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script-a-world · 5 months

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Submitted by Google Form:

Gender Politics In Andrea I Guess

I feel incredibly uncomfortable writing this down but I guess I need to lay out the nuances so I don;t betray anything.

Disclaimer:This is just some set-up for exploring sexism in my fictional world. This isn’t my utopia, just lore. Truyde is not morally great. Girles can be conquering manics too OwO.

Sooo Andrea is a equalitarian society with matriarchal tendencies in a otherwise patriarchal world. Why?

There are a number of reasons for this.

First off, because Sildndri uses incarcerated women for the metal mines they had near there. It was sort of like a place where discarded housewives could disappear to be cured. Technologically, Sildndri was far superior to the rest of the planet because of the rich underbelly of lush caves and magical substances allowed them to sustain a huge population and therefore provide much more mages. During Truyde’s generation, there was a boom in population. The officials of the Oorladun house sought to expand and explore but secretly at first. A sensory mage felt the rich resources in the north, but it was inhabited by several kingdoms. So they tunneled through it instead. It took many years. Many of these projects went underway.

They got a free source of labor in gentled women, people whose minds had been like restrained using the ability of Lord Arauqdwnt. Think lobotomies in the 1930s. Many people sought to make their women disappear for a while.

This went on for some time. Most of the women working there were brainwashed, but there were some who were not, prisoners being punished or just people taken from the street.

As such when Truyde escaped and made her impossible journey through the mountains and she came back with dragons and freed them all.

As such, when they were liberated, they adapted.

Many were not allowed to escape back to their families due to Truyde’s brutality and had to integrate into the Andrean society. ((She’s evil okay, you’re not supposed to be rooting for her))

Turns out, after Truyde escaped, she found a society living under the rule of the dragons that had been isolated for many generations. About a thousand years. Which is a hefty amount of time.

How Truyde was able to cross one hundred miles of the Artic essentially without freezing to death or being eaten by the dragons that dominated the area is highly unusual. The people couldn’t even go a mile without being detected and hunted down. It remains the subject of debate in the present. The Andrean religion insist that Truyde “was just that good” and the other people failing to pass through for generations despite being highly motivated and highly athletic are suffering from a “skill issue”.

But anyhow the society that Truyde “discovered” was in fact a matriarchal one. Primarily because the dragons go after men much faster and seek them out more actively. Why? No one knows. (The dragons are altered in a way similar to the way King Csongorlla altered the bears to serve his purpose as beasts of war, by encoding in the dragons the urge to hunt down any man, as a great conspiracy to destroy any man that catches into their scent of smell. This alteration was highly specific(hint, hint, because it’s casters were vastly more powerful than any human could possibly be) and so it suffers faults. Though they can and will eat women, it takes longer for them to figure out what they’re smelling at, and they aren’t as motivated to attack them. So the men are forced to stay under the caverns and tend to the (artificially lush, hint hint) cave and farms except for brief glimpses so they don’t go blind. So the women have more leeway, so they are enabled to go out and hunt actual meat. This caused a matriarchy to develop. The danger of dragons is a constant threat however. They developed tools to combat the threat, along with foul smelling stink bombs and envasion maneuvers, sometimes killing a particularly old or young beast. This changed however, once a mage was born in their society five hundred years ago, that was able to alter the grass around the cave so that it gives out a smell that the dragons hate and avoid with a burning passion that overwhelms their senses, allowing many people to go outside, a least before the line of grass. Allowing the people to have a range of a few dozen yards on a good day. The mage died from overexertion before changing all the grass to do like that. This brought a great change upon their society, but they were stil living in the Artic and they could only really enjoy it in the summer.

But anyhoo when Truyde discovers it, it is still a matriarchal society.

After Truyde tames the dragons(somehow) she frees this society from their prison, after of course learning their language and steals some of their ideas. Truyde then takes their cultural concepts and runs with them to the extreme. She takes the dragons and uses their knowledge to make them yield better, before heading back with a army to the mining prison, freeing the women and then preceding to conquer a ton of kingdoms with the dragons unstoppable power.

After they conquer many many cheifdoms and kingdoms and wage a war against Sildndri, (after a certain point many just surrender out of full-blown fear. Truyde then incorporates these towns young and valuable people into their foot army so they too have a stake in the war.

Eventually, for some unknown and highly variable reason that I’ll make up later , the people of the dragon-cave-soicety went against Truyde and she promptly stripped them all of their status and replaced them with Truyde’s mine buddies and Sildndri defectors and refugees and those who renounced the Mountain-Dweller way as the new ruling class of Andrean society, with Truydeand her army taking the Mountain-Dweller’s knowledge and ideas and destroys all the nuance and more complex understanding while their orginaters are at the bottom of the pole along with the conquered. (Though they are descents of a army from a ancient (not really. A thousand years is a long time but it’s not as colossal) northern kingdom that just so happen to try to cross the mountains(in the summer) right when the dragon’s migration patterns shifted and left them trapped. (In a convenient cavern mountain with mushrooms and water and oxygen bc plot) so it’s likely that some of the ideas from that society were passed don to the army’s descendsets outside the mountain which is a lot of people to the Three Kingdoms of Cold, and when Sildndri rolled around ideas from those kingdoms diffused to it. So it is likely that Truyde would’ve already had some of their ideas already, just a tiny sliver of the ideas that survived the one-thousand year isolation from all other places (think Iceland, kinda not really. Truyde did know the Three Cold Kingdom’s language so that’s probably why she picked up on theirs pretty easily) a minuscule amount but she totally stole their ideas and ran with about a half-understanding of them.

Anyhoo, so that’s how the egalitarian society of Andrea was born. Okay, so it isn’t exactly matriarchal. In the three hundred years since Truyde, many dragons became ill from lack of proper nutrition and care, forcing Andrea to double back and regroup. They are still a mighty country, but they’re no longer doing a conquering speedrun and have lost a lot of land.

It is a matrilineal system, where property and succession is dedicated to the female line.

Female preference is given to decide a heir, but that rule isn’t strict (unless you’re nobility or the upper class R.I.P King Csongorlla you got so much bad press but the commonfolk appreciated you bc of your magic and war-bears) and it is not abnormal to have a guy inherit, at least by the average Andrean. .

Women and men are in the military, with men making up a majority, actually, (they’re surrounded by male armies they gotta compete lmao) but a much slighter one then most. Women are not discouraged from fighting martaily and neither are men. Some women chose to take a substance made from dragon, and it basically acts as a giant muscle steroid, making some women much buffer than anyone naturally could be. But it’s extremely expensive, and it causes a lot of fertility and health problems later down the line.

There is a stigma among men riding the dragons, however, and it’s mostly left to rich highly trained women. .

These differences in gender roles are hella extragratted by outside patriarchal sources, (think “Kingdom of Women” and the “Amazons from Greek Myths” type of thing” many claiming Andreas keep their men chained or imprisoned or kill them all or any number of things. They makes Andreas out to be a misandrist, ultra-matriarchal legion of women warrioresses. The hostility/violence the apparent Andreas culture display towards men varies on how much the other culture hates them.

There are these hyper-masculine counter movements inside of Andrea, however, because the more recently conquered people strongly associate female empowerment with the enemy, it is vilified, and more often than not the Andrean military makes the lives of most of the women under their boot, ironically, much worse.

If the faction ever manages to get freed, most will become way more conservative about gender roles and stuff like than, and be forever changed. Of course, women rebel as well. But both of the sexes rebelling is caused by the same thing. But many countries outside of Andrea, who had Andrea withdraw, recently are now more patriarchal then they were when Andrea conquered them. Or have feminist revolutions if they’ve kinda assimilated . It varies. I dunno.

OwO. So my question is does this make sense I guess? Any thoughts? Questions? Concerns?

_____

Addy: So, my thoughts.

First, I'm going to try to sum up what I got from this question:

So you had a civilization, Sildndri, that used/uses imprisoned women as prison labor for mines. You had brainwashed/magically altered/lobotomized women who were given up for free (why?) for these minds.

Truyde was a woman who labored there and escaped, traveling over a frigid dragon-inhabited wasteland. How she survived is unknown. Truyde found a matriarchal society hidden in those mountains, surrounded by dragons.

The dragons were genetically/magically modified to be more adept at hunting & catching men (for some reason - troops, yes, but why men? Would also target farmers, which is bad). This means that men stay underground, away from the dragons, while women are better able to travel above ground. The caverns may be fertilized by corpses or dragon dung. Men occasionally go outside for short periods so they don't go blind (?).

A mage altered the caverns to give off an anti-dragon smell, so everyone was able to at least step outside, even if it wasn't safe for men to leave.

Truyde finds this society and tames the dragons (method is unknown), allowing the hidden society to travel more freely. Truyde uses her dragon army to free the women mine slaves (no underground settlements?), and then takes over several regions, including Sildndri. She conscripts the young adults of the places she conquers, so as to hold their parents hostage.

