the tiles of the foyer, though the water has nearly evaporated now. Everything is quiet and still. It should be eerie.

But suddenly it isn’t. A change comes over him, a rush of hormones that not only fill his cock but clear his head. It’s like everything he sees is in greater detail, sharp focus, all of his senses on high alert. There are no more nerves, and Peter is filled with the overwhelming confidence that he knows what he’s doing.

“The bedroom, Mister Parker. Quickly, please.”

Peter moves with purpose, ignoring his cock. The bedroom door is only cracked, and he reaches out with a firm hand to push it open the rest of the way.

Tony has taken up residence on the floor beside the bed. The sheets are dragged off of it as if Tony had struggled to pull himself up and lost the strength, choosing instead to curl up around his aching abdomen. Peter gathers all of the strength and calm inside of himself, works to exude it in his very scent (a thing he’s mostly unfamiliar with, but which is apparently a skill akin to wiggling his ears, which he can also do, thanks very much).

Naked, Peter is privy to every inch of tanned skin, the gentle smattering of hair on Tony’s legs, sparser at his thighs. There are no hairs on his chest thanks to the mass of scar tissue where the arc reactor used to be, smooth, pink skin that will never grow hair again. All his skin is covered in sweat, slick and glowing under the dim lights. Then, Tony’s eyes open, nostrils flaring. He turns his head towards where Peter stands in the doorway, teeth chattering from his fever, and the look on his face is pure relief.

“Alpha,” he says, stuttering through his chills.

Peter hushes him, kneeling down to drag the man into his arms. The omega groans in pain when he’s no longer curled around his aching stomach, but then buries his nose in Peter’s neck, hot breath brushing his skin and making goosebumps rise all over Peter. Tony sighs in relief, wrapping himself around the kneeling alpha. Peter can feel Tony’s cock—small, but hard and leaking—pressing against his hip. Pooled on the older man’s abdominals is cum, drying and tacky.

“I recommend a tepid shower, Mister Parker.”

“Start it,” Peter says through his teeth. He shifts up onto one knee, bracing himself so that he can support the larger man’s weight. Tony is mouth at his neck, hips rutting desperately. Peter puts a hand on the man’s lower back and guides him, encourages him, words pouring out of his mouth that he can barely hear over the blood rushing in his ears. “Come on, Mr. Stark, please Mr. Stark, you need to cum. Can you cum like this? Will you try, for me? Now, Omega, now if you can at all—”

Tony shudders, cum splattering Peter’s bare stomach. It burns—every point of contact with the man burns, thanks to the fever.

“God,” Peter groans, throat convulsing. “That was amazing. So good, Mr. Stark, Jesus, that was incredible—”

In the bathroom, the shower is running, cool enough to not create any steam. Peter grits his teeth, hating cold showers, but knowing that his omega needs it. A fever isn’t good for his omega’s brain, and at least the water isn’t cold. That might shock Tony’s system and do more harm than good. Without even stopping to shuck his boxers, Peter slides open the glass shower door and ushers them both inside. When the spray hits him, the omega whines, shrinking away.

“Stay,” Peter says firmly. Tony goes slack, suggestible.

He leaves the front of Tony’s body in the cool spray and stands on his toes to bury his nose in the omega’s neck, scenting him, scraping together every good warm safe happy feeling inside of himself. Tony’s head goes lax, leaning back, water dripping down his throat. The young alpha licks a line up his throat and to the shell of his ear. Such a thing would be weird any other time, but now it’s like there’s a part inside of him that urges him to do it, to leave his mouth on the man and never lift it.

“Peter?” he slurs.

Peter jolts. If Tony is more conscious and aware, that seems like a promising sign. “JARVIS called for me. You’re safe, Mr. Stark,” he says. “I promise.”

Tony smiles, a soft breath coming out almost like a laugh. “I know,” he murmurs. “Jesus, kid, I’m cold.”

“You’re feverish,” Peter says. “JARVIS? Can you tell Mr. Stark’s temperature?”

“It is a toasty 101.7 degrees Fahrenheit, Mister Parker, which is an improvement. I believe a decent bonding session would have a similar therapeutic effect, if the shower isn’t comfortable. And sir, may I say that it’s nice to see you stringing together a full sentence.”

Tony snorts. His voice is weak, but no less snarky. “Thanks, J. Can we get out, Pete? I haven’t taken cold showers since I was fifteen years old.”

“If we get out,” Peter says. “We’ll have to—to bond.”

“Is that—you don’t want that?”

“I do, God, Jesus, yes I do—”

Now Tony does laugh, even as his eyes slip closed in exhaustion. It is likely that without proper care, he has barely slept since his heat started in earnest three days ago. The instincts inside of Peter stir: his omega needs fucked and then he needs rest.

As soon as the cool water is off, Tony is back to stumbling, doubled over in pain, an arm curled around his tender midsection. The cramps come and go while Peter does his best to dry them off, but their hair is still dripping when he can’t take the sounds of pain anymore and guides Tony back to the bedroom. There is nothing on the bed but a fitted sheet, soft as silk, and Tony crawls onto it without prompting.

He sinks immediately into lordosis, ass up, spine curved as he presents himself, forehead pressed to the bed and chest doing its best to follow. This is pornography come to life, Peter thinks. He can see Tony’s hole, wet and dripping. Between his legs are his balls, red and aching, but it’s that hole that makes his fingers ache, that has him reaching out to press a thumb against the rim.

Tony chokes, hips jerking backwards until Peter sinks in to the first knuckle. Tony is loose and pliant, perfect for taking an alpha’s cock and knot.

“Please,” Tony groans into the mattress, shaking all over. “’t hurts, Pete. Please. Inside.”

Peter pulls his thumb free, kneels up onto the bed to shuffle closer, and then sinks two gentle fingers in, slow until they’re swallowed to the hilt. He has to close his eyes, cock aching, knot already throbbing at the base. Inside, Tony is like liquid silk, hot and wet and clinging to his fingers, the internal muscles squeezing and desperate for more to hold on to. The noise Tony lets out is pure sex, a long moan that ends higher and breathier than he’s ever heard the man.

Slowly, Peter pulls his fingers out to the tip—and god, the slide, the wet friction is just as intoxicating, eyes rolling in his skull, blinded to everything but the desperate omega in front of him—before pressing back in. He twists them, circles his hands, crooks them until he finds that spot, the rough bump inside. Tony keens, body spasming as his fists clench at the sheets, his cock spurting. Around his fingers, Tony’s ass flutters. But he needs more. Peter knows.

Soaked boxers abandoned in the bathroom, Peter’s cock is free to dribble and ache, only inches from where it longs to harbor. Brief anxiety has his hand trembling when he reaches down to run a gentle fist from tip down to root. This is the first time he’s touched his cock since he presented—but it feels the same really. Except for the base, where there is a bump, so sensitive that he whines when he runs a curious thumb over it. God, how will that feel inside Tony? Peter can’t even imagine.

Withdrawing his fingers, the omega cries out, hips jerking backwards, desperate to keep the connection. Peter soothes him with a hand on his back, urging him to relax back into the bedspread while Peter kneels up behind him. Their similar heights make this easy—all the important bits are at the perfect levels.

Taking a deep breath, Peter guides the head of his cock to the wet hole. The first touch has him whining, shaking, and if it weren’t for the firm hand on Tony’s back, the omega would likely have taken him to the root by now with the way he is thrusting back, trying to fuck himself on the tip alone. It’s now or never, Peter tells himself. Pressing forward, he sinks in until he can’t anymore. It takes every bit of restraint not to cum immediately, popping his knot in the tightest, wettest, most pleasurable heat he’s ever known. Beneath him, Tony sounds like he’s dying in the best way, groaning.

“Please, alpha, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me—”

Everything in him wants to give this man what he needs, so with singular focus, Peter pulls back his hips and lets them snap forward. Tony howls, his elbows bending so that he can grab fistfuls of his hair and pull. Peter lets his instincts do the work, trusts his body to know what is best for himself and his omega, fucking into that tight heat in desperation. The best part of every thrust is bottoming out, the brief pressure of Tony’s fluttering rim around Peter’s blossoming knot, so sensitive it makes him shiver.

“God, Mr. Stark,” Peter pants. The words are torn from his chest: “My omega.”

“Yes, yes, yours, take it, take me,” Tony says, every word punctuated by a hitch in his breath as Peter thrusts in. “Alpha—let me cum, please—”

“Yes,” Peter groans. “You need it, please. Please cum for me.”

Tony cries out, entire body stiffening and going still beneath him—every part of him except for his small cock, spurting weakly and the tight heat around Peter’s cock that flutters, squeezing, choking the life out of him. Peter desperately wants to bring Tony to another orgasm, figuring that the better sated he is, the quicker his fever will fall. But the sounds, the smells, the unbearable pressure around his cock is too much. He can feel it building inside him, balls tightening, knot beginning to swell. There’s no way he can stop it—and Tony needs this too. Needs a knot, for his body to fight the biological havoc his hormones are wreaking on it.

So Peter chases it, fucking Tony right through his orgasm. Every time the knot catches on the rim, Peter thinks this is it, this is it, there’s no way I can push into him, or there’s no way I can pull it out of him, but he does, both of their bodies capable of so much more than he ever knew. Then it hits. Peter shoves the knot past the rim, shrieking as his balls spasm, cum spurting into the omega. Beneath him, Tony shouts something unintelligible, and maybe he cums again, but Peter can’t tell. The world goes white. Nothing exists except for the tight channel around his cock, the rim that’s squeezing his knot, coaxing more and more cum from him.

But one thought comes, strikes him like a lightning bolt straight from Thor’s hammer: bite. His teeth ache down to the roots with as tightly as he clenches them together, mouth watering, desperate to clamp his jaws on that raised spot on Tony’s neck. Break skin. Mate. The urge becomes overwhelming, no way that he can stop it—but instead he turns and bites into the meat of his bicep, breaking skin until blood floods his mouth.

When it finally ends, they are stuck together. Shaking from exertion, Peter still reaches out to help Tony collapse properly onto the bed, then he guides them both onto their sides, his stomach pressed flush against Tony’s back. The omega is shaking all over, so Peter runs his hands over every bit of skin he can, murmuring words of praise, God Mr. Stark, you’re perfect. That was the most amazing thing, thank you so much, thank you.

By the time his knot deflates enough for him to pull out without hurting Tony (and it’s an inordinate amount of time later, Peter things, probably considering it was his first ever knot popped), the bite on his arm has healed. He must still look like a sight, he thinks, mouth covered in flaking, dried blood. Tony is soft and sated when he rolls onto his back, and the only indication he gives that the blood on Peter startles him is a few gentle blinks, like his eyes are blurry and he needs to clear them.

“I almost bit you,” Peter says. “I’m so sorry.”

Tony smiles, eyes already slipping closed. He worms one arm beneath the pillow under his head and lets his eyes shut completely. “Go ahead,” he mumbles. “’m going t’ sleep now.”

Peter smooths the hair out of his face. His chest feels tight, full up with love and longing and absolute adoration. This has been beyond Peter’s wildest dreams: mating Tony, bonding with him for good and not just for now? That is something that Peter can’t even let himself imagine. It’s a pipe dream, a hazy, unclear fantasy. Beside him, Tony is already asleep. The man snores—wait until Ned finds out.

“Mister Stark’s temperature is returning to normal boundaries, I am happy to report.”

Peter breathes a sigh of relief. He barely knew how much tension was in him until he heard those words, until he knew that Tony would be okay. His body relaxes, experiencing a peace he has never before known. Here, with this man he loves more than anything, knowing they are safe and that Tony is content. “Thank you, JARVIS. I’m glad you woke me.”

“As am I. Mister Parker, I believe there is one other matter that I must bring to your attention.”

“What is it?”

“It is another protocol that Mister Stark put in place. A list he created exclusively for you.”

It is a week later before Tony is well enough to leave his penthouse. The man has lost all the weight he put on and more, even as Peter’s constant insistence that he eat whenever he could stomach it. Despite the copious amounts on incredible sex they shared, Peter can’t help but be glad that Tony’s heats only come twice a year. Any more than that might genuinely kill the man, his legs shaking, leaning on Peter as they enter the Avengers living area.

General cries of greeting and joy rise up around the floor. Steve pulls the man into a hug before he thinks otherwise, his eyes finding Peter’s over the omega’s shoulder. But Peter isn’t jealous, just watches with a happy, soft smile. He sees the exact moment that Steve breathes in and smells the change in the omega’s scent, and Peter knows the look on his face must be that of the sorest winner, smug, and unbearably in love.

Steve pulls back and gently tugs at the collar of Tony’s shirt, exposing just the smallest hint of the healing mating bite. Peter’s own has already healed.

Bucky can’t help but frown from where he stands behind Steve. His eyes flash hot like coals, accusatory, pinning Peter in place. “You mated him? He was in heat.”

Tony waves a hand. “We had a sort of—withstanding agreement. Didn’t we, J?”

“That you did, sir. I would not let anything untoward happen to Mister Stark under my watch.”

“Hear that?” Tony asks, stalking to the refrigerator. “I have protocols in place for every possible sequence of events, and giving hot young alphas the consent to mate me for life is a very advantageous outcome, if I do say so myself. Hey—fruit goes on the top shelf, heathens, not in the drawer. I’m out of commission for two weeks and this is what happens—”

“You have, what, procedures in place? For every possible sequence of events?” Bucky asks, his arms crossed.