The hidden society rebels against Truyde, and she replaces everyone in charge with her buddies (is she a ruler or just like a general). She then proceeds to improperly copy the hidden society's cultural ideals, holding those ideas in esteem while also making them the lowest social class. Something something cultural originators something something people outside the mountains, some kind of vague similar philosophical base. Something something "a thousands years isn't a long time" (it really is though)

Dragons got sick because of malnutrition, so conquering has generally stopped. Egalitarian military, dragon steroids are expensive but available. Even though the conquered lands have been ruled for ~300 years, many have yet to have any egalitarian diffusion into their societies. Areas that Andrea has left are more patriarchal than they were before, since egalitarianism was vilified, (possibly some kind of subversive propaganda thing by resistance groups?)

Now, my thoughts on all this:

Why would families give up their women? Weaving is a full-time job, and more hands means more people to work. If there are food shortages, then I could see something about giving up unwanted children, but the why is a factor to think about. Also, bringing someone to adulthood takes a lot of resources! It isn't economical to spend the resources to bring someone to adulthood, just to immediately get rid of them because you don't like them. So what's the incentive?

Why were the dragons made to prefer hunting men? Since you mention casters, can mages only be men? Seems like you'd risk killing your own soldiers, too. Or your farmers (which is very bad)

How did she keep the young adults in her conscript armies from rebelling? She also removed a good chunk of the labor force, fyi

A thousand years is a very long time. Just look at ancient Rome - that was only 2000 years ago. The invention of agriculture was only 10000 years ago. Language can change a lot in that time, too.

Was Truyde like Daenerys (a ruler with an army), or was she more just a general who held a coup when the people in charge got upset? I'm not sure what her position in society was

Why does she copy their cultural ideals?

With laws and enforcement in place, what's kept people from being normalized to what they see? If you have a woman in power that you have to follow (say a regional governor), then it seems like people would at least get used to it through exposure, even if they don't wholly agree. 300 years is a fairly long time to be conquered. A dozen generations, easy.

Property and succession along the female line isn't rare in IRL cultural societies. It isn't common, but it is a thing in some places.

Also, if you're looking for how a matrilineal society might look (one where lineage is traced through women), I'd recommend looking into the Khasi people of Meghalaya, India. I believe their system originates from men dying in battle (to put it simply), though there are many matrilineal systems around the world

You've got a solid base, and your history is interesting and rich, but I'd say to poke around a little bit and figure out where you want the nuance to fall.

Wootzel: Boy howdy, this is a doozy!

It sounds like you have a solid idea of what kind of world you want to build and why, and you’re not afraid of letting your characters/historical figures do things for their own reasons, resulting in plenty of morally gray and cause/effect decisions. Kudos to you for both of these things!

My main suggestion is to try to challenge yourself about some of this cause & effect thinking. Your cave-dwelling people formed a matriarchy because men didn’t have freedom of movement, right? Were they patriarchal before? If this was a massive change, what OTHER than freedom of movement would have pushed it over? You don’t necessarily HAVE to have more reasons, but it would make the phenomenon even more interesting.

As for the nations that were previously conquered and then gained independence, you’ve mentioned that some of them are more patriarchal than before and others are more equal. I’d encourage you to think about more options, or options that have several sliding scales instead of just one. For example, what if a nation purged women from the military after regaining independence, but not from holding high offices? What if men and women are considered to each have their own “domains” in which they’re considered the masters, and while this might give one or the other an advantage, it wouldn’t be absolute?

We’ve talked about matriarchal & matrilineal societies a couple of times on the blog. Check this link to see what we’ve said to some other askers (there are two additional posts linked at the bottom of this one).

Also. Magic bear king. What?? We got a good chuckle out of that being tossed into the middle of your explanation like seasoning.

All in all, we wish you luck with your project! It sounds like you’re committed to writing what’s interesting to you and delving into social structures, and that’s a good recipe for putting together intriguing social scapes for your story.

#google submitted #culture #gender #politics

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wwwurbunnygrldotcom · 1 year

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Unit 022 (Cyberpunk!JungkookxRobot!Y/N)

☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡

Warnings- None

One shot but possible series!

(”My name is already printed on her body. I don’t share.”)

☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡☆彡

12.7.2022.

The first to betray me was a god. My creator. My mother. The nights I spent in the scrap yard left a gaping hole in the center of my hardware. I wish I was never coded to feel such strong emotions. I could never name this aching sensation, but it’s so overwhelming. My hands ached from the lack of oil and I was quickly running low on battery. I had been eating nuts and bolts for some time now, my artificial teeth vibrated with each bite. Seemingly, the realization I am a product of a defect is one that is hard to deal with. I was never meant to exist. My breath, down to the metal of my lungs, was a blip in the timeline.

Units, like me, aren’t as rare as they used to be. When we were first introduced to the game we were considered ‘limited treasures’. We were considerably expensive to the common people, only higher players on the leaderboard could have even imagined owning a unit. Were designed to serve without reason or thought, our heart stones act as an extra life for the player. Units are designed for the purpose of service and companion ship. Nothing but mutts in a greater perspective. After the 3rd arch unit’s were now available by search, being able to come across them by chance made it that more exciting. They can be found in caves, dungeons, castles, and forests. Typically not found in scrap metal.

I wasn't made correctly, I was a mistake. I don't have a heart stone. I would never be able to provide the protection needed for my master. I am always in competition with myself, never with competitors because in reality I don't have any. I have to push myself ten times more than average to compensate for my lack. If my life wasn't dependent on him, it would be so satisfying to see just how bad things could get.

Master Jungkook found me 26 moons after I was thrown to the cats. He was completing a quest for his local black smith, he was tasked to find just enough metal to create his very own scythe. He landed upon me instead. He was 9, or so he tells me. I was unable to scan him for the first few months, so I just followed him around like a lost puppy. I always wanted to make sure I was around, just in case his stats ever tarnished. “Do you need anything, Master?” I whispered. “Uh, Nope! Not yet!” the boy gleamed. My readers were broken when I was scavenged and the technician said he was surprised my back up generator lasted for that long. By the time they had busted open my panels my lead was melted and fused into one.

Once I was repaired I wasn’t in the market for long, master Jungkook took no time to take ownership of my unit. Master Jungkook is an eager player in the VRMMO world. From the moment I met him he glistened with boyish charm. I felt that my camera modified iris could not comprehend the colors that glew from his skin. How his hair would fall perfectly with each landing, and his clothes always tailored to perfection. He was beauty personified, kindness made unreal, and love turned nonfiction.

“Can you be any slower 22?!” Master chuckled from the practice field. “I had to grab safety equipment! What if you get hurt while we're gone?” I rebutted. He had just looked towards the sun and smiled, gripping onto his scythe with ambition. His attention was abruptly taken by the map changing shape for the second time this hour. They interchange every 30 minutes, to keep the players engaged and simulated.

“Woah, you see that cliff? I wonder what the views are like!” he shouted through his bunny teeth. Jungkook is much older now, nowadays it really showed in his face. His stats tell me he’s freshly 19. Before I could snap myself out of my thoughts and protest whatever menacing plan the boy was up to he had already dashed out of my peripheral view. I adjusted my camera to the new lighting and chased after him. His scent following behind him as he ran, no one could be as comforting as he is. His feet carried him up the side of the building, standing completely vertical. “Master! Please be careful!” I screamed, reaching my hands out.

“Why don't you hurry up here? It will be better with you here!” He smirked. I scrambled my way up the same path he took. By the time I had reached his presence all I could do was grab onto his waist. I wasn’t fearful of myself, but rather fearful of something happening to him. “Aw, you scared Bunny?” he whispered. “Huh?” I squeaked. “I thought maybe having a name would be much more endearing than calling you ‘Unit 022’ all the time. What do-ya think?” “I like it. I really do.”

12.8.2022.

Tonight Master decided to take on a quest in a new unlocked map. I don't have a good feeling, though I never do. He can never seem to stay out of trouble. I decided to bathe myself in fluid before battle, it helps keep my hardware capable of expansion on field. The capsule is clear with a blue hue light shining upwards from below. My body stays floating as I close my eyes and roll my head back. All noise from the outside world is muffed through my encasing. I hear the closing of a door behind me on my right side. My ear automatically intensifies to adjust to my surroundings.

“Resting?” The voice spoke. I could have picked it out and recognized it from a million, it was Jungkook. “You know I like being prepared.” I smiled while keeping my eyes closed. I could sense him taking steps closer to the capsule, it wasn't very hard to tell. The quest tonight is a battle against another team, we estimate 2 players excluding a fellow unit. This should be easier considering they're a lower level than we are. “Are you nervous for tonight?” I questioned. “What? No, never” Jungkook chuckled with his chest. I used this moment of happiness to check his stats. His health was in mint condition, although I sensed his stress levels increased. He was lying to me.

“Why did you take this quest anyways?” I finally opened my eyes. Jungkook was standing directly in front of my drifting body, he was shirtless and making hard eye contact with me. His tattoos were littered across his skin. I loved them, they gave him personality. “Because I want to get us somewhere nicer. Don't get me wrong, his district will always have a place in my heart but I can't stand living in fear that something bad will happen to you while I'm logged out.” he sighed. “You know I can handle myself.” I pushed my body down towards him, placing my hands on the glass. The fluid in the chamber made my hair beautifully flow above my head, I looked like a painting. Jungkook placed his hands on mine. “I know, I never want to take the chance of losing you.” I could feel a vibration spread from the core of my body, why would he say such an intimate thing? “I still remember what it was like to struggle. I don’t want us to ever feel like ever again.”

“I wouldn't worry too much, master. Tonight will be just fine, we always make it out alive.” I tried comforting him, with the best that my robotic heart could ever. He bit his lip in worry, “I know we will.”

He dropped his hands from the glass and shook his head. His eyes never left mine, but the worry stayed. He turned on his heels and left the repair room. I sighed and tried my best to relieve my distress. I couldn't get my mind off the little boy who once was my savior.

Preparing to defend Jungkook was a tedious task. I never really knew what may happen to him while in battle, so I prepared for everything. I carried a metal pack that would latch onto these hooks designed onto the back of my suit. I carried things like health potions and extra bullets for my hand guns because it felt foolish to not be over prepared. Legend has it I started throwing in food packs as well, Jungkook's stomach is a never ending black hole. Once on a journey to the far lands Jungkook complained the whole time because there hadn't been a market for miles. I kind of liked whiny Jungkook.

I made sure to lace my suit on extra tight, I had always done this to aid my anxiety. It was all black with blue strips that lined my sides. It used to be completely black until a few months ago when Jungkook dyed his hair blue, now we match. I slide my hand guns into their holster on my waist, they are also matte black. The only thing making me visible with all the dark colors was the ownership tag on my suit. It stated “OWNERSHIP OF PLAYER: JEON JUNGKOOK”, just right above my tramp stamp, it was embroidered with a beautiful silver. Just Jungkook's taste.

“Ready?” Jungkook called from the common room. I sighed, I really wish we could just stay in tonight. I grabbed the last of my supplies and followed after his voice. He stood in his skin tight upper suit and baggy combat pants. This was his everyday uniform. “Are we teleporting?” I questioned. Sometimes using teleportation devices messed with my inner GPS, I hated using them. “You know it,” Jungkook smirked. He took a hold of my hand and lifted me up onto the platform. His hand landed securely on my waist, holding my balance as the frequency makes me dizzy.

By the time we had arrived at the agreed battle zone the sun had already set and everything was pitch black. Jungkook stood tall and strong in front of me, I used my reader and scanned the area. I found 3 heat signatures on the opposite end of the field. “3 Directly in front of us.” I whispered just loud enough for him to pick up. “They have a unit.”. He nodded his head in confirmation.

A booming voice spoke over the speakers. “Players. You have 30 minutes to capture each other's flags. Once captured, all weapons must be dropped. Failing to do so will lead to a permanent ban. Prizes for the winners will be collected once health has been restored. If both teams fail to capture the opponent flag 100,000 dollars will be collected in fines.” A gasp left my mouth as I heard the stakes. Jungkook, what the fuck.

I could sense the other players beginning to station themselves for battle. I took this as a perfect opportunity to activate the shields I have installed in both Jungkook and I’s suits. I lowered my glasses completely to give me insight on the other team and keep tabs on Jungkook’s stats. His oxygen rate was increasing along with his stress levels, he’s most likely to take risky chances when like this. I need to keep an eye on him.

The announcer spoke once more, “Teams, make your way to the center of the field.”

Jungkook took the first step, I followed right behind him. Two men and a female presenting unit make themselves known on the other side. The taller man had bright orange hair whereas the shorter one had bright red. I made a signal on Jungkook’s map to watch his blind spot on his right, the lights in that area dimmed and seemed to be laced with traps.

“Beautiful unit you have there,” said the strange man with orange hair. He smiled at Jungkook, never looking in my direction. “We didn’t expect to see anyone else with one in this area, I guess you're lucky.” He chuckled.

“Yeah, I guess you can call it luck.” Jungkook sneered. His grip on his scythe stiffened. “Where's my manners! I’m Kai. This is Jasper and my Unit’s name is Jade. Isn’t this a little dangerous? Just the two of you?” Kai questioned.

“Trust me, I think we got this. We’ve been through much worse.” Jungkook took a step forward, shielding me from Kai's view. “Well if you say so, you are….?” Kai’s voice veered off as he spoke.

“Jungkook.”

“And her's?”

“Does it matter?” Jungkook cut him off just as soon as he opened his mouth. I suppose Kai sensed the aggression because he threw his hands up in defense. “I was just wondering, why don't we raise the stakes?” Kai smirked.

“How so?” Jungkook’s head tilted with confusion. I reached my hand out and placed it on his upper forearm. I thought maybe this would let him know not to play into whatever trap Kai was opposing. I was wrong. “If I win I want your unit.” Kai’s once smirk disappeared into nothing but a cold stare. I took a bold step forward and narrowed my eyes. “You’re too late, she’s already claimed. My name is already printed on her body. I don't share.”

“Then let the game begin.”

#jungkook #jeonjungkook #jungkookxreader #jungkookfanfic #jungkookau #bts #btsarmy #bts fanfic

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bloodpacks-archive · 3 years

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HOMES OF THE RFA (+V AND SAERAN) HEADCANONS

alright we’ve got zen’s bachelor pad first - generally zen tends to be a pretty minimalist guy with his house. part of it is honestly because he couldn’t really afford to completely deck out his house for a while, and now he’s just grown used to the look of it so he really likes having spaces that are a little less cluttered. the one exception to this, unfortunately, is his kitchen. he doesn’t use his kitchen often, and as a result, he often forgets to do his dishes until the end of the week. monday? that shit is spotless. his kitchen is cleaner than anything has ever been and the dishes are neatly put away. do not even look at that kitchen on wednesday. it’s become a disaster zone and he’s embarrassed. but once the mc starts to come by more, i think he ends up cooking for himself a lot more because he starts to realize that he actually really enjoys it. he loves being healthy, and now that he has the motivation to cook for himself (and her, of course), he starts to realize how much he likes control over what he eats. so now his kitchen is a lot cleaner bc it just has to be.

two different places for yoosung !! - the one on the left is yoosung’s dorm :) it’s actually really cool in there. he spends a lot of time in that little room, so he decides to invest a little bit and make sure that he’s happy with the place he lives. he likes alternative lighting (mainly because it helps his eyes a bit when he’s playing lolol) but also because overhead lights can be a little harsh for him, especially after a long day of school. when the mc’s there, he always makes sure that the lights are just right. it’s very common for both of them to fall asleep while the LEDS are still on, a movie playing on the projector he bought a while back. when he moves out of college, though, his house is a bit of a different story. he still keeps some LEDS and neon signs in a little gamer/office space, and for the most part he’s actually pretty neat, but his house can definitely get messy. surprisingly enough, the mattress on the floor is not for him. in fact, it’s for zen. he comes over so often that yoosung ends up setting up a little mattress for him so that he can stay over whenever he has drinks with him. the mess honestly isn’t terrible though, and he and the mc are both good about making it an organized disaster.

jaehee’s cozy little apartment - rather than art posters, jaehee actually has a lot of framed broadway and other musical posters on her walls. she branches out a bit from zen’s musicals over time, and she actually really loves decorating her home with something that she loves so much. she likes her small apartment, and it means that she and the mc are never really that far away from each other. she places her hand on the mc’s back whenever she squeezes past her in the kitchen, and when they have their coffee in the morning she can lean over and grab her hand during conversation. she always has candles lit, and she prefers really earthy and woody scents. tobacco is a common scent, but as is sandalwood. even with the candles, their apartment constantly smells like fresh coffee beans and sourdough bread. it is a very rare day if there isn’t dough rising in the window somewhere, and even rarer if there isn’t a baked loaf hidden away in the kitchen.

two homes for jumin as well !! - the first picture is of his penthouse when the mc moves in with him. she adds little throw pillows, some rugs, and some plants to his stupid penthouse and makes it feel much more like a home. he gets rid of that stupid circular bed the second he realizes that she feels a little cramped in it and upgrades to a beautiful king sized mattress. there’s about a million and one windows, and that’s actually something he really loves about the penthouse. so it’s really no surprise when he and the mc move a bit out of the city and they keep the big windows and the big open spaces, but make it feel like something that’s meant to be lived in. jumin discovers his love of wood and tall bookshelves with a mix of occult novels and old classics, and the mc convinces him to add a little more color into his interior. their new house has a big garden out back so he can still visit the roses (though they aren’t the same ones from his old rooftop garden, but he’d argue that he planted them with her, so they’re so much better). they built the house themselves so it’s perfect for them, and elizabeth the third has her own little space for playing.

hmmmm. saeyoung choi’s new home <3 - saeyoung eventually leaves the bunker. it’s a hard move, and it’s definitely not one he takes lightly (he’s used to moving, but not away from a place with so many good memories). but, he builds this new home from the ground up with the mc. he makes the plans and hires architects to help him, and he starts to fall in love with this new home even while it’s still a blueprint. he never gives up his complicated security system (the arabic dictionary really starts to feel heavy sometimes), but he does start to realize how much he loves windows. he still ends up getting them reinforced, but he loves the natural light and he actually really likes being able to see outside so easily. it’s a stupid thing, but sometimes the mc will catch him sitting on their couch and just looking out at the secluded little forest they ended up moving to, and he seems really happy. similar to yoosung, saeyoung cannot stand overhead lighting. at first, his solution was to just have no lighting at all, but one day he came into his office and there were these little lamps everywhere and they actually made his office feel a lot less daunting. ever since then, he’s started using lamps more often than the lights installed into his ceiling. he also says they help to reduce any sensory issues he might have from the light, which also means a lot less headaches for him. he starts to really love thunderstorms while he lives there, and so he and the mc always curl up whenever it starts to rain and they sit on the couch, watching as lightning cracks across the sky and counting the seconds until the thunder together. whenever it rains, saeyoung knows he can take a break from everything for a while.