Tony reappears from the refrigerator, a take-out contained in his hands. He cracks it open, Styrofoam screeching, to appraise the insides. Whatever is there must please him, because he bumps the door closed with one hip and goes for a fork. “Huh?” he asks, scooping out strands of angel hair pasta. “Oh. Yeah—I do. By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.”

“Who said that?” Natasha asks. “Was that Franklin?”

“What, it wasn’t me?” Tony asks.

“Wait, I want to hear more about these procedures, especially any that involve me,” Bucky asks. They all gravitate around the counter, leaning against the marble. Peter can’t help but feel that the turmoil of the last month has ended and now things are—not normal. But better than normal. His family, his pack, they are stronger than ever.

“I could tell you, snowflake,” Tony says around a mouth of pasta. “But then I’d have to kill you.”

tag list: (and I know I’m missing so many of you right now, I’m sorry, I’ll work on it, feel free to continue to let me know if you want to be tagged or would rather not be. @shinycreatoroafbonk @sadbumblingmess @parkerslutt @css1992 @starkerotic @rogerthat-captain @prettyboy-parker @onemadeofglass @kirtthana @deliciousflapbanditfarm @kiaorauniverse @loki-iwanttobeking @parleroumourirr @bizzlepotter @von--gelmini

#starker #abo #alpha!peter #omega!tony #cagewrites

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void-tiger · 5 years

Text

Shirotember (Belatedly) Days 5-7:

The Chosen, the Astral Plane, and the Black Lion

He knew better.

Shiro honestly did. But outside of running drills with his Team, and forming Voltron in combat he just...never made it down to the Black Lion’s hangar. Shiro told himself that’d it was because there was just so much to do—nearly two decaphoebs of backlogged data to consume. Crash courses in diplomacy and getting formerly integrated into the cogs of the coolition (and a lot of damage control dealing with there being “two of him”.

(Slav in particular had been gleeful about the “second robot arm” and kept bombarding both him and Jiro with new arm designs, each more outrageous than the last, complete with blue fingers and probabilities about how the designs would increase their success and survival (but never higher than 48%, apparently, with pages of things “statistically uncovered”. The reports all read like some beta-tested drug commercial, and Shiro’d had enough of those to last him a lifetime. Well, two. The temptation to simply delete each new schematic sent in was often overwhelming...but he and his twin technically needed new prosthetics and possibly multiple ones, so he forwarded Slav’s latest designs to the Holt Siblings, Hunk, or the Alteans, instead. Well until the day Matt begged him to stop and that most just got shoved into a file Voltron’s Tech Team hadn’t even scratched the surface of yet, which was more than okay for a relieved Shiro. Matt quickly helped him set up a program specific to Slav’s messages that’d automatically delete anything “robot arm related” as chaff...which just left the rest of Slav’s equally dense and frequent reports. Fantastic.)

...and any spare time Shiro found himself with desperately trying to make up for lost time with his friends, and actually being more open with his affection for them and his own insecurities. (It helped that aside from Pidge none of them were really teens anymore, but being indirectly responsible for bringing them into a war that caused them to grow up too soon, too fast still weighed heavily on him. Even if technically it was their Lions?) But all of that—while lessening the strain, especially since he could share the burden of leadership with both Allura and Jiro now—still felt more like getting flayed alive all over again, less like emerging from a chrysalis or shedding a snake’s old and too-tight skin. Especially since the Arena and Haggar didn’t create these habits, just welded them down tight, while Adam and the Garrison had actively forged them.

(Sam’s mentorship had helped, as had the Black Lion and his Team giving him purpose again. But getting locked inside a damaged Black for two years without anyone able to hear him except a desperate clone who mistook Shiro as yet one more of their shared demons for half of it... Shiro didn’t know if that guilt would ever ease.)

So, really. Shiro did know better, but he was too busy being a Paladin to...actually be a Paladin.

Coward, snarked his subconscious, which sounded suspiciously like Jiro calling him out on his learned bullshit yet again. “But not like he’s any better about this,” Shiro muttered. “Hypocrite.”

Yeah, but he learned that from you, Shirogane.

Shiro pinched his eyes shut as he let his forehead thump against the Black Lion’s hangar door. Since he’d been extracted from the Lion’s quintessence and places back inside his own body of reassembled atoms, their Bond felt muted, but not exactly weak. More like...restrained. Like the Black Lion was trying to give Shiro the space he kept subconsciously taking by accident. Occasionally gentle affection or harrowing grief and shame would filter through their Bond before quickly fading away into wisps of mist scattered in the wind. Shiro tried his best to send the Lion his reassurance and forgiveness...but he just couldn’t make himself visit. It all still felt too raw, more so than when Black spat him out so long ago in what he now knew was her attempt to keep him from getting recaptured by their shared tormentors, too.

He knew he needed to see the Lion, without being prompted by training or missions or an active attack. But...

He continued to stare at the door. Willed himself to move. “Coward,” he hissed again, this time aloud.

Footsteps echoed at the opposite end of the corridor. Shiro fought the urge to turn around. The steps grew closer, and he recognized that gait as his brother’s. Same long strides, same intentionality as his, but slightly heavier in the footfalls, like someone not quite accustomed to their growing frame yet, or hadn’t quite mastered the art of Presentation and still had small tells giving them away if you knew where to look. (Or perhaps someone who cared a bit less than Shiro learned to habitually even before his time at the Garrison.)

“You win yet?” Jiro drawled casually.

“Hmm?”

“Your staring contest with that door,” Jiro elaborated. “Think my score’s 3:9, Door’s Favor.”

Shiro winced internally. Jiro rarely spoke about the time he spent grounded, and then when he did, it always came out as a subconscious slip in the form of a joke. He never knew whether to call his brother on it or not. Not like Shiro had much room to talk, especially about stuff Champion-related...

“I’m just being an idiot,” Shiro finally said, single hand clench-fisted, head still leaning heavily against the door with his eyes mostly shut.

“‘Course you are,” Jiro quipped, laying his hand on Shiro’s shoulder. “You’re my brother.” Then shoved Shiro through the now-opening door.

“H-HEY!” Shiro squawked. Jiro simply laughed. The bastard.

The door hissed closed behind them. The Black Lion loomed above them. Shiro felt his mouth go dry, felt the ground tilt as the edges of his vision blurred and the light glinted off Black’s hull felt too bright! and—

A hand rested on his shoulder and a dark shape obscures his vision, blocking the Black Lion from view. He flinched, and a strangled gasp clawed its way out of his chest and throat.

“Takashi. Breathe,” Jiro murmured.

Much like he had the first time Shiro entered Black’s hangar when the witch bombarded the Castle after he first got pulled out of the Void. And how before that Jiro had practically shoved the black bayard into his hand and Shiro into the Black Paladin’s elevator, and said-bayard transforming into an Arm at the sight of the imposing zip line in response to his immediate need.

Shiro willed himself not to cry as Jiro’s arm snaked around his shoulders and pulled him close. He focused his breathing to time with Jiro’s steadier heartbeat, then worked on getting it to slow once he could get his lungs to simply work again. In. Hold. Release. Rinse and repeat. Blink away the itch. Relax. Don’t lose it in front of Black. Be the Black Paladin, dammit.

“I’m sorry,” Jiro murmured. Shiro felt his twin’s deep voice rumble more than he actually heard it as, despite himself, he still continued to lean into his clone’s chest. Weak. Pathetic.

“I shouldn’t have forced you in here. Just...I want you two to work it out,” Jiro admitted. “And thought that you only needed a helping hand, and—“

Shiro hummed weakly as he tried to chuckle at the unintended pun. But his body refused and even his brain didn’t quite cooperate. Right. Since when did his brain work with him, anyway? He snorted darkly despite himself at that.

“...what?” Jiro demanded in bemusement.

“Hand,” Shiro lied.

Jiro groaned in exasperation as he playfully shoved his brother away. “You’re terrible.”

Shiro grinned wider as he laughed a bit fuller at his twin’s expense. Let him think it was because of a bad pun. Technically it was...sorta.

He felt Black growl lightly and whap his head with a tail through their bond. Shiro gently shoved it away. Black sent the equivalent of meekly ducking under away from his hand, all wisping mist. A flash of guilt and panic as he tried to reopen their Bond. Black purred dejectedly but then fell eerily silent.

Shiro felt his face drain of color. ‘Black? ...I’m sorry. I know I’m not being fair. Please...I’ll do better. Get over it, press on. Please...’

His forehead tingled with a Lion’s Kiss but the Bond fell silent.

“...’Kashi? Hey, You still with me? C’mon...”

“Mmm?” Shiro blinked blearily.

“...goddammit, Shiro. Don’t do that,” Jiro huffed in relief.

“I think...I just broke my bond,” Shiro choked out.

“What? No. No I don’t believe that,” Jiro denied vehemently. “Not for one second!”

“I can’t even bare to be down here!” Shiro shot back heatedly. “Or form Voltron—“

“Quiznack, Shiro! You’d died! You’re allowed to process that!” Jiro snapped in exasperation. “But...dammit the Lion somehow saved you from that, too!”

“I know that!”

Jiro shook his head wearily. “...do you, though? Look, Tak, I’m leaving. I’ve been interfering with this Bond for long enough. Black chose you. Just...you’ll figure it out, alright? Be glad that you’re actually a Paladin.”

Jiro turned to stalk away—

—only to bounce off the inside of a particle barrier while the Black Lion roared with pent-up rage.

“What—“ Jiro exclaimed. “—the HELL! Let me out, Cat! You have him back. Leave me alone!”

Shiro tried desperately to ignore the sick, twisted head that reared inside him like a dark parasite when the Lion growled stubbornly at his twin. He grit his teeth and shoved it back down. He didn’t exactly have any place to feel jealous when he was pretty sure he’d just fucked things up for good this time. Again.

Then his head ached with what felt like the full weight of a small bull elephant as Black roared again, tail lashing against the barrier in a spray of sparks. “But I can’t even stand—not—“ Shiro stammered in frustration.

Black reared onto her haunches then brought down full-force onto the floor with a deafening boom that knocked both him and his brother, roaring point-blank at both of them again, maw opening into a glow of white, and—

—he fell face-first into glass.

Shiro groaned as he pushed himself back onto his feet, catching Ryou doing the same in the corner of his eye, then froze.

No.

He never wanted to be back here. Not again. Ice chilled his veins as he felt that all-too-familiar Just Not Warm and surrounded by nothing but the dark of the Void and stars and—

...And the stars were different. This wasn’t the Black Lion’s quintessence, but it wasn’t the strange static rush he’d experienced briefly within Voltron’s combined quintessence, either.

So...what was it.

Shiro exhaled through his nose as he calmed—barely—and tried to take stock of his surroundings. Beside him he could feel his twin do the same as he blinked in curious confusion, Jiro’s mind briefly brushing against his much like the other Paladins and Lions did when they formed Voltron.

The sky swirled in shades of deep violet, indigo and blue as stars of white and gold streaked with glittering grey comet tails traveled the great expanse overhead, and bands of green and red flares drifted in retrograde of eachother. Jiro’s mouth made a silent “o” as the site reflected in his slate-grey eyes.

And Shiro understood. Really.

He might’ve felt the same about the Black Lion’s own space, once. Maybe he actually could someday once it felt free from the taint Zarkon’s intrusion and his forced exile there that poisoned it. He felt Jiro’s concern brush against his apprehension before he could shutter it away, and Shiro couldn’t help but hate himself for spoiling this for his twin, only to be met with said-twin’s exasperated anger.

Couldn’t he exist somewhere where everyone wasn’t an empath?! Just once?

“Taks. Just breathe,” Jiro called.

Shiro snorted. “There’s no atmosphere, Ryou. You don’t need to breathe.”

“Fair,” Jiro conceded tersely. “So where do you think ‘here’ is.”

“No idea. But it isn’t the Black Lion.”

“Gathered that much myself, thanks,” Jiro drawled. “Been there a few times to fetch your ass, remember?”

Shiro nodded absently. Jiro cast him a strange look that verged on...Shiro couldn’t quite place it. Too clouded and dense, but nothing good, and he was pretty sure he was about to have it from his clone. “It feels like Voltron,” Jiro said instead. “Only more...”

“Intense?” Shiro finished instead.

“Yeah. That.”

“Only Paladins form Voltron,” Shiro said mildly.

“Oh shut up,” Jiro snapped. “And how long were you going to wait to tell me that you remembered what happened in the Astral Plane? ALL of it?”

Shiro fell silent.

“You ass,” Jiro seethed. “You knew. You knew all along!”

“No,” Shiro interjected quickly. “...not until after I flew again with Black.”

Jiro laughed derisively. “So only for most of it. And to think I didn’t want to judge you for something you couldn’t even remember to the point it might as well have been just another fucked up nightmare or vision!”

“...I’m sorry. I just...I wanted to forget,” Shiro whispered tightly.

“Right,” Jiro snarled “Because you always get to and then carry on, while I have to deal with memories that aren’t even mine.”

“And that’s my fault?” Shiro demanded.

“You said I couldn’t be a Paladin!”

“And you seemed happy enough to have my life!”

A feral scream tore out of Jiro’s throat. The empty space at the clone’s side flashed grey-lavender until it was vaguely arm-shaped, and he swung it at Shiro as he advanced forward.

Shiro caught his advance with his own flesh arm and one apparently formed from glowing indigo quintessence, and used Jiro’s momentum to bodily hurl him. Jiro twisted in midair and dug his heels into the glass-like ground to break his momentum, then rushed forward again, grey coma streaming from his eyes and nose.

Tears. Those are tears, Shirogane. Congratulations.

The fight drained from Shiro, and he sidestepped Jiro’s next blind swing.

“Fight back, damn you!” Jiro snarled. “What’s the matter, Champion? Forget how to do that, too?”

Shiro’s vision flashed white and red.

He batted away and pinned Jiro’s quintessence-arm against the clone’s side with one hand, then grabbed a fistful of his brother’s shirt with the other, and kicked Jiro’s feet out from underneath him before the clone could even react. They crashed to the ground. Jiro gasped reflexively as the impact forced the wind out of his lungs and Shiro continued to pin him against the ground.

“Gerroff!!”

“ENOUGH!”

Jiro went slack, although Shiro could still feel his mind smoldering next to his. Still, he was weary of this, so he released his hold on Jiro’s arm, as both their quintessence “arms” fizzled out, apparently. Jiro roughly shoved him off the rest of the way.

“Asshole,” Jiro sniffed thickly.

“Fair.”

“...shut up.”

The stars continued to swirl peacefully above them despite the tense silence below. Shiro thought about resting his hand on Jiro’s shoulder, to do something to somehow Fix This and ease the churning guilt inside him...but his brother’s mind remained sharp ice and bubbling cryovolcanoes. But Jiro didn’t move away, either.

Shiro oofed in shock when Jiro thumped his head against his right shoulder roughly. Which, technically a quintessence apparition right now or not, that still hurt. But, he kinda deserved it and it at least proved that whatever Laws this place followed were closer to his fight with Zarkon than...the two years bodiless he spent trapped in the Void. Hesitantly he shifted until he could embrace Jiro with his left arm instead.

“...Why?” Shiro whispered.

“Because yes I’m mad at you but somebody’s gotta stick around to get through your thick skull that that doesn’t mean we’re leaving.

“...and I wanted to be a Paladin. So badly that it still hurts. But I wasn’t ever chosen. At best all I could do was make a poor substitute while I kept your seat warm. And I didn’t know, alright? I tried everything to get Keith to stay. And the second I did, I...”

Shiro pulled him closer. “I know. I could hear you the whole time. I know you tried.”

“Then...why do you hate me?”

“...I don’t.”

Jiro scoffed.

“No, listen. Please.”

Jiro went rigid, but his ear faced Shiro. Shiro exhaled a silent sigh. That’d have to do. “I...don’t think I ever did. I definitely don’t now. But...all I could do was wait in the dark, desperate for someone to hear me. No one ever did. Black’s inner quintessence was kinda a wreck, and it looked and felt more like getting shut in a basement closet than...

“But then I think the Team must have healed Black somewhat when they tried finding a new Paladin...not that I knew that at the time. Just that I could hear them and finally see something. But I couldn’t—“

Jiro reached around and grabbed Shiro’s hand, squeezing it gently. Shiro squeezed his eyes shut, his guilt and shame becoming more than just a constant ache or shroud, threatening to choke him under its weight.

“My bonds weren’t strong enough. None of them could hear me. And then Black found you.”

“The Lion still preferred Keith,” Jiro pointed out. “I thought I’d been left. And...at any point I’d almost died, and wasn’t ever found until I thought I was drawing my last breath. I chased Voltron for a week! And then...she...didn’t want me.”

“No. That was me,” Shiro admitted in a tight whisper.

An incredulous look crossed Jiro’s face, closely followed by relief and betrayal. “...what.”

Shiro exhaled a shaky sigh. Quiznack his timing sucked. But if they were stuck in here... “The Black Lion...she...she wanted to connect with you. But I... and then you left. And didn’t come back. But then...”

“The Team was about to die,” Jiro murmured.

Shiro nodded jerkily. “It didn’t matter how I felt. I could hear you pleading to save them, and feel Black’s distress, but it was like you two couldn’t quite reach. Your quintessence was...” Shiro paused, searching for words as he gestures vaguely. “...pale. Half there. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“I always thought Black was the one pulling my slack. But...that was you?”

“The universe needed Voltron. And our Team needed a Black Paladin.”

“Then I never actually formed Voltron with them. I never was a Paladin, afterall,” Jiro laughed humorlessly. “No wonder I couldn’t get to that place Lance was talking about.”

“NO,” Shiro repeated firmly. “Black let you inside to try. I was the one throwing a fit which...I guess you noticed that.”

Jiro snorted. “Seemed more like my demons in Sendak’s voice. And they had Keith. Black didn’t need me.”

“Well, you weren’t wrong,” Shiro said wryly. “Might as well been one of them for being all but a clanging poltergeist doing nobody any good.”

“...but I still never formed Voltron,” Jiro repeated softly. “I couldn’t even be Black’s battery.”

“Hey, stop that,” Shiro admonished gently. “You kinda had a parasitic space witch leeching you dry.”

“So did you,”Jiro replied morosely. “But you managed it.”

Shiro shook his head. “Ulaz got me out before she could turn them into anything more than a recording webcam. And your quintessence is strong, now.”

“...Really?”

“Yeah,” Shiro grinned. “And it’s different than mine. So I think...you could actually form Voltron now. No assists needed.”

Jiro shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, now. You’re Black’s Paladin, and now you’re back. I meant it when I said I was done messing with your bond. I wouldn’t have, if...”

Shiro squeezed Jiro’s hand gently. “I know. But, are they even my Team?”

Jiro stared at him blankly in bemusement. “Of course they are. You’re the Black Paladin.”

“Except I only flew with them for maybe two months. You knew them for two years. If Haggar hadn’t been leeching your quintessence, you could’ve formed Voltron,” Shiro pointed out. “And I almost couldn’t. I don’t know them anymore. I barely did before.”

“Quiznack, Shiro. You’ve been working on that. And good god nobody is about to hold being functionally dead against you, either,” Jiro exclaimed in exasperation.

“But...they need a Black Paladin now,” he said weakly.

“Which you are when it counts. And a damn good one,” Jiro said pointedly.

Shiro opened his mouth to argue the point but closed it again. Jiro would only stubbornly argue his point further, Shiro’s guilt wouldn’t ease, and they’ve be back to arguing circles and he was just so tired. And wherever they were, he couldn’t feel his Lion, only Jiro...which he supposed made sense ‘cause he was pretty sure he felt their Bond snap back in the hangar, and it was all his fault.

“Shiro,” Jiro interjected into his thoughts. “Let me ask you something, and answer honestly.”

“Okay...” Shiro drawled apprehensively.

“Do you even want to be a Paladin?”

“I—“

“Don’t go into shoulds or shouldn’ts or what’s better or not!” Jiro interrupted.

Shiro bowed his head until it rested on his knees, and his left arm wrapped around his abdomen on reflex. His shoulders shook as the guilt became so overpowering that it squeezed out everything else. “...yes,” he choked out. “I still want to be a Paladin. I want to fly with Black, but—“

“Say it again,” Jiro urged gently.

Shiro swallowed thickly. Balled his fist. “I want to stay a Paladin.” He exhaled a breath. “But it’s going to take some time. But I will be ready.” He rose to his feet and raised his chin, his eyes feeling clearer than they had in movements.

The sky shifted as something moved through it, displacing the stars in its wake. Shiro’s eyes widened in wonder as a Lion took form, her pelt glittering with stars as her fur glowed ultraviolet in the absence of light. The Lion purred gently and unfurled her wings pulsating with a sun’s heart as she padded toward them. Shiro felt his feet carrying him towards the Lion of their own accord. The Lion bunted under his hand in response, brushing her cheek against him. “Hi, Black,” he murmured.

The Lion draped her tail over his arm, trailing it behind her as she paced over to Jiro. “What? What are you doing. I’m not—“

The Lion whapped the clone with her tail with enough force to cause him to stumble, then gently licked the side of his head. “Okay, okay. But you better not get any gamma rays on me.”

The Lion growled at that.

“But seriously. I’m not your Paladin,” he repeated firmly.

The Lion stared at him unamused, huffed, then shoved him from behind until he was forced to walk to keep from falling.

“You...want me to go on.”

Black flicked her tail as she sat back on her haunches. “...Okay. Guess I’m going?” Jiro called uncertainly.

“I dunno what she wants you to see, Ry, but she’s being very insistent about it,” Shiro smirked. “Better go see.”

“Fat lot of help you are,” Jiro grumbled. But he walked on, back towards the point of sky where the Black Lion emerged. Shiro watched his brother’s retreating form, how he tried to keep his shoulders back and spine straight even as they hunched slightly towards his ears as Jiro walked on alone...then vanished in a flash of watery grey.

“Ry!”

The Lion purred gently, draping a wing over him as she planted a kiss to his forehead, licking reflexively as she got a mouth full of his bangs. “You’re...saying he’s fine. Okay. I trust you.”

The Lion stared into his eyes, blinked slowly, then rubbed against him again, her back arching and tail flopped over until it coiled slightly. The Lion padded a few spaces ahead of him, glanced above and over her shoulder, then chirped expectantly.

Shiro followed.

The word behind him faded in a flash of violet.

Shiro’s eyes protested at the sudden light when he opened them within the Black Lion while sitting in the pilot’s seat. Gently he rubbed the levers. “Thank you. I’m sorry I doubted myself...and you.”

The Lion hummed telepathically through their bond sending a wave of fondness and relief. Shiro wasn’t sure whose it was. Perhaps them both.

A wet nose pressed at him through the link.

“Okay!” Shiro laughed. “And I’ll stop hiding things from you, too. Especially you. But...it’s still going to be some time before I’m ready to go back there. If ever. I’m sorry. I...I just can’t.”

Grief and shame, but also acceptance trickled through. No mist. “Guess that means you, too.”

“We’ll fly again. I won’t ever lock your wings,” Shiro promised. “But...I look forward us doing so at our own pace, though.”

The Lion rumbled her understanding, them fell silent. “Yeah, me too,” he admitted.

Jiro stared blankly while leaning against the interior of the Black Lion’s hull when Shiro finally left the cockpit. “Ry?”

“I’m...I’m a Paladin. I actually have a Lion,” Jiro breathed. “I met him, after Black shooed me away.”

A grin spread across Shiro’s face. “Ryou, that’s fantastic. Which one was he? What’s he look like?”

Jiro shook his head, smiling softly. “I don’t know. Not one of ours. I’m not even sure he’s been made yet—he might be from yet another comet we haven’t found yet. But...I have a Lion, Shiro!”

Shiro slung his arm around Jiro’s shoulders. “Looks like you’re still a Paladin,” he said smugly.

Jiro swatted him off playfully. “Joke all you want. But I was right about you still being Black’s favorite.”

“Yeah, you were,” he admitted.

And this time Shiro knew for certain that he chose her, too.

#shirotember #belated #prompts: chosen. astral plane. blacklion #blacktashi #bp shiro #takashi shirogane #shiro #jiro shirogane #twinganes #...I’ll be honest. I’m not sure I’m completely happy with how this one came out #on the other hand...#I’m kinda using these prompts&events as kinda a crashcourse and to make myseld actually write #and these two (three) had this a long time coming (well at least in my mind anyway)#somewhat of a sequel to the Alone Prompt #although it hardly went the direction I thought it would. (I wanted something a bit fluffier or more...prosey? idk the word.)#whatever. stared at this for WAY too long.#also...Jiro's blacktashi's biggest cheerleader? but yeah that hurts for him. bad

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maladaptive-ninja-returns · 5 years

Text

Without Question (10)

Steve Rogers x fem!Reader

Content: death. destruction.

Warnings: just read the contents above

Word Count: I’m lost

MASTERLIST & Taglist in bio, my love

Peace is a luxury for an untamed mind.

It is an expensive affair to experience, more so when it is more of a relief shower over the desert of chaos; a smooth wave as sacred as an eclipse touching the tired ragged shore. A much-needed opulence that escapes you the moment you question its lifetime in the present.

Your peace sleeps next to you. The pale face of chaotic good is devoid of any line that hints at worries, doubts, stress or even guilt. It just sleeps. The pink lips are parted ever so slightly, a sign of how deep the waters of the ocean of relaxation they are floating in. The freckles that run over his face down his neck and shoulders feel like a trail of angel’s kisses, blessing him with the turbulent energy to carry the weight of the world over his shoulders. The chest heaves and falls languidly, reminding you of the blessed breaths you take next to him.

And just as the tranquillity is swallowed with the blend of a welcoming post-thunder coldness with the new favourite redolence of Steve, the thought of leaving his side cracks the bubble of that sacred bliss in your heart.

Bruised by the universe and still so pure , you wonder.

Lifting yourself halfway on your shoulder, you plant a light kiss on his forehead and smile when there is nothing but a twitch of his lips that resembles a short smile.

You deserve every happiness in this world.

Moving up and away, your eyes do not leave the figure lying in your bed under the warm covers. It takes a substantial amount of will to turn away, pick up a pair of leggings, t-shirt and a jacket before walking out of the room to dress up. Picking up a knife from the kitchen you whisper ‘no, it’s for me in case I...just relax okay?’ and walk out of the house.

“Tony! Are you seeing this?”

Natasha’s voice echoes through Stark’s helmet as he is still trying to take in the four spaceships making an impact on the compound grounds.

“There better not be radioactive slime inside these things,” he quips, already in the air, working through diagnostics.

“You spoke too soon, Stark,” Sam flies up right beside Tony, “look.”

White fanged gooey beasts come out of the spaceships with incoherent cries, stepping on the ground with the stature of wild beasts readying themselves to go hunting.

“Are you sure we can’t call the Captain in?” Clint calls from the facility’s rooftop.

“Do you really think I would’ve sent them away if he was needed here?” Loki comes to stand next to Hawkeye, his battle armour and the horned helmet taking form over him. “Besides,” Loki takes in a lungful, “it’s for the best that he and the lady are away.”