jihyun kim’s beautiful little apartment - his apartment is tiny except for his studio. similarly to jaehee, he likes the small spaces because one, he loves how cozy is feels, but two, because it means he can reach out to his mc a lot more often. his studio, however, is the biggest and brightest space imaginable. all of his apartment is big on natural light, but he loves having a huge window in his studio because it means he’s able to see actual life even when he’s wrapped up in his work. it’s also big enough that the mc can sit in and watch him work without ever feeling like she’s in the way, which he absolutely loves. it’s really common for her to be sitting on one of his extra stools, flipping through some of the drawing drafts he’s made with delicate fingers. he’ll turn then, half-dried paint on his fingertips and go to kiss her. she’ll laugh when she feels the coolness of the wet paint on her cheek, and he’ll feel terrible about it, but there’s not many worries that can be had when you’re standing in the shine of the afternoon sun, surrounded by art that you’re proud of and standing in front of the girl who brought you back to artistry. as far as the rest of his apartment goes, jihyun is very particular about color. he likes things to look nice and he appreciates things to be very calming in nature. the green kitchen is perfect for him because of this, and everything is always spotless. the only part of his home that’s ever a mess is his studio, but he knows where everything is.

and lastly we have saeran’s little getaway :) - of course, saeran stays close to saeyoung. they both end up moving to a really nice, secluded area where they feel safe. even after the issue with their father has been resolved, both of them feel safer if they’re away from the public. this actually ends up being great for saeran though, because it means that he has access to so many plants. so many. he can walk though his pretty summer garden outside to get to his greenhouse, and he loves being able to tend to all of the flowers there. it really is something that’s calming for him. plus, whenever he walks outside he can see saeyoung’s house and he can be reminded that he’s only a few steps away, so he’d make the trip often even without the flowers. his house is pretty small, but he can’t imagine wanting anything too big. it always smells really fresh in his house, like clean linens and citrus, but not the artificial kind. he just always has oranges somewhere in his house so fresh citrus is always there in the kitchen. he and the mc enjoy a really quiet life together in their house, and it’s honestly at this point that he feels the happiest. he likes being able to wake up in the morning and sit at their kitchen island together, a homemade breakfast in front of them and her head leaning on his shoulder.

#mystic messenger #mysme #mystic messenger headcanons #mysme headcanons #mysme hcs #zen mm #hyun ryu #yoosung kim #jaehee kang #jumin han #saeyoung choi #jihyun kim #v mystic messenger #saeran choi

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shorkbrian · 4 years

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Ahhh, if it's not too much trouble, can you do another part to that pervy sero post where he makes the reader watch porn and stuff, but this time like... fully forces himself onto reader to make sure sure learns abt the stuff he forces her to watch, or maybe he gets kaminari to join in to prove how "normal" it is for friends to watch porn together? Thank you so much!!

Hi!!! bro of course I can!

Prelude - Sero is saved the trouble of thinking up an excuse to get reader to come “hang out” with him because reader gets some bad anxiety the second he approaches her! I tried to make it clear that reader is like HECKA anxious but doesn’t realize it cause sometimes!!! you aren’t able to tell!!! and if your partner is a specific breed of awful, they’ll take your hesitance and vulnerability and swoop in and coerce you into doing something you aren’t sure about. Also, Sero knows a lot about sex and is manipulating reader and giving her false information. Don’t be like Sero.

Prompt - above babeyyy

Pairings - Sero Hanta X Reader

Warnings - NSFW, coercion, dub con, non con. Sero is a manipulative little bitch.

Music - https://open.spotify.com/track/7po7c8LzxTZ0ybU41qT5gD?si=5a1Bo4SURJmaQGw-gky-kA

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“Hey, (Y/N)!”

You ignored the cheerful voice calling your name, continued walking through the crowd of students towards your next class, backpack slung over your shoulder.

“(Y/N)! Wait up!”

You knew who the voice belonged to. You knew Sero was just going to ask you to hang out in his room after class, or wanted to show you another inappropriate picture or video off one of the lewd sites he frequents. If you were unlucky, he’d pull you away from class, make up some stupid excuse and beg for you to come hang out with him cause he’s “lonely” and needs a friend.

Ever since he had you jerk him off (over his boxers) in his room, you’d avoided your friend like the plague. You felt so awkward around him now, embarrassed in his presence. You really felt uncomfortable spending time with him, even when the rest of your friend group was present. He had said it was a normal thing for friends to do, that he and Denki watched porn together all the time.

Still, you just felt…. Well, weird. The whole situation was weird and you preferred not to think about it, to just avoid Sero and keep your head down, focus on school and training and your other friends.

Sero had other plans.

A hand grabbed your shoulder, spinning you around to face , almost throwing you off balance.

“Why’re you ignoring me? I called your name like, six times bro.” Sero pouted down at you, eyes big and round and you could already tell he was going to guilt you into doing something you’d rather not.

Taking a deep breath, you forced a quick smile on your face, before answering your friend.

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Aw, it’s fine.” He patted your shoulder, before guiding you (pushing you) to the side of the hallway, out of the general traffic of the other students. “Anyways, I’ve missed you. I feel like we haven’t been able to hang out, y’know… just the two of us.”

He hadn’t removed his hand from your shoulder, soothingly rubbing his thumb over your uniform. It was hard to focus on what he was saying while he was touching you, while he was pressing you closer to the wall, shielding you from the throng of other students with his body. It was so loud, everyone talking to their friends, talking about homework and the upcoming math test and-

“Are you okay dude? You seem kind of…. Out of it.”

You were kind of breathing hard, and your stomach felt bad. It hadn’t before? Maybe you were coming down with something. You shrugged, trying to knock his hand off your shoulder. His dimpled smile faltered as he drew back, giving your body a concerned once-over.

“Actually, I don’t feel too good right now Sero… I think I’m gonna go see the nurse.” Before you could push past him and head for the nurse, Sero grabbed your hand, putting his other hand up to your forehead. His skin was cool, soft, fingers long as they pressed to check your temperature.

“Hm, you don’t have a fever. You probably just ate something bad at lunch. I have Tums in my room, c’mon, they’ll help you feel better!” The male grabbed your wrist, tugged you away from the wall, hesitating when you dug your heels in, reluctant to go with him.

“Ah, that’s okay!” You sputtered, “I have class and I don’t wanna miss it, and uh, I don’t know what “Tums” are, and my mom told me I should try to stay away from medicine cause-“

Sero’s abrupt laugh cut into your rambling, and you stopped talking, looking up at your friend in confusion.

“Tums are antacids that help settle upset tummies dude! I take them sometimes after I smoke a bit too much.” He winked at you, dimples showing as he smiled.

“Plus class is gonna start any second now, you’d be late anyways. Might as well skip.”

The bell rang.

You fidgeted, looking around at the now-empty hall, not realizing that the other students had slowly dissipated, filing into their respective classrooms. Sero was right, you didn’t feel feverish, you just felt nauseous and shaky. Maybe taking an antacid would help? Sero was your friend, he was just looking out for you, it wouldn’t hurt to skip class and hang out in his room, would it?

Your stomach twinged, and another wave of nausea bubbled up inside of you. That made up your mind.

“Alright, fine. But if I get in trouble, it’s your fault!” You conceded, smiling as Sero pumped his fist in the air.

“Yeah! Hangout time!”

“But -“ You paused, biting your lip. This was an awkward thing to say to him would he think you’re a bad friend? “Can you uh… well, can you not do anything like….. weird?”

You hoped he knew what you meant by “weird”.

“Weird” was touching your friends in intimate places, or having them touch you.

“Weird” was watching porn together, asking your friends which part they thought was the sexiest. “Weird” was the feeling that arose whenever Sero approached you, the sinking of your stomach, the gross taste in your mouth, the cold sweat that broke out whenever he asked if you wanted to “relieve some stress” with him.

“Of course, I’d never do /anything/ to you that you wouldn’t like. I’m your friend, (Y/N), and friends take care of each other.” Sero assured you, letting go of your wrist to give your shoulder a reassuring pat. You exhaled in relief, smiling back at him, before Sero started moving again, motioning for you to follow him. “Now, let’s go get to helping you feel better.”

——

Sero pulled open his desk drawer, urging you to “Go ahead and get comfortable man” with a gentle nod of his head towards the bed. You let your backpack slip to the floor, sighing when the heavy weight left your shoulders. Sero hadn’t made his bed that morning, but you figured he probably hadn’t been expecting company.

Smoothing out the blankets, you took a seat, watching your black-haired friend sift through his desk drawers, looking for the antacid tablets he had promised.

A triumphant “Aha!” signaled that he had found them, holding the little bottle up high as he turned towards you. But the male didn’t offer you the bottle, nor open it to measure out the tablets for you. He shook it, but there was no familiar noise of pills rattling inside, instead the two of you were met with silence.