“I cannot believe I am saying this but I agree with reindeer games,” Tony calls out, “Cap needs a vacay and we’re not ruining it because of some goo decided it can walk.”

..Nearly an hour passes by when your heavy breaths are visible in the coldness surrounding you deep inside the forest.

“Okay,” you barely huff out the words through your lungs, “it’s done. Is-is it time?”

Yes , the deep hoarse voice inside you says. Just a little warning, human, this is going to get real ugly real soon.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t come all the way out here for a walk in the woods. So just shut up and let’s get this over with.”

The voice does not say anything in return.

“What? No sassy remarks or insults?”

You didn’t tell him , it states rather softly, shutting you up for good.

Your legs shift your weight over them, your tongue darts out to wet the dry lips while your eyes look for nothing in particular.

“Call them,” your shivering breath commands as you take your hands out of your jacket and ready them by your sides for whatever is about to happen.

A long breath in and the y/e/c eyes turn black, gooey tentacles finding their way out from your back to surround you; cocooning everything below your waist- a beautiful black sea with you in the middle.

A grunt escapes Natasha before she finds a footing in the ripped grass to shoot herself over the shoulder of one of the beat using their own staff-like weapons; dropping fusion bombs into their bottomless bodies, already planning four steps forward for the one running towards her wildly flailing his tongue.

“Loki, I’m outta your bombs!” she cries into the comms, running towards the slime before skidding beneath it but not nearly fast enough to escape the claw that catches her by her hair to pin her down with a guttural growl.

The slime slits its invisible lips to display its fangs that part to take in a taste of the Black Widow that struggles with the hold around her neck.

“Get your filthy tongue away from me,” she lets out a low growl with death in her eyes.

The slime tilts its head in mild shock before opening his mouth wide, showing its prey what is the last thing she was going to see when an ominous note breaks through the air and forces it to turn away and look at one of the ships.

Every other beast on the battlefield does that same before low-key grunting in disapproval and leaping towards a singular direction.

“They are retreating,” Clint takes in the site of the ships opening their hatches to let them in lighting up their thrusters.

“Why? Did their mothership said ‘playtime’s over’?” Sam asks as he hovers over the compound to make sure every last one of them is out of there.

“There better not be a giant mother blob in there,” Tony is quick to mention before his eyes go over to capture the expression on Loki’s features.

The God stands on top of the facility looking down at the creatures in some deep thought.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Tony slowly lands right by his side, neither pair of eyes looking away from the short-termed battlefield.

"I don't think it was him," Loki states, turning towards Tony, who's helmet has crawled away from his head as smoothly as it had appeared. "Do you realise what this means?" His whisper carries a weight both of them can only contemplate.

Tony looks like right in the eye. He wants to blame him so badly but he knows it isn't his fault. It is never going to his fault no matter which way he looks at it. His lips are twitching with latent rage inside him but his eyes carry pain, something Loki finds relatable.

"Tony, it's not your fault either," he is quick to assure him.

"Son of a bitch," Tony curses, signalling Loki to follow him, "they both really do deserve each other."

The gradual heat brings out pearls of sweat on the pale skin buried deep under the covers and Steve has to shift to find a cooler part of the bed to bury himself in instead. But it isn't till his mind- which in the seventh state of heaven- swirls your colours inside him, the heat of your chest over his, the sweat over your skin drown on his, the hot breath in hair, creating your image in smoke that finally makes him question the absence of that heat near him.

Brilliant blue eyes open and watch the empty side, caressing the pillow softly with his fingers before he turns to the other side to look outside the French window.

The thunder's died long ago but the scars remain. The pit made for your Sakura seems to be overflowing with rainwater. Water drips down from the edges of the porch frame. A sparrow wiggles itself from head to tail and hops on near the window to rest in a small bowl that was supposed to be filled with water for it some time ago.

"Y/N." Steve's voice still carries the density of the soundest sleep he has had in ages. He sits up and runs his hands all over his face, trying to rub away the slumber before getting up and reaching for his boxers.

"Y/N?" He walks out of the bedroom to look in the bathroom and find it empty and dry. The kitchen and living room smell of you but you are nowhere to be found.

His fingers fighting the weird itch over his shoulder turns his attention to this one yellow paper neatly folded over the breakfast table.

The smoothness of the paper somehow feels uncomfortable under his touch. The fold is neat, crisp, patiently done. The unfolded piece looks akin to something taken from some ancient Pharaoh's treasure. The black ink that stains the otherwise sheen surface is a continuous stroke forming one word at a time, nothing less than an angel writing poetry about the one that got away.

The one that got away.

It takes those dark blue eyes some time to bring their focus back on the actual words, while the rest of the body is becoming aware of the eroding emotions, the hard beating of the otherwise strong heart, the latent shiver that flames the insides.

I meant it when I said I didn't want to lose you.

The yellow curves and slides graciously through the air. No sound is heard as it swings to and fro languidly taking its sweet time, teasing the call by gravity and right before it hits the floor, a gust of wind from Steve almost breaking through front door forcing the paper to fly up and away.

He runs straight for the forest, never stopping, his ears sharp, listening to the farthest of satellite calls in the quiet, his head throbbing from all the possibilities going inside his head as his ears catch a distant explosion and alien screeching, making him accelerate further in the direction of the white noise.

The shapes of ships start appearing after a distance and just as he discovers them, they blow up to smithereens, forcing out incoherent wails from creatures nearby.

The scattered alien crawlers are writhing in pain on the ground with their claws scratching at some unknown ache in their brain. One raggedly moves in his direction, forcing the Captain to take a position and land him a blow. But before he can do that, the crawler winces, gasps for air and falls to the ground, going limp.

As surprising as the site is in front of him, nothing beats the shock of watching the woman he just confessed his love to hover mid-air covered in quite possibly the remains of the dead race, her eyes all black, her features experiencing something otherworldly, her arms hanging by her side, limp.

"Y/N!" He calls out her name- half-cry, half-prayer- and he does get a response with the turn of her head.

"Steve," for a flick of a second, the eyes come back to their original glory of unadulterated purity while a smile finds its way on her lips.

"Y/N, tell her to stop!"

His lungs hurt.

Her eyes too.

He doesn't ease his stance.

She doesn't ease her grip.

"I can't," she cries, the break in her voice shattering his heart, "it's too late."

"It's never too late," he grunts and brings out the dagger that Loki last planted in her back.

Immediately the y/e/c go black and the flawless features reek of pure mayhem.

"Walk away, Captain," the familiar hoarse voice comes back but this time with a warning, "she knows what she got herself into."

Steve doesn't pay heed and breaks into a run, forcing a low hum out of her throat before black strands chuck him into the nearest tree.

"Stay down," she whispers before turning back to the few whining beasts that remain, "it's almost over."

Within seconds the last of the fanged beasts are snapped and Steve has to make an effort to reach the middle of the horrid ground right to catch her limp body.

"Oh Ga-Y/N! Hey!"

Barely any life remains in her as she looks up at the man who cradles her just as carefully- but more lovingly this time- as he did when they first met.

"What did you do?!"

Even as he tries, he fails with his rage on watching her face looking at him with every ounce of pride and hope. And an apology.

"Take care of my cherry blossoms," she smiles through the pain her lungs feel even while she speaks.

Her hand comes up the wipe away the tear that has found its way out of Steve's eyes.

She wishes she could tell him it was all okay. She was fine. The pain was slowly fading. But so was his touch.

"And please take care of Stacie. She can be a handful."

Steve's fingers are careful as they caress her cheeks, trying to keep them warm. His head droops down, forcing her to touch your forehead with his.

"Hey," she wheezes, "it's okay. I knew what I was walking into."

He tries to bring out words but fails miserably just as her teary eyes let go of the water with the one last breath inside her.

"And try not to remember me this way."

TAGLIST

Permanent @lokis-lady-death @lokixme @l0kisbitch @tarithenurse @meganlikesfandoms @kcd15 @itheoneofmanyfandomsi @gotta-get-back-to-johnlock @moonlightprime @henloamkitty @confessionsofastrugglingteen @keepingupwiththelaufeysons @loving-life-my-way @supernatural-kinda-girl @magiclolipopqueen @cauraphernelia @fuckidontknow @libbymouse @lokisironthrone @liesje86 @itvariesfromlokitostrange Steve @ultraslytherwin WQ @ultraslytherwin @gemgemswift @jessicagoddamnjones @klmpun

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dispensemiracles · 5 years

Text

Persona 5 AU that uses my P4 AU as backstory. Its gonna be split in three parts and stuff and will have P4 spoilers of course and some graphic things, thanks to @ladyforestshade and @stupidstubble for support!

The first ring passed unnoticed; an incessant wail that broke the silence of night. She rolled over on her own accord facing the nightstand when the second ring screamed into her ears. At most she let out a long groan, and by the third was groping for her phone with her eyes half open. Behind her Eli shifted around digging closer against her back. The feel of nails lightly scrapping on her lower scars pushed her to full alertness.

“Elicchi that hur-”

A glance told her Eli was still in deep sleep. She sighed and tapped to answer the call without looking at the screen.

“Hello?”

“Nozomi? Nozomi! So...your number’s the same.”

Her blood froze and for a moment she was busied untangling herself from Eli’s hug. She traced the thick clean lines marring half her stomach starting at her right hip. The tiger stripes pattern of scars on her back and lining the back of her arms began to tingle. Each was as thick as the other beside it. She struggled to swallow with her heart pounding in her throat. Slowly she licked her lips, gathering a shaky breath. The midnight chill made her shiver.

“Hey, Nozomi...are you there? I know it’s late so maybe now isn’t good...”

“Rise, what’re you doing?

She paused, gathering strength to cool the rising turmoil of indescribable emotions swelling in her chest. Against her wishes the hand holding her phone began to tremble.

“How are you doing?”

“...Fine. Well no, not fine. I didn’t call just to hear your voice. There’s something I want, need you for and-”

“If this is about what I think you might say then you can stop right now.”

“Could you just listen? Its- its urgent. Its got to do with a cousin. I think he’s found a way into the Midnight Channel, or something like it.”

Nozomi clenched her phone until her knuckles went white. The faint chill she’d tolerated was evaporating beneath a furious sweat; each scar suddenly burning up, using her panic as a wick. Fuzziness settled into the corners of her vision. An urge to scratch a way out of her own skin made her move her mouth away from the receiver and steady her breathing.

She looked at Eli who’s face was buried between the pillow and her blonde hair. The itching receded before it could advance to the pain that occasionally paralyzed her without warning. She wondered not for the first time if all Shadow wounds were the same way. Her heartbeat calmed and she again spoke to the voice that still managed to make her forget herself.

“That shouldn’t even be possible. We made sure to get rid of it. All of us.”

“Yeah well that doesn’t explain why I can sense an energy like a Persona’s from him. And he’s been so lethargic lately. Haven’t you seen those cases of mental shutdowns on the news too? Nozomi I’m...scared. You know I hate to ask, but you’re the only one who lives closest in Tokyo. Can we...meet up?”

“...Where?”

“There’s a Lawsons by my apartment. Its not much but they’re the only people open at this hour.”

Nozomi sat stewing in silence. Rise’s pleas ran all the more forceful through her thoughts by the exhaustion that’d drained her voice. She fiddled with the edge of her duvet as though it were a stress ball. A surge of emotion that rushed through a mental door she’d once shut made her grip all the tighter. Her stomach began to churn, threatening to wake her scars. Eli had once again taken her attention at the center of a rationale that Rise’s cousin could be akin to helping Alisa in distress.

This time Rise remained patient on the other end, letting out a small sigh of relief when Nozomi spoke,

“Give me the street and time to get ready.”

“Thank you.”

Nozomi tapped to end the call after jotting the details on a notepad. With the careful paranoia of a burglar she redressed; her feet mapped out the quietest spots of the floor to step on. In between putting on each piece of clothing her eyes darted to Eli, still motionless on their bed. When she began folding the directions into her pocket her eyes lingered again.

Sighing she gently smoothed back Eli’s bangs. Despite their year together the gesture came out a tad awkward, hesitant. She looked over Eli’s peaceful expression, her features mature yet retaining a quality of innocence. It gripped her with a familiar apprehension. She felt it creep into unease as she penned another note and placed it on the sheets. When she turned to go her eyes stopped at the nightstand drawer. Quickly she retrieved her phone before it made her feel anything else.

By car meeting Rise was a matter of minutes that plucked at her nerves. As she closed the distance soon only a block remained. Stopping at a traffic light she sat hunched over the steering wheel. Tapping it steadily the thought of circling around to gather herself was tantalizing. She winced at the light turning green, then continued on, smothering the idea.

The last of the journey she moved on foot at a slow pace. Each step was weighted by thoughtful melancholy. At last the bright lights of the Lawsons cast a harsh glow on a lone woman. Rise stood leaning beside the doors, her hands folded behind her back.

It stirred Nozomi’s memory, merging the woman of the present with the still waiting girl of the past. They’d both worn pigtails then. Focusing, she found Rise still did. Her head was turned away, searching.

Taking a breath Nozomi cleared her throat.

“Hello, Rise.”

The turn to look at her came just as she finished speaking. Her heart jolted. Their eyes met, saying more than could be said aloud for the years lost.

“You look exhausted. Are you taking care of yourself properly? Eating enough? Did I wake you at a bad time?”

The questions unfurled one after another like a flower in bloom. The voice was soft as it caressed her in the past while stinging in the present. It gave her pause enough that all she could force out was,

“I haven’t seen them. I mean the mental shutdowns. Haven’t been keeping up with the news these days.”