“Aw, shit, I’m sorry (Y/N). I guess I used them all up.” The empty bottle was placed on the desk. “But I have another idea that might work, if you’d like to try it?”

You shrugged, hand coming to poke at your stomach “It’s okay, don’t worry. I can just go to the nurse-“

“C’mon, that’s on the other side of campus. You really gonna walk all that way? Let me help you out.”

“Really, I’ll be oka-“

“Naw, I found something you’ll probably like - It’s a good flavor.”

You could do nothing but blink at your friend as he plopped down beside you on the bed. He was holding a bottle, one that looked almost like faceewash? But he had said it was a good flavor - did he want you to eat it? You summed all your thoughts up eloquently -“What the fuck is that?”

Sero shook the bottle before he popped open the top, squeezing a gelatinous goop onto his pointer finger.

“It’s just something that tastes good, y’know? Like uh,” He thought for a second “Jelly! Or like a Gogurt but less sweet. Might help your stomach to settle down.”

Of course Sero would still eat Gogurts. He probably had a stash of them somewhere that he saved for after he smoked, when he got - you had learned from Mina what it was called - the munchies. He offered his pointer finger, obviously wanting you to taste the goop; you did nothing but stare at it.

“Don’t be like that, c’mon, try it! It’s good, I promise.”

You weren’t swayed by his playful urging. And you definitely weren’t going to lick that stuff (whatever it was) off of Sero’s finger. Realizing you had no plans to move, Sero sighed, before bringing his finger up to his mouth and popping the digit in to suck off the gel.

“I swear it tastes good, you’ll like it. Here, give me your hand?”

The goop was room temperature, thick, kind of like aloe vera. You brought your hand up to your face, touching your thumb to your pointer finger to feel the gel Sero had squirted onto your finger. It smelled faintly like artificial strawberries, a bit too sweet and unnatural, similar to the fake strawberry scent of a bad candle. You tried not to wrinkle your nose. Hesitantly, you swiped a bit of the gel off your finger with your tongue, smacking your lips together as you savored the flavor.

“Haha, I was right, wasn’t I?” Sero laughed as you licked the rest of the sweetness off your finger, and you couldn’t help but smile at him.

“Yeah, so shut up, you Gogurt eating baby.”

Sero rolled his eyes as you stuck your tongue out at him. “I knew you were gonna bring that up! Let it go man, Gogurts absolutely rock.”

You ignored his statement, eagerly sticking your hand out so Sero could give you more of the gel. Despite its suspiciously artificial smell, the gel actually wasn’t too bad. A surprise, but a welcome one nonetheless. Sero held out his hand.

“Ah, wait, I wanna try something.”

With a questioning look in your eyes, you watched Sero toss the bottle to his side, watched the male scoot backwards, spread out his legs. He reached for his pants, started unzipping them, and that’s when it clicked.

“Sero, I can’t believe you, again? This is so weird and so gross, I’m not touching your penis. It was fucking awkward the first time, and I’m not doing it again. Go find some other girl to - to do whatever it is you’re doing!”

Outburst finished, you huffed, cheeks flaming, ready to grab your backpack and stomp out of his room. The nauseous feeling was back, your stomach tight and legs wobbly.

Sero burst out laughing.

“Jesus (Y/N), do you even pay attention to the videos I send you? I mean, “penis”, really?? No one calls it that except for like, sex ed teachers or weird perverts.” You sputtered in indignation, irritated firstly at his nonchalant manner, secondly by the round-about way the male accused you of being a pervert.

Before you had a chance to open your mouth to defend your word choice, Sero continued.

“I thought it was clear “what I was doing” when I brought out the lube. It’s like you’re not even trying to get comfortable with sex stuff. I’ve been putting all this effort into being a good friend, trying to make sure you won’t get made fun of for being a prude. I help you not look like an idiot when you don’t know what Denki’s saying when he talks about how his latest lay could deep throat. I’ve offered to teach you how to kiss like, a thousand times. Seriously, I’m just trying to help you out, and you’re acting like I’m trying to hurt you.” Sero buried his head in his hands.

“I…… That’s not….” You trail off, distinctly reminded of the last time you were in his room, when you hadn’t known what to say and ended up with your hand on Sero’s crotch; the ravenette talking you through what was happening in the porn he was having you watch. It hadn’t been pleasant, but it had been informative. You hadn’t learned much, but you knew what anal was now, so…. there’s that.

“I’m doing my best to help you learn this stuff, but if you won’t even look at the videos I send…”

You knew Sero was just trying to look out for you, but you don’t remember ever asking him to teach you about sex. You weren’t sure you wanted him to.

“Look, Sero… I just feel like this is a bit too much. I don’t wanna…. Well, I don’t want to…. y’know…”

“Fuck? You aren’t ready to get fucked so good you cry? I get that.” Sero interjected, meeting your eyes with a smirk before you could look away. “It’s really intimidating your first time, but I wasn’t going for that.”

You lifted your head. “You weren’t?” He had been unzipping his pants, what else could he have been getting ready to do? It’s not like hanging out with a friend required nudity. At least, in your experience.

“Of course not, I know you couldn’t handle something like that.”

That stung. Did Sero think you were weak? What even was going on - he was sweet one second, and then almost mean the next. Backhanded comments and rude suggestions, you wished he was teasing. Maybe you were reading this wrong, and he was just teasing you? Him and Denki got a kick out of flustering you when the three of you met, and every time they ran into you after that, even after you joined their friend group.

“I was gonna show you how blowjobs work, and it’ll be easy since you like the taste of the lube.”

Appalled, you jerked away from your friend, eyes widening. “Woah, woah, I just said I don’t want-“

“-To fuck, I heard you.” Sero assured you. “But this is - it’s not even sex, it’s a blowjob. C’mon, it’ll be okay, blowjobs are easy.”

He was grabbing the bottle (which you now knew held lube) and shuffling his pants down, along with his boxers. You didn’t have time to protest before his cock was out, twitching in the cool air of his room. Sero hissed at the temperature difference of the lube as he squirted a generous amount of it into his palm, wrapping his hand around the reddened shaft.

A few quick strokes left his length glistening, covered in the gel, applied so generously that a few drops rolled down, dripped onto the wiry black pubes at the base. Sero licked his palm messily, doing a poor job of cleaning off the excess lube, urging you to crawl forward and kneel between his spread legs.

“Here, see? It’s fine. We’re not even gonna think about deepthroating or face-fucking, alright? You go at your own pace.”

You felt sick. But it’s not like Sero was forcing you to do this - he wasn’t shouting or holding you down; his posture was relaxed, easy smile showing off his dimples. You didn’t like the sound of “facefucking”, and you knew what deepthroating was, and you were relieved Sero didn’t expect that of you. Taking a deep breath, you scooted forward, pausing before any part of you came into contact with the black-haired male.

“I don’t know…. What….?” You whispered, afraid of your own voice. You were blushing so hard, you wanted to cover your face, but that would just draw more attention to the fact that you were beyond embarrassed, flushed and sheepish. You’d really rather not do any of this, but Sero was right - it wasn’t sex, it wasn’t that big of a deal.

Just one friend helping out another, right?

“Just start out slow, y’know? Try to lick all the lube off.”

His suggestion seemed easy enough, so you leaned forward, darting your tongue out to hesitantly lap at his cock. You were met with the pleasant taste of the lube, able to detect an underlying flavor of salty sweat. It wasn’t horrible.

You grew bolder, letting your tongue loll out of your mouth to lick broad stripes up the shaft, making Sero groan and fist his hands into the blankets by his hips. The sound made your insides twist, but you were fine - this was fine.

“Aw, you’re doing good. Mm - you can try putting a little bit in your mouth if you want. But watch your teeth, dicks are sensitive okay?”

You put the tip into your mouth, trying to make sure your teeth didn’t scrape or bite. Running your tongue around the squishy glans, you jumped when you felt Sero’s hand on your head. But he didn’t grab, push you down further or hold you in place. The ravenette let his hand smooth over your hair soothingly, petting at your head they way one would pet a cat.

“Fuck, can you - can you try sucking on it? That’s how you give a real blowjob.”

It was hard not to gag, hard to draw your thoughts away from what you were doing with your mouth and the soft, tight skin you were rubbing with your tongue. It felt weird, you felt weird, and you weren’t sure it was in a good way. But you wanted to try your best, not leave Sero hanging. You remember what he had said last time about teasing bitches, and you were afraid he might think you were leading him on if you stopped now..

Breathing through your nose, you hollowed your cheeks, creating a tight suction around the head of Sero’s cock. When you sucked, his dick jumped (it was hard to keep your mouth wrapped tight around his dick - you hadn’t been expecting it to move), and Sero patted your head softly.

“Yeah, just like that. Keep going.”

You did, rhythmically sucking at the glans, rubbing your tongue around the spongy head, popping off occasionally to lick up your excess saliva before it could roll too far down his length. Sero became increasingly more vocal, low moans and blissful sighs leaving his lips in between his gentle instructions.

“You, ah, you remember what we did last time? When you used your hand?”

Drawing back, you nodded. “A hand job.”

“Mmhm, good job. Do that around the part that’s not in your mouth, yeah?”