“Oh. I see.”

She saw what little delight Rise had mustered to meet her vanish. Instead the disconnected, formal sternness she wore during interviews shaking her down for scandals took its place. The energy to her eyes withdrew into hurt. It chipped at Nozomi’s heart, but nothing more. She’d trained herself to bury with numbness. Nozomi checked the time on her phone as an excuse to look away.

No matter how briefly she buried herself elsewhere the disappointed hum Rise made recaptured her attention. Tentatively she looked up again to find her staring at the smartphone in Nozomi’s hands. She drew closer until Nozomi could smell the candy sweet perfume Rise still adored; her eyes remaining down as she spoke,

“You changed it huh? It, looks nice.”

Following the stare Nozomi’s stomach churned to find her wallpaper of Eli’s smile staring back. The pain edging closer in Rise’s voice spun her emotions to yet another uncomfortable phase. Her brain fumbled for a response.

“Yeah. I’ve had this one for a while, probably should upgrade it.”

“She seems nice too.”

“Thanks.”

“Mind if I ask how long?”

“Just a year.”

“Congratulations.”

The blunt kindness Rise had shifted into stung. Nozomi stuffed the phone in a pocket again before another minute could pass. She could feel herself being watched with the same fervor Rise used on the stages of sold out concerts. Just the thought made her grip the phone in her pocket tighter; she could never show Rise that it contained a deluxe version of her latest album.

“All that aside, people have been suddenly dropping dead where only minutes before they were healthy. If it isn’t that then they have fits of insanity and put others in danger. For whatever reason the suicide rate seems to be going up too. Didn’t you at least see that case of a train driver going so fast he barreled off the tracks? It was a miracle he didn’t kill anyone.”

Nozomi’s face knit hard and her tone dropped to a huskiness that fit the shadows lurking around them.

“...I heard about it in class but thought it was an isolated incident.”

“It would be enough if it were, but so many keep popping up with the same things in common. Either the perp dies or they can’t remember a thing afterwards.”

“How many in the last month alone?”

“At least a dozen, I’d guess more. It’s starting to baffle police beyond just being big talk on the web. Inoue even suggested bumping up security at my last show. Some people were too scared to come.”

Sighing Nozomi smoothed back her hair, her eyes darting to the ground in thought. She rubbed her chin and leaned against the wall. Rise’s stare followed and her lips quivered for what had already been said, and what was yet to be. She stood wringing her hands behind her back, waiting. Nozomi broke the thick silence.

“If all this is true, then what’s it got to do with the Other World? Do you think someone found another way to toss people in, only now they can be pulled out and go crazy? If that’s the case how are they feeling the effects only at specific times that cause danger? No one could escape the Midnight Channel alone before, it doesn’t make sense. Impractical even.”

“I thought that at first too. But then I was able to sense a new Persona. At least, it feels a lot like one leaking out from inside Shoji. Maybe it’ll be clearer if I show you.”

“Show me? We can’t summon Personas anymore.”

At that Rise grinned and clasped her hands together as if in prayer. It caused Nozomi’s eyes to widen, spellbound. With a strong, proud resolve too large for her petite body Rise cried out,

“Protect me, Kanzeon!”

A flash of azure light settled into a gentle aura draping over Rise completely. Soon in its wake stood an immensely tall womanly figure; its colors were dominated by silver and red. It’s slender arms held a silver band with two spikes sticking up the ends like ears. The full of its head took the shape of a satellite; a pronounced red antenna struck through three silver, glass-like plates where would’ve been a face. The tails of its striped dress flowed with their elegant lines above the ground.

Nozomi had recoiled and her mouth was gaped open. Her eyes trailed along the antenna to find two more glass plates suspended across from the other behind Kanzeon, like wheels on a car chassis. Slowly she dared reach out to touch the swishing white cloth dangling from the sides of the head. It’s silken feel confirmed it for the truth. Her mouth made an ‘O’ gasping in awe.

Faintly she heard Rise’s light hearted laugh. The tips of her ears turned red as her face flushed in embarrassment. Rarely had she worn the colors of a fool, and she did not want to start again now. Rise herself had her face concealed beneath the silver band, which adorned her forming a crown. This time her hands were again behind her back. She was smiling with a haughty air.

“It took me months but I managed it. A bit of help from some people you haven’t met. Kanzeon comes out whenever I ask it to. Now watch this.”

Three giant translucent panels appeared above them horizontally. Lines of raw data in characters Nozomi recognized but never had learned to read rushed past. They were replaced by a profile of a high school boy wearing glasses. His short black hair was unkempt about his face and ears like a mane that’d broken several combs.

The mischief in his easy smile, pointed chin, and wide but unreadable eyes marked him no matter how lightly as Rise’s kin. Nozomi turned her attention next to a body outline beside it; it’s surface lit up in the manner of a thermal scan. Blue flames dancing vibrantly flickered beyond the edges.

“Well I’ll be, you weren’t lying.” Nozomi slipped out.

“Of course not. He’s my family, even if I almost never see him. If anything happened to him I’d- well that’s why I want your help.”

For the first time surprising even herself, Nozomi chuckled. The sound washed over her as something foreign, something that should have long stopped between them.

“You’re kind as ever, Rise. That part hasn’t changed at all.”

“You’ve got a girlfriend you know. Flattery won’t get you something.” Rise countered, huffing. It quickly masked her tiny instinct to smile.

“That’s not what I-! It was just an observation.”

“Actually on that note...why can’t I sense your Persona? Sure you might not be able to summon but...the energy reading is gone.”

Nozomi shrunk away as the images on the panels shifted into her likeness. She took a deep breath and balled her hands. Her eyes lowered while the sinking pit in her stomach felt as though it would harden into lead. The fear that her scars would wake crept through a crack in her thoughts.

“I...I stopped using it. Stopped acknowledging it. I’m sure by now I’ve all but lost it completely.”

“...And you couldn’t have told me this earlier? There’s no way I can go back to the Other World by myself, you know that!”

“I wanted to at least hear you out. There’s gotta be other ways I can help, right?”

“Yeah but that’s not the point. I thought you’d be able to defend me in that place. If it came to that anyway.”

In a dim cloak of light Kanzeon vanished within Rise; a shadow jumping inside what cast it. She crossed her arms and tapped a foot, furious. It was the same pose she’d worn when discovering Nozomi had once crammed till collapsing for exams. Or had eaten the last leftovers in the fridge without warning. Or had once forgotten their date, or-

“I guess you can at the very least help me explain the Other World to him. Help him if he is in danger and doesn’t know what to do. Give him some advice. He’s clever for someone his age, but he’s not invincible, you know?”

Nozomi’s expression softened.

“No one is, Rise.”

“Besides in that way he reminds me of you. Stubborn to boot too. But a good person.”

As Rise spoke a corner of Nozomi’s mind drifted toward the lowest level of her thoughts. The thoughts that were not thoughts as they were base instincts. She called out there to her Persona; there came no answer. She tried again, and again. No answer. A wave of sudden panic flushed through her. At its barest it filled her eyes with dread. She yearned then for a single connection, anything at all. If Rise noticed she said nothing. The silence unnerved.

“I thought your family were still in Inaba though. Why the sudden change?”

“He got himself in trouble with the law. An assault charge. He’s lucky the most they went for was probation under a guardian. Even then they’ve got him on a tight leash.”

In one motion Rise darted forward and grasped Nozomi’s hands. When she looked down she admired for an instant the manicure Rise had maintained. The grip was firm enough to make her gasp quietly.

“Please, Nozomi. If we can get to the bottom of this then we can stop something awful from trying to repeat. We can save people’s lives! And then...I can get out of your way. But I’m not going to sit around and let people get hurt.”

Nozomi averted Rise’s stare that had only seemed to encompass all her vision. She cowered and took a step back. Her voice quivered.

“We aren’t on the Investigation Team anymore.”

“...You left us.”

It was the first harsh sound Rise had uttered in the dark. A truth within a truth. Rise’s hands pulled away to rest at her sides. Her expression remained gentle, and that cut through Nozomi with greater strength than any twisted abomination. Her scars tingled. She watched Rise sigh and edge away as though to leave, throwing her into panic. She felt the pounding in her chest, the nausea when indeed Rise was turning her back. The feel of her heart grew painful and swelled; suddenly it seemed ten sizes too large. She’d known this scene once before, carried its guilt in her dreams. It echoed from her memory until she could taste bitterness.

Without looking behind Rise stopped and quietly spoke. It was genuine.

“If you don’t want to do this I can understand. I remember what happened you know. I can do this alone. For as long as it takes the others to arrive-eh?”

“I’ll do it.”

Slowly Rise looked down to find Nozomi’s hand gripped around her wrist. Her eyes widened but she remained still. She made a soft gasp seeing the fingers tremble. The calm she’d worn was pushed back like pavement being cracked by ancient roots. The tendrils of worry knotted together with alarm in her expression. They corrupted whatever relief she may have had. Nozomi stood, her teeth grit and her face a mess of harsh angles; mustering her resolve, hacking at the chains of fear.

Rise’s blood ran cold if for a moment. It wakened her memories of the TV hunts, of Nozomi’s wild dances with death in their fog. Her stomach sank. She was caught by hesitation, scolded by shame.

“Nozomi...not if you look like you’re forcing yourself. It was stupid of me to ask such a big deal from you after what happened. You never could shake that place. I just didn’t know what to do and-”

“Rise I will do this. You were right again, as usual. If I run, how am I any better than Adachi if things get worse?”

Rise stiffened at the name, paling a degree. Nozomi’s grip grew firmer.

“My problems I...can work through them. As long as I don’t slow you down too much.”

The edge in her voice made Rise stifle a shiver. Sighing she let Nozomi hold her hand and turned it into a gentle handshake. An urge welled and spread through her in an air of nostalgia; she welcomed the tone she once knew stopped Nozomi’s shakes in her fitful sleep.

“If it ever gets too hard, please tell me. In fact I’ll do my best to keep you out of any fighting as best I can.”

At last Nozomi smiled at her, however faint.

“Thank you.”

The drive home found her empty headed. Her body knew only the numb tension that followed recklessness. The will she’d found sputtered into silence and shuffled its feet back into the recesses of her mind. Each now buzzing nerve began to coil until like a spring she burst aloud at a red light.

“Dammit why can’t I say no to her?!”

The edge of her hands still hurt from pounding the steering wheel when she fumbled for her house keys. Eli was as she’d been left, though now deeper in the blankets. Nozomi’s note fluttered with each of her breaths. The sight of her made Nozomi breathe deeply to drink in reality. She stripped as though the clothes were fire with her scars now pulsating. She didn’t mind where she stepped, stopping at her underwear. Sitting on the bed did little to ease her.

An impulse that refused to be squashed made her look at the nightstand.

It was wrapped in an air of the forbidden, meant to be forgotten. Built to house the feeling, even. She held her wrist tight then curled her fingers. Her hands trembled. Gritting her teeth she let out a grunt and in one swipe opened the drawer. Her flip phone lay as she’d left it.

A thin layer of dust from long before it’d been placed there was broken at her touch. It left goosebumps on her skin, the ghosts of battles scraped through, the shelter within the Junes food court, exams, endless summer days and long winter nights. Nights where in some she could still feel Rise’s kiss, or her shiver when Nozomi touched her right. Of her warm smiles and soft voice. Of the blood and screams. The burn melting into her muscle as her own flesh was ripped open.

She shut it quickly at that, her knuckles white. Under the duvet she curled into a ball. She hugged her sides as though to keep them stitched together. Squeezing shut her eyes, she rolled to face Eli, mapping not for the first time Rise’s face in its place. It made her whine, fearful and shaking as the tears spilled down her cheeks. Her sleep was dreamless. She hardly noticed it take her.

#this has been in planning since last summer i can finally just do what i want #nozorise #OK to reblog #love live!#persona #nozomi tojo #rise kujikawa

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godaddywebsitebuilder285 · 3 years

Text

Mr. Roboto: Connecting with Technology

People don’t always need another human being to experience a sense of connection. The deep emotional bonds many people have with their pets proves this. (So might the popularity of the Pet Rock in the 1970s but that’s just speculation.) Even Link in The Legend of Zelda had an inanimate companion: his trusty sword (see Figure 9.1).

Fig 9.1 Even the company of a wooden sword is better than venturing into Hyrule alone.

It’s also possible for people to feel that sense of connection in the context of behavior change without having direct relationships with others. By building your product in a way that mimics some of the characteristics of a person-to-person relationship, you can make it possible for your users to feel connected to it. It is possible to coax your users to fall at least a little bit in love with your products; if you don’t believe me, try to get an iPhone user to switch operating systems.

It’s not just about really liking a product (although you definitely want users to really like your product). With the right design elements, your users might embark on a meaningful bond with your technology, where they feel engaged in an ongoing, two-way relationship with an entity that understands something important about them, yet is recognizably non-human. This is a true emotional attachment that supplies at least some of the benefits of a human-to-human relationship. This type of connection can help your users engage more deeply and for a longer period of time with your product. And that should ultimately help them get closer to their behavior change goals.

Amp Up the Anthropomorphization

People can forge relationships with non-humans easily because of a process called anthropomorphization. To anthropomorphize something means to impose human characteristics on it. It’s what happens when you see a face in the array of shapes on the right side in Figure 9.2, or when you carry on an extended conversation with your cat.[1]

Fig 9.2 The brain is built to seek and recognize human characteristics whenever a pattern suggests they might be there. That means people interpret the array of shapes on the right as face-like, but not the one on the left.