Tentatively, you wrapped your hand around the base, cringing at the slick feeling of too much lube and your own saliva. You gave the shaft a long, slow stroke, before fitting your mouth over the top again, suckling hard.

Sero let out a throaty groan, encouraging you to move faster, tighten your grip just a bit, suck a little bit more of his length into your mouth. His cock jumped again, once, twice - and then warmth spurted out of the tip.

You gagged immediately and pulled your mouth back and off his length. Before you could remove your hand, Sero trapped it under his own, using your palm to jack himself through his orgasm, abs tight and head tilted back, his dark eyes closed in bliss.

When you had given him a handjob for the first time, the male had cum, but the mess was (mostly) contained by his boxer briefs.

Thick streams of whiteish fluid (cum, you knew from the few videos that Sero had forced you to watch) streamed out from the tip, slowly bubbling over and coating your conjoined hands, making everything even messier.

Sero gradually released your hand, letting you pull back from his body, trying not to cringe in disgust at the stickiness covering your hand. You wanted to wipe it off, clean up - now that Sero had orgasmed you were going to run to the locker rooms and scrub yourself in a hot shower.

But as Sero panted, uncaring of the mess dripping to his sheets, he caught your gaze with his own, giving you a lopsided grin. “That was really good (Y/N), you’re a natural.”

The praise reached your ears, but you didn’t feel the little spike of pride that you normally associated with being complimented.

“Uh… Thanks, I guess.”

Sero reached over to his nightstand, snagging a pocket-pack of tissues, pulling out a few for himself, tossing one to you. You scrubbed at your cum-covered hand, sopping up the mess before lobbing the soiled tissue into the wastebasket by his desk.

“Okay, um - I’m gonna go now, I guess I’ll see you later.”

How did one leave gracefully after such an exchange?

Sero’s hand shot out (thankfully now clean) and grabbed your ankle, swiftly pulling you towards him across the bed, causing you to fall onto your back, squeaking in shock.

“Hold on! You’ve got me off twice now, it’s bad etiquette if I didn’t try to return the favor.”

“No! No, really, I’m okay!” You held out your hands, leg wriggling to free yourself from his grasp. “I don’t mind, it’s okay!”

Sero cocked his hand, slowly beginning to rub his hand up and down your calf, in a mockery of a massage. “I know you’re okay, I want to make you feel great. I’m good at this next part.”

He winked, the hand not rubbing your calf coming to pull at your school skirt, flipping it up to reveal your panties. You whined, trying to push it back down, cover yourself, but Sero clicked his tongue, easily batting your hands away.

“Don’t be shy baby, you got nothing to hide.”

“Sero, this is really making me uncomfortable - I don’t -“

“Shh, hey, you know I would never hurt you. I’m your friend, and I only want what’s best for you.”

Your panic was rising, blooming in your chest like a heavy flower, petals dropping and falling to your stomach to dissolve into acid that boiled into nausea. But that was just nerves, right?

Sweat was already pooling on your back, slicking up your hands, making your hair cling to your forehead.

Sero was your friend, but this was starting to feel a little unfriendly. But you didn’t have time to think when his hands were pulling down your panties, exposing your cunt to his hungry gaze.

“Damn, you’re real pretty.”

You squirmed, opened your mouth to protest, but Sero was hefting one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you up for easier access to your folds. He was going too fast, this was all going too fast and you couldn’t-

Long fingers swiped along the outside of your pussy, sending a twinge of sensation (pleasure?) up into your tummy. They stroked up and down, spread your folds, tapped around the puffy pink skin until they came in contact with your clit. With a gasp, your hips involuntarily bucked, chasing the sensation. Sero grinned at you.

“See? It only gets better. Let me take care of yo, it’ll all be okay.”

His fingers continued to pet you, slowly collecting wetness as it seeped out of your pussy, shame coloring your cheeks and making your arms curl across your chest, as if to hold yourself. Sero didn’t seem to mind, not when he was so focused on touching you.

He used his other hand to pat around the bedspread, looking for the lube he had so carelessly dropped earlier. When he found it, you heard the cap flick open, and then the cold gel was squirted onto the top of your slit. You gasped, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to keep your hips from jumping forward when Sero massaged the lube onto your pussy, using three fingers to smush and spread the lube around.

It felt exquisite.

Your thighs were tensing, short, little spasms of the muscle each time his fingers came into contact with your clit, and you could feel your pussy pulsing, oozing out wetness. Breathing shakily, you whined when Sero traced a single finger around your hole, teasing.

“I’m gonna finger you open, alright? You look so sexy like this, letting me make you feel good.”

His finger entered you slowly, a long, steady press. It was uncomfortable, but not exactly unpleasant, and smooth due to the lube. You wanted him to wait, to let you adjust to the intense sensation, gather your senses, but the ravenette kept steady, drawing his finger out at the same pace before pushing it back in.

Sero’s thumb rubbed at your clit, swiping back and forth, smushing the little nub and making you (to your embarrassment) moan. It felt good, the nausea in your stomach fading as the pleasure built.

Next thing you knew, Sero was fucking you with two fingers, then three, increasing the pace on each addition. Your hips were bucking wildly, thrusting down each time his fingers pushed up, fucking yourself on his long, slim digits.

“Sero, Sero, ah, ah-“

You cried, and your friend swore under his breath, before his hand left your cunt empty. Opening your eyes, you barely had time to look at the male questioningly before he was grabbing your hips, flipping you over onto your stomach. You squirmed, able to feel your hole clenching and unclenching rhythmically - you felt unusually empty.

“Sero?”

Something hard and hot was pressed against you, Sero leaning over you, his legs on either side of your own as he pulled your hips up and back, putting you on your knees.

“Calm down, I’m only gonna put in the tip. It’s not sex, no need to worry.”

The tip?

You realized what was happening, why he turned you over, what was pressing up against your folds, what the male mean’t by “just the tip”

“Wait!!-“ You thrashed, breathing heavily, clawing at the sheets to pull yourself forward, away, anywhere but pressed up against your friend.

But Sero was stronger than you, had your hips in a bruising grip as he pressed forward, his cock breaching your hole. He kept you still as he thrust shallowly, keeping to his promise of “just the tip”.

It was bigger than his three fingers had been, and the stretch burned. It quickly simmered to a slow build of pleasure in your tummy, ramping up when a hand snaked around your hip, coming to roll and pinch and slap at your clit gently.

“Sero!” Whining, you couldn’t stop your hips from moving, pushing back towards that delicious friction against your clit, the gentle thrusts just barely entering your cunt. You didn’t want him to go any further, but your body craved for more.

The male seemed to sense this, or maybe he was just too wound up, but on his next thrust, he went too far inside, kept on going, pressing, rutting inside your until he was buried to the hilt.

Sero had officially gone too far.

“This is-“ you gasped as he rubbed your clit feverishly, interrupting your thoughts., distracting you from the burning stretch of his entire cock being plunged into you. It was a struggle to regain them again. “Sero this is too-too far. It’s wrong! Stop!”

He laughed, his throaty voice trailing off into a groan.

“If it’s so wrong, why are you about to cum? Girls can’t cum if they don’t want it.”

Horrifingly, he was right - you were about to cum. The pleasure was building and rising, it wouldn’t stop. You had no time to breathe, or to even cry as Sero began hammering into your cunt, energetic, chasing after his own pleasure while speeding you towards your own.

Each thrust hit deep, his hips twisting on each thrust so his cock /swirled/ up against your walls as he pushed into you. It was entirely too much, and yet he wouldn’t stop. He was moaning and swearing behind you, puncturing each push of his hips with a “so good baby” or “your pussy is so tight, fuck.”.

You didn’t know what to focus on.

Sero shifted, and his next thrust hit something deep inside of you, and you couldn’t help but wail as you came. Sero groaned as your pussy squeezed him tightly, his thrusts increasing in speed until he pulled out, furiously jacking his cock over your back.

You barely even flinched when you felt warmth drip onto your skin, where your shirt had ridden up.

No longer held up by Sero’s strong arms, you collapsed forward onto his bed, confused, relaxed, filled with countless emotions that you couldn’t even begin to identify. Sero flopped down beside you, utterly spent, panting heavily. There was silence between the two of you as your breathing evened, coming down from your high. You felt exhausted.

“Sex feels really good, doesn’t it?” Sero broke the silence, reaching over to rub your shoulder. “I’m sorry about going so deep, guess I got kinda caught up in the moment, y’know?”

You didn’t.

At this point, you didn’t even know what to feel.

Didn’t even know what to do.

#yandere oneshot #yandere sero hanta #Sero Hanta #sero x reader #yandere #yandere boku no hero academia #sero #manipulation #tw dubcon #tw coercion #don't like don't read #nasty

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simplyotometrash · 4 years

Text

What They Smell Like

Lucifer:

He smells like a professional man.

Mixed with a dad.

So that earthy, old spice smell.

Which honestly isn’t terrible. He doesn’t want to smell strongly of his cologne, not like a teenager.

Just a hint of his cologne.

Enough that the air can waft it your way with a gentle breeze or when you’re close to him.

The earthy smell is very much like cedar or pine trees. It’s very pleasant imo.

And of course the classic dad smell of old spice.

Which is actually not bad. The classic is nice. It’s everything else old spice I find to be too much.