People will find the human qualities in shapes that slightly resemble a face, but you can help speed that process along by deliberately imbuing your product with physical or personality features that resemble people. Voice assistants like Siri, Cortana, and Alexa, for example, are easily perceived as human-like by users thanks to their ability to carry on a conversation much like a (somewhat single-minded) person.

Granted, almost nobody would mistake Alexa for a real person, but her human characteristics are pretty convincing. Some research suggests that children who grow up around these voice assistants may be less polite when asking for help, because they hear adults make demands of their devices without saying please or thank you. If you’re asking Siri for the weather report and there are little ones in earshot, consider adding the other magic words to your request.

So, if you want people to anthropomorphize your product, give it some human characteristics. Think names, avatars, a voice, or even something like a catchphrase. These details will put your users’ natural anthropomorphization tendencies into hyperdrive.

Everything Is Personal

One thing humans do well is personalization. You don’t treat your parent the same way you treat your spouse the same way you treat your boss. Each interaction is different based on the identity of the person you’re interacting with and the history you have with them. Technology can offer that same kind of individualized experience as another way to mimic people, with lots of other benefits.

Personalization is the Swiss Army Knife of the behavior change design toolkit. It can help you craft appropriate goals and milestones, deliver the right feedback at the right time, and offer users meaningful choices in context. It can also help forge an emotional connection between users and technology when it’s applied in a way that helps users feel seen and understood.

Some apps have lovely interfaces that let users select colors or background images or button placements for a “personalized” experience. While these types of features are nice, they don’t scratch the itch of belonging that true personalization does. When personalization works, it’s because it reflects something essential about the user back to them. That doesn’t mean it has to be incredibly deep, but it does need to be somewhat more meaningful than whether the user has a pink or green background on their home screen.

Personalized Preferences

During onboarding or early in your users’ product experience, allow them to personalize preferences that will shape their experiences in meaningful ways (not just color schemes and dashboard configurations). For example, Fitbit asks people their preferred names, and then greets them periodically using their selection. Similarly, LoseIt asks users during setup if they enjoy using data and technology as part of their weight loss process (Figure 9.3). Users who say yes are given an opportunity to integrate trackers and other devices with the app; users who say no are funneled to a manual entry experience. The user experience changes to honor something individual about the user.

Fig 9.3 LoseIt gives users an opportunity to share their technology preferences during onboarding and then uses that choice to shape their future experience.

If you can, recall back to ancient times when Facebook introduced an algorithmic sort of posts in the newsfeed. Facebook users tend to be upset anytime there’s a dramatic change to the interface, but their frustration with this one has persisted, for one core reason: Facebook to this day reverts to its own sorting algorithm as a default, even if a user has selected to organize content by date instead. This repeated insistence on their preference over users’ makes it less likely that users will feel “seen” by Facebook.[2]

Personalized Recommendations

If you’ve ever shopped online, you’ve probably received personalized recommendations. Amazon is the quintessential example of a recommendation engine. Other commonly encountered personalized recommendations include Facebook’s “People You May Know” and Netflix’s “Top Picks for [Your Name Here].” These tools use algorithms that suggest new items based on data about what people have done in the past.

Recommendation engines can follow two basic models of personalization. The first one is based on products or items. Each item is tagged with certain attributes. For example, if you were building a workout recommendation engine, you might tag the item of “bicep curls” with “arm exercise,” “upper arm,” and “uses weights.” An algorithm might then select “triceps pulldowns” as a similar item to recommend, since it matches on those attributes. This type of recommendation algorithm says, “If you liked this item, you will like this similar item.”

The second personalization model is based on people. People who have attributes in common are identified by a similarity index. These similarity indices can include tens or hundreds of variables to precisely match people to others who are like them in key ways. Then the algorithm makes recommendations based on items that lookalike users have chosen. This recommendation algorithm says, “People like you liked these items.”

In reality, many of the more sophisticated recommendation engines (like Amazon’s) blend the two types of algorithms in a hybrid approach. And they’re effective. McKinsey estimates that 35% of what Amazon sells and 75% of what Netflix users watch are recommended by these engines.

Don’t Overwhelm

Sometimes what appear to be personalized recommendations can come from a much simpler sort of algorithm that doesn’t take an individual user’s preferences into account at all. These algorithms might just surface the suggestions that are most popular among all users, which isn’t always a terrible strategy. Some things are popular for a reason. Or recommendations could be made in a set order that doesn’t depend on user characteristics at all. This appears to be the case with the Fabulous behavior change app that offers users a series of challenges like “drink water,” “eat a healthy breakfast,” and “get morning exercise,” regardless of whether these behaviors are already part of their routine or not.

When recommendation algorithms work well, they can help people on the receiving end feel like their preferences and needs are understood. When I browse the playlists Spotify creates for me, I see several aspects of myself reflected. There’s a playlist with my favorite 90s alt-rock, one with current artists I like, and a third with some of my favorite 80s music (Figure 9.4). Amazon has a similar ability to successfully extrapolate what a person might like from their browsing and purchasing history. I was always amazed that even though I didn’t buy any of my kitchen utensils from Amazon, they somehow figured out that I have the red KitchenAid line.

Fig 9.4 Spotify picks up on the details of users’ musical selections to construct playlists that reflect multiple aspects of their tastes.

A risk to this approach is that recommendations might become redundant as the database of items grows. Retail products are an easy example; for many items, once people have bought one, they likely don’t need another, but algorithms aren’t always smart enough to stop recommending similar purchases (see Figure 9.5). The same sort of repetition can happen with behavior change programs. There are only so many different ways to set reminders, for example, so at some point it’s a good idea to stop bombarding a user with suggestions on the topic.

Fig 9.5 When a user only needs a finite number of something, or has already satisfied a need, it’s easy for recommendations to become redundant.

Don’t Be Afraid to Learn

Data-driven personalization comes with another set of risks. The more you know about users, the more they expect you to provide relevant and accurate suggestions. Even the smartest technology will get things wrong sometimes. Give your users opportunities to point out if your product is off-base, and adjust accordingly. Not only will this improve your accuracy over time, but it will also reinforce your users’ feelings of being cared for.

Alfred was a recommendation app developed by Clever Sense to help people find new restaurants based on their own preferences, as well as input from their social networks. One of Alfred’s mechanisms for gathering data was to ask users to confirm which restaurants they liked from a list of possibilities (see Figure 9.6). Explicitly including training in the experience helped Alfred make better and better recommendations while also giving users the opportunity to chalk errors up to a need for more training.[3]

Fig 9.6 Alfred included a learning mode where users would indicate places they already enjoyed eating. That data helped improve Alfred’s subsequent recommendations.

Having a mechanism for users to exclude some of their data from an algorithm can also be helpful. Amazon allows users to indicate which items in their purchase history should be ignored when making recommendations—a feature that comes in handy if you buy gifts for loved ones whose tastes are very different from yours.

On the flip side, deliberately throwing users a curve ball is a great way to learn more about their tastes and preferences. Over time, algorithms are likely to become more consistent as they get better at pattern matching. Adding the occasional mold-breaking suggestion can prevent boredom and better account for users’ quirks. Just because someone loves meditative yoga doesn’t mean they don’t also like going mountain biking once in a while, but most recommendation engines won’t learn that because they’ll be too busy recommending yoga videos and mindfulness exercises. Every now and then add something into the mix that users won’t expect. They’ll either reject it or give it a whirl; either way, your recommendation engine gets smarter.

Personalized Coaching

At some point, recommendations in the context of behavior change may become something more robust: an actual personalized plan of action. When recommendations grow out of the “you might also like” phase into “here’s a series of steps that should work for you,” they become a little more complicated. Once a group of personalized recommendations have some sort of cohesiveness to systematically guide a person toward a goal, it becomes coaching.

More deeply personalized coaching leads to more effective behavior change. One study by Dr. Vic Strecher, whom you met in Chapter 3, showed that the more a smoking cessation coaching plan was personalized, the more likely people were to successfully quit smoking. A follow-up study by Dr. Strecher’s team used fMRI technology to discover that when people read personalized information, it activates areas of their brain associated with the self (see Figure 9.7). That is, people perceive personalized information as self-relevant on a neurological level.

Fig 9.7 This is an fMRI image showing activation in a person’s medial prefrontal cortex (mPFC), an area of the brain associated with the self. The brain activity was recorded after showing people personalized health information.

This is important because people are more likely to remember and act on relevant information. If you want people to do something, personalize the experience that shows them how.

From a practical perspective, personalized coaching also helps overcome a common barrier: People do not want to spend a lot of time reading content. If your program can provide only the most relevant items while leaving the generic stuff on the cutting room floor, you’ll offer more concise content that people may actually read.

0 notes

playfullyevil · 6 years

Text

Walkabout chapter 3/3

The last part of my fic for The Magnus Archives

Jonathan is in trouble, what happens now? (aka: I am bad at summaries)

As always thanks to erikaangelchild for the beta!

**Edit** so I initially posted the whole thing as one big post but when I woke up the next day it had been cut off after the first chapter. Now that post has the whole thing again? idk so this may be a repeat, I don’t even know anymore.

Returning to consciousness was not a straightforward journey for Jon, he bobbed near the surface of awareness, brushing against it, but couldn’t quite seem to break through. A slow drip of water echoed in what sounded to be a large space from very far away before retreating back into nothingness. He thought he may have opened his eyes at one point. There was dim light and soft shapes that stubbornly refused to focus but they didn’t last long. Trying to concentrate was exhausting, his meager grip on reality slipped and all was again darkness.

He might have been laying down but couldn’t quite tell in which direction “up” is hiding. Maybe there was movement from somewhere around him but that could be his own breathing. His thoughts were beginning to come into focus. Though they were disorganized as the archive he managed.

Used to manage. The thought came stumbling in a bit after the last. Jon chose to take comfort that he was able to correct an error in his own thinking before fading out again.

Moving any part of his body seemed like more effort than he could bear at the moment. Even the thought of opening his eyes seemed a herculean task. He settled on passive observation to gather information. The dripping sound was back. So, not deaf. Put that in the column labeled “good news”, he remarked dryly to himself. Ah, sarcasm, there’s another for column A.

The dripping wasn’t loud or overly frequent but it was steady. As far as he could tell, he wasn’t wet, more good news. The air smelled damp to a degree that lined up with the water sound. It took effort but his thoughts were beginning to coalesce in a more orderly fashion. The desire to slip back into unawareness beckoned to Jon but he pushed past it.

Okay, so musty smell and dripping water. Sewer? No, a sewer would smell worse. Basement? Maybe. Oh Christ! Please not the tunnels! Have I been brought back so the Not-Them could finish the job?

The thought prompted a sharp gasp of air which wheeled his attention back to his own body.

His sense of awareness in space was much less confused than earlier. Jon was not lying down as he initially thought. He was seated, well slumped, in a high backed wooden chair. His head lolled back and to the left, nestled between the chair back and his shoulder. His arms rested on those of the chair, and his legs were planted on the floor roughly shoulder width apart. It wasn’t the most comfortable of positions but the act of actually moving to do something about it still seemed still beyond his grasp.

He thought about moving without actually succeeding in doing so for some time. He tried to focus on twitching his hand or stretching out his leg but his mind drifted back toward something akin to sleep before his muscles would obey. Eventually, he managed to crack open his eyes. The light was diffuse and the world was out of focus, but in a familiar way. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. Unfortunate but not incapacitating. His eyesight wasn’t that bad compared to some, just enough to give the world a soft focus like what they used in the old Star Trek reruns he saw as a child. After a few blinks he was able to focus on what appeared to be the ceiling of a cellar of some kind.

His face and mouth itched enough that the urge to scratch finally overrode the weight of inertia he seemed to be under. His hand twitched in the direction of his face but never reached its destination. Not for lack of trying though. His wrist was secured firmly to the chair. Both were. Legs too he discovered a moment later. Damn.

Jon struggled to lift his head and get a better look at his situation. The blood that had collected in the back of his skull drained readily as gravity took over. The world tilted making him lightheaded and a bit nauseous. The sensation reminded him exactly why he hadn’t touched tequila since university. Facing forward, he focused on what appeared to be a door and took several steadying breaths while he waited for the room to cease its swaying.

Stomach and brain mostly settled, Jon took stock of the room, at least what he could see from his vantage point. The area in front of him was about three meters across. The wall was old brick but to Jon’s relief, they were red and not the black brick that lined the tunnels under the Institute. A rough hewn door was placed centrally in the wall. Light filtered in from somewhere above and behind him. He had no way of knowing how far the room extended behind him but if he had to guess, he was in what was once a coal storage room similar to the one in his grandmother’s basement.

Looking down at himself in the low light he saw his arms and legs secured to those of the chair by means of silver duct tape. At some point while he was out his coat had been removed, but it was not so cold for that to be a problem. Jon pulled at his bonds to no avail. He was likely to have bruises show up in a couple of days if he wasn’t careful.

If I live that long.

A rue laugh huffed out of him. The skin around his mouth still itched and burned a bit but he wasn’t gagged. The thought of yelling for help occurred to him. Judging from how thick the walls appeared and the lack of outside noises filtering down from above, it was unlikely that anyone but his captor would hear his cries for help.

“If screaming could help me, I doubt I would be capable of doing it at present.” The words came out dry, in a way that pricked at the back of his throat uncomfortably. His attempt at clearing it sent him into an outright coughing fit. A wave of dizziness passed over him as he coughed, but nothing as severe as earlier. When it cleared, he still felt a bit off but less akin to his idiot uni binge drinking, and more like two ciders on an empty stomach. Whatever it was seemed to be clearing out of his system at a decent pace.