Mammon:

Mammon doesn’t want to smell nice like Asmo smells nice. And he doesn’t want to smell like Lucifer.

Mammon wants to smell rich.

That’s important to him.

His cologne is much stronger than Lucifer’s but not in a bad way.

He likes that pumpkin smell.

A spiced pumpkin smell.

When you think of autumn, that’s what he smells like.

Crisp air, falling leaves, warm apple cider, and pumpkin spice.

He smells so nice.

Sometimes there’s a hint of coffee in the mix because I think of Mammon as a coffee addict.

Levi:

Classic gamer smell is what you think, right?

Well, you aren’t totally wrong.

There is a salty and sweet smell to him from copious amounts of caffeine and potato chips.

But the salty scent is more of an ocean smell. He smells of the sea.

But I also think he’s insecure about how he smells. He doesn’t want to smell like a shut-in otaku.

He totally buys any Ruri-chan brand colognes, no matter what the smell. And he will wear them proudly.

But his typical smell is a sweet and salty combo. Unless it’s Ruri-chan, he doesn’t wear cologne.

Sometimes there’s a hint of sweat smell if he has been locked up in his room on a nonstop binge of a game or anime.

Satan:

He also wants to smell vastly different from Lucifer.

He’d rather die.

He isn’t a big cologne wearing guy, honestly.

Satan just naturally smells nice.

Like a brand new book.

You know that amazing new book smell? Yeah, that’s what he smells of.

Also, he slightly smells of fresh linens.

But mostly the book smell.

Oh! Better yet, he smells like a library.

Libraries, to me, have such a nice smell. The smell of books are amazing.

He just smells of a books.

Not a dusty library.

A library that is loving cared for and the books tended to.

Asmo:

Asmodeus would rather smell like Mammon than smell like generic perfume.

He isn’t a wearer of cologne. He wears expensive perfume.

But it isn’t rose or some hoity toity smell.

And nothing too strong. Stronger smells can be overwhelming and unpleasant. Asmo wants to smell pleasant. Mostly for himself. After all, he has to smell himself all day long.

A soft, sweet scent.

Vanilla and fresh strawberries would be his go-to. And not super artificial, headache inducing vanilla.

His vanilla is light and subtle. It is an accent to the smell of strawberry.

It’s probably his favorite perfume.

Sometimes he likes a light, refreshing orange smell.

But sometimes he goes with something more like jasmine or honeysuckle.

Lightly sweet and fragrant but not so strong that you want to escape it.

While he has a range of perfumes in his bathroom, his go-to is always vanilla and strawberry.

Beelzebub:

You would expect a strong food and sweat smell, right?

Wrong!

Beel only smells sweaty if he has been working out. He takes care not to stink, you know. He knows sweat can smell awful. He changes in a locker room with an entire team of sweaty demon men after all.

His natural scent is on the muskier side.

He, like Lucifer, likes a woodsy smelling cologne.

He doesn’t go too heavy on it, just enough to mask any other smells.

He smells like the forest after it has been raining.

Everything smells so fresh and earthy, a bit musky.

After always hearing comments about how he is constantly eating, he doesn’t want to smell like food.

He doesn’t need to hear his brothers talk about that, too.

His cologne isn’t expensive or anything. Not that he’s aware of.

He didn’t even know what to buy before. He complained about how he smelled through his deodorant, so Belphie picked out a cologne for him as a gift.

Belphegor:

Fresh laundry. Belphie loves the smell of fresh laundry, he can’t really sleep if his blankets and pillows don’t smell fresh.

So, naturally, he smells like fresh laundry.

Belphie also smells of lavender, chamomile, and honey.

A very soothing smell.

I headcanon it’s his favorite type of tea because it relaxes him, so it’s also his favorite smell.

If you were to be cuddled up with him, you’d be able to sleep peacefully he smells so nice.

And it isn’t even a cologne. He’s not embarrassed by the fact he bought perfume. If he likes the smell then he likes the smell.

Asmo was the one who pointed it out one day, saying Belphie would like something like that.

It isn’t strong. It’s a gentle smell that you could almost not notice unless you got close enough to him.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me levi #obey me satan #obey me asmo #obey me beel #obey me belphie #obey me headcanons #waylonwrites

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unsettledink · 3 years

Text

Made For It

Exchange fic for the 2020 Marvel Holidays Secret Santa, hosted by @iloveyou3thousand

My recip was livvibee - Fingers crossed this works for you! I took your ‘anything goes’ and... went with it. Hopefully in a direction that you’re okay with!

Made For It

Word Count: 8100

Summary: Tony has never had the patience to deal with alphas. Too bad that his son just presented as one. But there's no way Tony is ever going to let Peter know how upsetting that is; his kid is still mostly perfect.

It is too bad, right?

(ABO, peter’s 15, also is tony’s bio child, heats/ruts, knotting, dirty talk, referencing mpreg, very dead dove, please heed the warnings)

Link to AO3 at the end

Tony has never had the patience to deal with alphas.

Honestly, he just can’t stand them. Always acting like they know best, don’t worry your pretty little omega head about it. Pushing their way into everything, trying to take over and dismiss Tony as unessential for anything of actual importance.

Fuck them. Just because Tony’s an omega doesn’t mean he can just be handled like that, doesn’t mean he’s going to put up with it. Being an omega doesn’t mean he wants to be under someone’s thumb like that, and is sure as hell doesn’t mean he needs an alpha.

There isn’t an alpha out there that actually knows what’s best for him.

Even for Peter— sure, he’d needed an alpha’s sperm for his kid, but he had the resources to go for artificial insemination. The take rate for male omegas is awful, but Tony’s never relied on luck. He has JARVIS.

Is it strange to have his AI pick out the best possible candidate for Tony’s baby? Maybe. Is it invasive for JARVIS to consider any alpha, whether or not they’ve actually donated? Probably, but the winner had been more than happy enough to provide a sample once Tony had thrown enough money at him, and Tony hadn’t even had to meet him. Had even been willing to sign away all their rights as a mate and a parent for a little extra.

Does it result in Tony taking on the very first try? Absolutely, and that makes it worth every single penny. Because he gets Peter out of it, gets his wonder, perfect kid. Smart and sweet and stubborn (you take after me so much, Tony’s started telling him when they fight, and it generally makes them both grin). Tony couldn’t ask for a better kid in any way, and he loves Peter more than anything in the world.

And then Peter turns fifteen; presents a few months later, earlier than most of his yearmates.

As an alpha.

The first Tony knows of it is when he comes home and smelled… something off. Something viscerally wrong, disgusting. Something that only got worse when he went into the living room and found Peter hunched over on the couch, a little ball of misery.

“Peter?” Tony says. He’s still supposed to be in school and Tony doesn’t think he got a call about Peter being sent home. “What’s wrong?”

Peter looks up, red eyed, upset. “I’m sorry,” he says, offering up a piece of paper. “I— it happened at school and the nurse ran the test and it’s— I’m—”

Tony doesn’t need him to say it; he knows what the red header on the test results means. Knows what that smell is now, knows why he feels on edge in his own home. Peter’s an alpha. Peter’s—

Peter’s shaking. “Dad,” he says, “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to! I don’t want to be an alpha! I’m sorry!” He bursts into tears and fuck, it doesn’t matter how awful Peter smells now, Tony can’t just let his baby cry all alone like that.

“Oh kiddo, no,” Tony says, kneeling inf ront of Peter and grabbing his hands. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“But you hate alphas!” Peter wails. “You hate them so much and now I’m one and— I’m sorry, please Dad, I’m so sorry.”

Fuck, fuck. “I don’t hate you, sweetheart. I could never hate you.” He tugs Peter closer, Peter clinging, sobbing against his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, I know that. I know you didn’t want this, but… it’ll be okay in the end, I promise. You’re going to be okay.”

It’s rough at first.

After Peter gets through the first stage of his presentation, his scent settles. Grows, into that thick, bitter, sweet scent that clings to the back of Tony’s tongue. It’s awful, and Tony can’t escape it; it’s everywhere in the house, and all over Peter, over everything he touches.

Peter can’t help it. He knows this, and he’s not going to make his son take blockers just because Tony has a— a thing about alphas. He’ll get used to it. He’d told Peter it wasn’t his fault and it’d be okay, and he’s going to do his damndest to make Peter believe it.

He’s never going to let Peter know how unpleasant it’s become to even be in the same room as him, much less it next to him, or to hug him and kiss his forehead and treat him just like Tony always has, because Peter is taking this badly. He’s distressingly fragile about this, and Tony’s worried. It’s his own fault, with the way he’s talked about alphas all of Peter’s life, but he’d never thought— well, it doesn’t matter now. He’s just got to try and fix some of the damage he’s done.

It’s not Peter’s fault he’s not quite so perfect anymore.

So, it’s rough at first, but slowly, things ease. Slowly, Peter’s first rush of scent dies down, mellowing into something not quite as awful. Starts to take the influence of Tony’s, softening a little, becoming more familiar. Not nearly as comfortable to be around as he used to be, but still something Tony finds easier to tolerate.

Slowly, Peter becomes more comfortable with his secondary gender, and Tony— Tony works hard not to think of Peter like that. To not apply those stereotypes—are they, Tony wonders, if they’ve been born out every time he’s dealt with an alpha—to Peter. He loves Peter, and he’s never going to stop loving Peter, no matter he’s become.