Small favors, I suppose.

Jon swallowed carefully and sighed, “Well I’m not just going to sit here and wait for death or…” Sighing again he set about pulling free one of his hands. The left one seemed to have a bit more give. Working methodically, he felt he was making some minor progress at least. The tape around his wrist seemed to be stretching a little.

Maybe, just maybe… Tucking his thumb as much as he could Jon winced as he did his best to squeeze his hand from its restraint.

The sound of someone descending creaking stairs stopped him cold.

Jon gave another frantic tug and let out a pained hiss of breath when the tape refused to give way. It was no good, with enough time he might have been able to work free one of his hands but he no longer had that time. The footsteps finished their decent and the crisp sound of hard soled shoes rang across the stone floor as they approached the door.

Bottling down on the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, Jon closed his eyes and resumed the closest thing he could recall to the position from which he had awoken. Doing his best to even out his breathing, he waited. There was a click from behind the door and through closed eyes, he could tell a light had been switched on.

More sounds, a ring of keys, the turning of a lock, a door opening. Whoever it was stepped through and shut the door behind them but did not seem to lock it. Jon couldn’t remember if there had been a lock on this side of the door, he hadn’t thought to check.

A disappointed sigh came from the air in front of him. “I know you’re awake, Jon. You can stop this play acting.”

He considered continuing to feign unconsciousness simply to spite the man whose voice he identified as belonging to his former boss. Ultimately, Jon decided against provoking a suspected murderer. There didn’t seem to be an obvious threat in the statement but his voice was firm and discouraged argument.

Cracking open his eyes, Elias Bouchard, head of the Magnus Institute, stood framed against the wooden door. At first glance, he may have appeared casual but Jon knew that every move Elias made had an undercurrent of power and control. He wore creased brown trousers paired with matching jacket. Above a dark blue V-necked sweater, a white shirt collar peaked out, secured at the neck by a knotted, paisley tie. No signs of the day’s previous struggle rumpled his immaculate clothes. He stood, back straight, and in his left hand he held a glass of water with a pair of glasses hooked between his fingers.

“That’s better,” he said with an edge of satisfaction and took a step towards Jon.

Jon flinched away, pressing himself as far back in the chair as he could. The sudden movement overbalanced him and he began to tip backward. Elias’s hand shot out and grabbed the chair back before it could fall, the sleeve of his jacket brushed against Jon’s ear.

Jon tugged again at his bindings, trying to squirm away from the man now looming over him while Elias settled the chair firmly on the floor.

“Shhhh, Jon, calm down.” Elias’s hand moved from the chair to Jon’s shoulder. He squeezed in what may have been an attempt at comfort or what could have been a threat. Judging by how close the hand was to his neck and how firm his grip was, Jon really couldn’t be sure either way. Elias’s eyes met his and he cocked his head ever so slightly, and gave a small smile. Again, Jon was unable to discern intended comfort or threat.

Whether from the touch, the words, the eye contact, or simply paralyzed by blind fear Jon stilled.

Elias gave Jon’s shoulder another squeeze before releasing him and stepping back.

“Elias, what is going on? Where am I and why have- “

“Would you like some water?” the older man cut him off, “You must be thirsty.”

The words had a genuine sounding kindness to them that made Jon pause. At the mention of thirst, he swallowed and coughed once. “Um… yes actually, I…” His eyes shifted from Elias to around the room before landing once again on his former boss. “What are you playing at? What is all… this?” he gave a halfhearted tug against the chair to punctuate his words.

“I couldn’t have you running off again before we had a proper chance to chat.”

“I, uh…What?”

“Would you have come willingly if I had asked nicely?”

“Probably not.”

“Precisely.”

Elias produced a knife from his pocket and opened it with a click making Jon’s heart skip a beat.

“Do calm down,” Elias scolded as if addressing a particularly disobedient puppy. “You’ll need a free hand if you want to drink the water. I’m not going to feed you like an infant.”

The older man bent down and slid the sharp looking blade between Jon’s wrist and the chair it was held to. A quick motion sliced through the bunched tape and Jon’s left hand was free. Elias took a smooth step back before Jon had more than the briefest flicker of a thought to make a grab for the knife.

His newly freed hand throbbed slightly as the blood returned to full circulation. Red marks on his wrist stood out in stark contrast to his pale flesh. He flexed his hand experimentally and shook out his arm once before bringing it up to scratch his face. It was more tender than he thought and he winced when he came across what seemed to be a sore on the side of his mouth.

“Chemical burn,” Elias responded to the unasked question, “chloroform has a rather low vapor pressure. An unfortunate side effect but nothing too severe, should heal in a couple of days.”

The hand holding the knife had been lowered but he made no move to put it away. “Are we going to have a problem?”

Jon fixed Elias with an incredulous look but managed to bite back the words threatening to spill out of him. Are we going to have a fucking problem!? You kidnapped me! I’m tied to a goddamn chair! Of course, we have a problem!

“Any new problems at least.” Elias amended, reading the look on Jon’s face. He held up the glass of water, not quite offering it just yet. Not a drop had been spilled despite Elias having moved suddenly to catch his falling chair. Of course, Elias would be the kind of person who could carry a cup full to the brim down a flight of stairs without a drop ending up on the saucer.

Wincing as he passed his hand over his mouth again he managed to grind out a, “No, I suppose not.”

Anger was replacing his previous fear and the impulse to resist at every possible moment was strong. The picture Jon’s logical brain was piecing together however, implied that Elias didn’t want him dead. Not yet at least. Elias wanted something, whether as an agent of Beholding or as something else, only time would tell. But that meant that he had time to pick his moment later.

The older man fixed Jon with the full force of his gaze, scrutinizing him. A few moments later he stepped forward to hold the water within Jon’s reach.

It was warm to the touch and lighter than he had expected. Plastic, not glass as he had originally assumed. That definitely lowered its value as any kind of weapon. Jon caught a faint hint of lemon and some kind of sweetness when he sniffed at the liquid. Was he trying to hide some kind of poison? Jon met Elias’s gaze over the glass and cocked a questioning eyebrow.

“Really, Jon? Why would I poison you? If I wanted you dead you never would have woken up in the first place. You had a rather nasty coughing fit while you were unconscious. It seemed you could do with a bit of honey lemon water. No one is forcing you to drink it, dump it on the floor for all I care.”

The thought of throwing the drink in Elias’s face was quite appealing. Anything to rumple the older man’s proper appearance and bring him down a peg or two. It wouldn’t be worth it though. As glorious as the mental image was, truth be told, Jon’s throat was dry and sore. If he threw this away it was doubtful he would be getting more anytime soon.

Jon raised the glass to his lips took an experimental sip. The warm drink was indeed soothing on his sore throat. He paused, waiting to see if his previous nausea or drowsiness returned. When none did he continued drinking.

Jon nodded to Elias, “Are those my glasses?”

“They are. Would you like them?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Elias stepped forward once again, extending the glasses. It was a bit awkward with only one hand to work with but eventually Jon managed to get them settled on his face. The world came into focus, giving him access to a few more details. Elias’s crisp suit had dark blue pinstripes matching the sweater he wore. But more interestingly, a red mark stood out on Elia’s temple. It would seem Jon had managed to clip him with a wild punch or an elbow during the attack. Seeing that the older man hadn’t made it out completely unscathed caused Jon to smile slightly.

If Elias noticed the change in expression, he did not react.

“Jon,” he began, “you are not a stupid man but you certainly have been behaving as one lately.”

“Says the psychotic killer.” Jon spat, glancing toward the knife.

“Rather messy work were I to guess, and not something undertaken lightly.” Elias said darkly, contemplating the knife in his hand briefly before returning his gaze to the Archivist. “And I’ll thank you not to interrupt me.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at Elias but did not speak.

“As I said, you’re not a stupid man. However, bumbling your way through morning rush hour…” Elias made a tsk noise as he folded the knife with a practiced motion and returned it to his pocket. “You nearly walked right into a trap.”

“It would seem I did walk into a trap!” he used his free hand to gesture to the basement cell they currently inhabited.

“Though it may not look it, it was in fact, a rescue.”

Jon scoffed. “In that case I don’t suppose you’ll mind if I get myself out of here.” He began to work at the tape holding his right arm to the chair.

“Jon,” Elias warned, “Don’t”

The command gave him pause, but a heartbeat later he resumed work.

“You will be released when we are finished here, but until then-“ Elias seized Jon’s wrist with surprising strength. “This is for your protection as much as mine, we are worried you are going to hurt yourself.”

Jon managed to twist free from Elias’s grip and land a punch to the side of his head. The older man stumbled back with a cry of surprise and pain. Jon scrabbled at the tape wrapped around his still bound wrist. It was too bunched from his earlier escape attempts to tear easily.

He had managed to work a small tear started along one edge when a hand caught him across the face, stunning him. His ears rung, his head swam, and he tasted blood. Then Elias had him by the throat and pulled him forward.

“Jonathan Sims, I am not an unreasonable man but you seem determined to test my limits” Every syllable was clipped, clear, and enunciated with precision. Only the strong pulse of the vein on his neck, of which Jon had a close-up view, betrayed anger in Elias’s calm demeanor.

Blood pounding in his ears Jon grasped at the hand around his throat, desperately to pry free the squeezing fingers. No good, darkness was creeping at the edges of his vision, he had to try something else. Abandoning his previous plan of attack, he decided to go for the eyes. Elias was fast, almost as if he had anticipated the move and with his free hand batted away Jon’s attack.

Releasing his throat, Elias grabbed Jon’s arm in both hands and slammed it back against the chair’s wooden arm sending a shock of pain up his elbow. Through great gasps of air and a subsequent coughing fit, he was dimly aware of the older man reaching behind the chair to retrieve a roll of tape. Using one hand to press down on Jon’s now quite sore wrist he wrapped the tape around several times, much more tightly than before. After a quick look at the state of it, the process was repeated on his right arm.

Jon’s hands throbbed as the bindings began cutting off circulation. He grunted and pulled at them to no avail before sagging back down in the chair, defeated.

The commotion had mussed Elias more than a bit. His hair in every which way, jacket out of place, and tie askew. There had still been a bit of water in the glass and what was left had managed to spill down the knee of his trouser legs. The placement and quantity weren’t all that evocative of having pissed himself but Jon took what little comfort he could at his former boss’s expense.

The older man undid his top button and began pulling at the knot of his tie. Taking piece of paisley fabric off, he folded it and stowed it away in the jacket’s inside pocket. He brushed the residual water from his slacks then shed his jacket and folded it over one arm. He raked his hand through his hair and took a breath to compose himself.

The end result was the most casually dressed he thinks he’s ever seen Elias. Tim had once made a joke that the Bouchard children must all born wearing perfectly tailored suits. Martin had chimed in with, “Bespoke Babies, by Bouchard” It had actually managed to illicit half a rare laugh out of Jon. That was back before Prentiss, when the archival team were all on speaking terms.

“Are you finished having your tantrum?” Elias sighed.

Jon glowered and shifted in his chair to a more comfortable position. Flexing his bound hands, he said nothing but reluctantly nodded once.

“Good.” He regarded the man seated before him for moment, seeming to look almost through him. “You need to be more careful. All it took was a few notes from Nikolai Denikin’s steam organ to send you flying away in a panic.”

“How do you know about- “

“How do you think, Jon? Watching is what we do. You were reasonably well hidden from them before but after today, I fear they will be narrowing their focus on you. The archives are protected but I cannot let you return to them just yet. We need those statements.”

“What? I don’t- What-? The statements?” Jon was suddenly at a loss. “And what makes you think I would want to ever set foot in that cursed building again!?”

“You’re the Archivist,” Elias said without a trace of irony, “you belong there. It is more a home to you than you have ever had or ever will.”

It was something he knew deep down but was unwilling to admit. Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, marked by Beholding, belongs in the Archives. No matter what he does, how he tries to fight against it, he will always return to the Archive. That realization hit him like a physical weight and he blinked back tears.

“As for the missing statements, they have a way of finding their way back to the Archivist even if was an Archivist who initially stole them. For some reason the statements we need the most are being prevented from returning to the Archive itself. Once you left, lo and behold, they started showing up at your door.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Once you stop fighting and accept your role you will be able to answer that for yourself.”

“Stop fighting…”

“Yes. At least with us, Jon. For now. Larger things are coming and we need you with us on this one.”

“The Unknowing?”

“The Unknowing. Gertrude hid things away from us, things we need for the coming battles. Those statements give us the shape of what we’re up against.” Urgency crept into Elias’s voice as he spoke. “Pieces are moving sooner than we anticipated and it is crucial we see the whole playing field before the fight begins.”

“So, you need me to stay in hiding, waiting for breadcrumbs from my dead predecessor.” Jon leaned forward, tape digging into his arms, “My predecessor, whom you murdered in cold blood.”

“I told you, I don’t want to hurt you. There are larger things at stake than the life of any one person,” his voice hardened, “even if they are the Archivist.” His eyes met with Jon’s and held them there.

“Would you like some time to think on this?”

The two men stayed that way for some time, eyes locked on one another. Jon held is gaze for as long as he was able but in the end, blinked first. Elias looked resigned as he pulled out the knife from his pocket.

The Archivist held his face impassive as the older man approached.

The knife opened with a click.

Elias crouched, bringing himself to eye level with Jon. The Archivist closed his eyes and waited.

There was a sharp tug at his left leg, then his right. Jon opened his eyes to see Elias evaluating the much tighter tape restraining his arms. The older man seemed to contemplate this for a moment before folding away his knife and getting to work peeling up the end, unwinding the tape from around Jon’s arm. The last few loops had dug in deeply and he hissed out a noise of pain as they came away.

Before he could pull his arm away completely from the chair, Elias placed a firm, but oddly gentle hand on the back of his hand. “Not yet.” He made quick work of the other arm before stepping back and nodding.

Jon’s hands ached and throbbed in time with his beating heart as circulation in his fingers was restored. His left wrist was especially tender and he took turns massaging one then the other.

“Am I free to go?”

“Yes. Of course, you are still wanted by the police so I would advise against returning to your flat. I did however, take the liberty and you will find some clothes and cash upstairs”

The thought of Elias rummaging around his flat was not a pleasant one. Especially after the man had framed him for murder.

“Detective Tonnor drew her own conclusion on the matter. I never suggested you were the culprit.”

How did he-?

“You’re very easy to read, Jon. Don’t worry, we’ll work on that when you get back.”

Jon stood to meet Elias’s gaze. “’When I get back?’ How long do you suppose that will be?”

“That depends on how many statements need to find their way back to you. We’ll be in touch.”

“If I can’t go home and I can’t go back to the Magnus Institute, where am I supposed to go?”

“Back to Georgina Barker’s, of course. Do clean yourself up a bit before you go, you know how she worries. Lucky for you it is cold enough for long sleeved shirts.” He said, glancing down and the angry marks on Jon’s wrists.

The Archivist’s hands balled into fists and he imagined punching the smug expression off Elias Bouchard’s face. He forced it down and made himself open his hands.

Elias raised his eyebrows and seemed genuinely pleased. It was unsettling.

“I don’t want to put her in danger. Is there any way to guarantee her safety?”

“Almost certainly not. No one is ever safe, especially with what is coming. What I can tell you is that she is in no more danger than any other person in the city. Provided you don’t lead them directly to her door.

“Keep an eye out, you’re better at spotting these kinds of things than you know. I would never have hired you otherwise. This won’t be the first time they try to flush you out. They want you to act without thinking. Don’t let them dictate your behavior. You were lucky I got to you before they did.”

Jon scoffed and continued rubbing his wrist, “Yeah, lucky.”

“You have no idea how lucky.” Elias fixed Jon with an intense stare. “I did what I had to do quickly and quietly. If you had managed to cause a scene the both of us, along with anyone else who’s attention you called, would be off somewhere having our flesh peeled away with excruciating slowness all while they render the fat from our still living bodies. Believe me, they can extend that process for months. Every moment an agony, unable to move, unable to sleep, unable to scream.”

That stopped Jon cold. The two men stood in uncomfortable silence.

“Do keep an eye on cats.” Elias suddenly remarked. “They don’t react favorably to aspects of the Stranger. Think of them as an… early warning signal.”

“Okay…?” Jon responded, off balance as the tension bled away. “Are there any lying in wait nearby? Aspects, not cats.”

“Not here, they seem to be focusing on the south side for now. They will probably disperse soon enough, they typically don’t have the patience for a drawn-out hunt.”

“Comforting.” Jon remarked dryly.

“We take what little comfort where we can.” Elias shifted his jacket to his other arm before opening the door to the small room and walking out. “I need to get back to the Institute. You’ll see yourself out?”

“Fine, sure.”

Elias nodded, turned, and walked away. As he climbed the stairs. Jon could swear he saw a hint of something metallic tucked in the waistband at the small of the other man’s back.

The Archivist, and that’s what he is no matter how he struggles against it, stretched and turned to survey the room now that he’d been freed from that damn chair. His limbs ached from sitting on its hard surface for who knows how long.

Off to the side of the wooden chair, he spotted his coat sitting atop what appeared to be a large roll of industrial garbage bags. He tried not to think too hard about it as he retrieved his coat. Footsteps creaked on the floorboards overhead and the sound of a door opening then closing drifted down from above. Elias had left. Time to retrieve whatever clothes and money are waiting for him upstairs before doing the same.

As his hand hovered over the switch to the light for that small room, Jon remembered Martin describing how he found the previous Archivist. A small square room, underground, in a wooden chair, covered in dust, three gunshots to the chest. He suppressed a shudder. It would seem Gertrude Robinson’s chat with Elias Bouchard ended differently than his own.

Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, flipped the switch and turned to leave. He had work to do.

#The Magnus Archives #i made a thing!#fic

7 notes · View notes

suzanneshannon · 4 years

Text

Mr. Roboto: Connecting with Technology

Fig 9.1 Even the company of a wooden sword is better than venturing into Hyrule alone.

Amp Up the Anthropomorphization

Everything Is Personal

Personalized Preferences

Fig 9.3 LoseIt gives users an opportunity to share their technology preferences during onboarding and then uses that choice to shape their future experience.

Personalized Recommendations

Don’t Overwhelm

Fig 9.4 Spotify picks up on the details of users’ musical selections to construct playlists that reflect multiple aspects of their tastes.

Fig 9.5 When a user only needs a finite number of something, or has already satisfied a need, it’s easy for recommendations to become redundant.

Don’t Be Afraid to Learn

Fig 9.6 Alfred included a learning mode where users would indicate places they already enjoyed eating. That data helped improve Alfred’s subsequent recommendations.

Personalized Coaching

This is important because people are more likely to remember and act on relevant information. If you want people to do something, personalize the experience that shows them how.

Mr. Roboto: Connecting with Technology published first on https://deskbysnafu.tumblr.com/

0 notes

dylan-hague · 7 years

Text

Chapter 37

Jump City. May 24th, 2018. 12:45 AM.

Raven sat cross-legged on her bed staring down at her fiancé’s face with a look of disappointment. They both figured they’d eventually have to get around to it, they just… they didn’t want it to be so soon. Damian’s eyes stared back at Raven’s, mirroring her expression. It was actually rather strange how it worked out; any normal person would be ecstatic at the chance to magically recover from a car crash in seconds. But getting thrown through that windshield had, while rendering him wheelchair-bound for several weeks, allowed Damian to take great strides in his relationships with all of his friends. Among those strides were learning to cook with Jon (for someone who spent most of his time in Kansas as a farmhand, Kent made a surprisingly good pot roast), studying meditation with Garfield and Tara (Beast Boy was surprisingly tranquil at heart, especially for someone who called himself “Beast Boy”), helping Jaime learn more about the previous Blue Beetle Ted Kord (Damian never met the man directly, but his father spoke fondly of him; of all the heroes he’d known, Bruce felt that Kord was the most down-to-earth, the most human), and discovering that Kori had been developing her relationship with Todd and veteran Titan Roy Harper. (To what end this relationship was building, Damian didn’t bother asking. He finally realized that not everything that goes on in Titans Tower was his business.) But of course, Raven knew all this… since she was there for nearly every second of it. She enjoyed spending quality time with everyone just as much as Damian. She even got the opportunity to get to know Cassandra a bit better. While there had been something of a language barrier between them (Cassie was still getting accustomed to English), Raven found a kinship in Orphan quite similar to the one she found in Damian.

“It’s been great, hasn’t it?” Damian sighed as he let his eyes turn back to the ceiling.

Raven smiled as she traced her fingertips along his chest. “Yeah… but we have to get this done.” She sighed, and carefully helped him pull himself up, until he was eye-level with her.

“Well… it’ll be nice to walk on my own again, I’ll say that.” Damian smirked back at the witch-girl before leaning in and giving her lips a quick peck. Raven rolled her eyes and began to tug at Damian’s shirt, which caught the boy off-guard.

“Yeah, I know, it’s weird. But for really extensive injuries, I have to be able to see it to heal it,” Raven explained. Damian nodded, blushing as he carefully removed his shirt and lowered himself onto his stomach in front of her. Raven looked down at the expanse of skin before her, and she had to pause for a moment. Even ignoring the bloody smears from where her lover in his infinite wisdom decided to remove his own stitches, Damian’s back was already covered in battle scars; bullet holes, blade strokes, even what appeared to me claw marks from what had to either be a bear or some kind of big cat… but beneath all those marks, Damian’s skin rippled with toned muscles and curved with his shoulders and spine. Damian was more on the lean side, no hulking muscleman, but…

It was a good few seconds before Raven realized she still hadn’t laid a hand on him. She was just staring down at his back, running her eyes over every mark, every curve. Damian, however, noticed soon enough, grinning back at her over his shoulder. “Ohhhhh. You’re kinda into this right now, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” Raven snipped with a little smirk before gently placing her hand on his back, over his still-open wounds from where the glass of the windshield had been. Slowing her breath, her hands began to faintly glow with a familiar violet light, which slowly made its way into the wounds in Damian’s back. In mere moments, the wounds in Damian’s back had faded into more scars covering the canvas of flesh. Raven let out a heavy sigh; the wounds were not deep, but they had been numerous enough that healing them all had been somewhat taxing for her.

Damian swung his legs out in front of him and sat up straight, sliding right off the bed as he picked up his Red X top off the floor and slid it over his head. “God, it’s good to walk again…” the Son of Batman let out a low grunt as he pulled the shirt down the length of his torso. “Now I just have to keep my mother in check while we hunt down this impostor.”

“About that, Damian…” Raven slid across the floor, wrapping her arms around Damian’s waist as she gently rested her head on his shoulder. “Are you sure it’s really her? I mean, if it’s been this long since you even heard from her, how do you know she’s still…”

“Because she’s more than just League…” Damian’s expression went grim as he spoke. “… she’s an Al Ghul. Al Ghuls are like roaches… we’re tough to kill.”

…

“How much do you know about her?” Batman busied himself at Damian’s computer screen, filling in a brand new file for this mysterious “false X” as he tossed the question over his shoulder to the mother of his child. Talia paced back and forth across their son’s room, wracking her brain to come up with any information she could recall about their adversary.

“She was second in line to be the head of the Demon’s Fist,” the Phantasm began, “before my father died. She was trained alongside Damian for years, and they were nearly equal in skill… but Damian was just a hair’s breadth ahead of her. I terminated the Demon’s Fist project shortly after Deathstroke’s assault on the League, and sent her to handle our chapter in Gibraltar.”

“You gave her her own chapter?” Bruce cocked an eyebrow as he filled out the bio. “You must have had a lot of faith in this kid…”

“My brother’s daughter was bred for the same purpose as my son and myself,” Talia replied. “We were to supplant Ra’s if anything happened to him. Damian was put at the top of the list only because he was male.”

“What exactly happened to your brother, anyway?”

“Dusan? No idea…” the former assassin shrugged. “He’s probably dead. Either way, if Damian is right about this false Red X, then she needs to be our first priority.”

“Of course. Now assuming she’s roughly the same height and weight as Damian, I just need a little more information…” the Dark Knight scrolled back up to the top of the page. “Hair.”

“Black, with a red streak over her face.”

“Eyes.”

“Heterochromic. One green, one brown.”

“Notable features.”

“A scar over her right eye.”

“Name.”

Talia grimaced. “… Mara. Mara al Ghul.”

…

Damian stood on the edge of the roof overlooking the river, watching the flowing water shimmer as it moved around Titans Island. It felt good to be on his own two feet again, and even better to be back in uniform. He had been on the sidelines quite long enough, and he was ready to hunt down the false X once and for all. Unfortunately, the false X turned out, if Damian’s assumption was correct, to be his greatest rival: his cousin Mara. He hadn’t even thought about Mara since he was a child. He figured she was stilled holed up somewhere in Gibraltar where his mother had sent her when Ra’s was killed. He figured she’d probably die there, and it honestly never bothered him that much… to put it mildly, he was not particularly fond of Mara. She was every bit as aggressive and arrogant as he himself had been as a member of the League. The difference was that Damian had had family and friends to help him mature into something more than just the living weapon he believed himself to be… Mara had no one.

“Hey. Good to see ya up and about again.”

Damian looked over his shoulder as Garfield Logan stepped up onto the edge beside him. There was a tired look in his emerald eyes, a look that spoke of far more than just physical exhaustion... Garfield had been struggling lately. A moment passed between them, and the Changeling glanced down at his stub and smirked.

“Did you know you can still feel it?” Garfield asked in a low voice.

Damian blinked for a moment. Was this… was this conversation actually about to happen? “Feel… what?”

Beast Boy looked over at Damian before raising what was left of his arm up for him to see. “I can still feel it… it itches. And I can’t scratch it.”

Damian winced at the thought. “That has to be rough…”

“Could be worse…” Logan continued. “the worst is when it gets numb. Like pins and needles… I can’t smack it against anything to get it to wake up, so it just tingles until it burns. It’s brutal.”

Damian sighed. “Garfield, I’m sorry… I never meant for this to happen to you…”

Beast Boy smiled over at his teammate. “Relax, man. You did what you had to do. And it really wasn’t too hard to adjust.”

Damian knew this was a lie; he’d watched Garfield’s transition into a one-handed lifestyle, and it was most definitely “hard”. And slow. And excruciating. Even his transformations were one-armed… even one-winged, in the case of birds. Still, the shape-shifter somehow managed to learn to gallop as a three-legged stallion, cut through the waters as a one-finned shark, and he almost was able to discover a way to stay airborne with only one wing (sadly, he was unable to overcome the laws of physics in this case).

“But y'know what makes it all easier?” Garfield smiled as he turned and looked down to the grassy area just outside the Tower entrance, where Tara lie gazing up at the stars. “Waking up next to that girl every morning. Makes everything worth it.”

Damian let his mind drift to Raven. In his head, he could see her reading on the couch in the livingroom, and he smiled. “Yeah… I can relate.”

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