And then Tony has a heat.

Tony doesn’t even think about it; it’s never been a problem before. When Peter was younger, Tony would send him for a long weekend at Uncle Rhodey’s and grit his teeth and suffer through it. Sometimes he broke, when the heat aids weren’t enough and he was so desperate he couldn’t stand it. Would hire a heat companion, the lowest rated alpha they could find, one willing to shut up and take orders.

The need quiets as he gets older, thank god, and it got to the point where he could nearly ignore them. Could just spend a few hours knotting himself once Peter had gone to bed and keep going the rest of the time. Maybe a little more irritable, a little tired, a little achy, but just fine, and Peter knew by then you just be a little more forgiving for those few days. A little kinder, even.

Had actually been really good about it the last few years. Been cute, actually; had put on Tony’s favorite shows, had tried to cook things Tony especially liked (or order things he did, when the cooking failed spectacularly a few times. He definitely got that from Tony.), had practically bullied him into using the jacuzzi when Tony complained too much once about hurting all over and getting old. Had just… attempted to pamper him a little bit, adorably.

Tony won’t lie; he’s never let an alpha do that for him. He hadn’t wanted to give them ideas. But it’s always been fine for Peter to do it, and it’s been a little comforting. Peter’s just a good kid.

But this time—

This time, his heat hits him harder than usual, all the aches and pains and itchy, burning want that he’d thought he’d mostly left behind. This time, when Peter came home from school, Tony knew without seeing him, hearing him. He knew, because the second Peter walked in—

He didn’t smell terrible anymore.

Fuck, he smelled good, so good, insansely good. The best thing Tony’s ever smelled, and that base part of his brain wants to just bask in it, cover himself in it. Tony freezes in the doorway of the kitchen; he doesn’t even remember getting here.

He stares at Peter and Peter stares right back, eyes wide and darkening, his scent rising in response to a heat.

Tony swallows, hard. “Peter,” he says. “I think you should go spend a couple days at Ned’s. Or Rhodey’s, or— or even Nat. Just. Not here.”

Peter blinks at him, slowly. “I don’t have to,” he says.

Yes, yes he does. “I want you to,” Tony says, and he knows it’s going to hurt Peter; there it is, that little flinch. Anything he can do to get Peter out of the house is going to be worth it, though, because this— this is not supposed to happen. His body is not supposed to recognize his fucking son as a good potential mate.

“Are you sure?” Peter asks, stepping forward, and Tony shudders, his scent deepening, spreading. Suffocating.

“Please,” Tony croaks, and Peter nods. Practically flees, and Tony has the horrible realization that Peter might have felt something of the same.

It’s not a good heat.

Things get a little awkward.

They avoid talking about it, completely, but… well. Tony isn’t going to stop having heats, after all. And Peter— Peter is stubborn. So stubborn, like Tony doesn’t know where he got it from, like Tony hasn’t encouraged it.

Peter loves him and hates to see him hurting. So the next time, when Tony tells him to go— Peter squares his shoulders and says no.

“Last time,” Peter says, “I came home and you’d barely eaten. You slept for almost the whole day after and you looked awful and you smelled—” he stumbles to a halt, blushes. “You smelled wrong,” he says after a deep breath. “Like you were sick. It— it scared me, Dad. I don’t want to leave you alone like that.”

“I don’t have to be alone,” Tony says. “I can— I can hire a companion.”

Peter frowns, staring down at the floor. Crosses his arms. “You’d hate that,” he says, very small.

Yeah, Tony would. Has, in the past. It’s better than the alternative though.

“Please,” Peter says.

“I just don’t know if it’s a good idea, kiddo,” is the most he can manage without— without saying something heading into dangerous ground.

“It’s not a problem for most people,” Peter mutters, and Tony doesn’t want to be the one to point out that apparently, they aren’t most people.

He caves.

It’s an even rougher heat. Oh sure, this time he doesn’t spend the entire time curled up in bed, frantically fucking himself with the largest knot he has and still feeling empty and desperate and abandoned, barely dragging himself to eat or clean up a few times, feeling sick, feverish, the whole time. And Peter’s downright annoying about attempting to take care of him, bringing him food and pestering him about not hiding away the whole time and making Tony take care of himself some more, even if it’s mostly to avoid the shame of Peter seeing him like this.

But it’s torture, having Peter in the house. It’s torture, having what his brain seems to think is the perfect mate right there and not available, not doing anything. Having to tell himself over and over, in the worst of his heat when he can barely think straight anyway, that he can’t have this alpha. He can’t have Peter. Can’t have his son, fuck.

This is one of the many, many reasons Tony hates alphas. Because they do this bullshit to him, fuck with his head and make him want things, make it so hard to control himself. Make him consider things he never would.

He wouldn’t.

This is why he hates alphas, Tony thinks, the heat after that, Peter insisting that it had been fine last time so he’s staying again. This is why, he repeats in his head, making himself wait until Peter’s gone to bed before he fucks himself with his newest aid, larger than all the others, with all the bells and whistles to make it seem like a real alpha’s knot.

This is fucking why, he tells himself as he comes again and again and again, clenching around it and muffling everything coming out of his mouth in the pillow; because they make him do this, want this. Makes it so easy, so good, to imagine Peter fucking him, knotting him, filling him up and biting him, god, fuck. Makes him moan Peter into his bedding; whisper, hopeless, desperate, please, Peter please, need you.

Because they make him not himself.

But he’s not going to stop having heats, so he has to— has to just find a way to deal with this, a way that leaves him able to still look Peter in the eye after his heat’s passed. They’re not going to stop.

Worse, so much worse, Peter starts having ruts.

The first one— the first one, Tony hadn’t even smelled. The first one had been an almost instant slide from normal—Peter a little testy and distracted but normal—to full rut, Peter’s scent sharpening, deepening, flooding over Tony strong enough to make his knees go weak, send him sagging against the counter. Peter’s staring at him when Tony looks over, a little glazed, heavy and intent like Tony is some sort of prey, and it’s horrifying to see that expression on his kid’s face.

Tony freezes, not wanting to set Peter off in any way, and Peter closes his eyes. Inhales, long and deep, scenting Tony, Jesus Christ.

Opens his eyes, and there’s a flicker, a moment where he seems to realize what is happening, what he’s doing. Freezes too, and then—

Runs.

He’s gone before Tony has a chance to move, a chance to even call after him, slamming out of the house without taking a single thing with him. Tony sits, shakily, and has a little breakdown.

He doesn’t know how they’re going to manage this now. What the hell they’re going to do. Fuck, what Peter’s going to feel, when his rut is over.

Rhodey calls a few hours later, just to let him know Peter’s with him, safe and incredibly upset. “He won’t tell me anything,” Rhodey says as Tony clutches his phone, “but… well, he’s in rut, Tony. It’s probably his first, right?” Tony manages a noise that sounds like affirmation. “Right. I’m sure that’s it; they say it’s rough the first time. He can stay until it’s over. He’ll be fine; don’t worry, Tones.”

Too late.

If he thought things were awkward after his heats, they’re so much more fucking awkward when Peter comes back two days later, rut scent gone. His normal scent nearly scrubbed as well, buried beneath heavily scented soap and— Tony sniffs, carefully, once Peter’s turned his back. His scent is so muted, metallic tinged, just off— he took a blocker. He took a fucking blocker so his scent wouldn’t bother Tony as much.

Tony’s heart nearly breaks. “Peter,” he says. “Baby. Come here a minute.”

Peter’s wary when he walks over, ashamed. Stops, a little too far away. “No,” Tony says, and opens his arms. “Come here.”

“Are you sure?” Peter says, so quiet, and Tony’s heart does break, completely.

“Oh, kiddo,” he says. “Yes, yes, I’m sure,” and he clings to Peter just as tightly as Peter clings to him. It feels like he hasn’t properly hugged Peter in months.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispers. “I’m so sorry, Dad, I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why but I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Tony tells him. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault. We’re going to be okay.” He ducks his head, brushing his mouth right over Peter’s scent point. “I don’t want you to take scent blockers,” he says. “They’re not good for you, and you’re not— you don’t need to, Peter. I’m going to be fine without them.”

“I don’t want it to bother you,” Peter says, and Tony shakes his head.

“It doesn’t. It won’t,” he promises. “You’re more important to me than any of that.”

He doesn’t know how he gets through his next couple of heats.

Peter stays, and stays, and Tony gets used to his scent there, during them. He starts thinking—

You’re not supposed to be ashamed of anything you think during heat, whatever it is, however wrong it is. Everyone knows it turns omegas into someone they aren’t normally, that those things don’t count as real wants. Still, Tony doesn’t think h should ever admit that what he’s started thinking about during his last few heats isn’t just Peter, inside him and under him and filling him up.

It’s Peter, how Peter— Peter wouldn’t be one of those alphas, would he. Peter’s stubborn and a little pushy sometimes, but he’d never try to take over, never think he’s better than Tony. Never try to push him, manipulate him into doing something he didn’t want. Wouldn’t try to mate him or breed him without Tony’s permission, and would never use him like a mindless fucktoy, a stupid little omega slut.

No; Peter would be such a soft alpha, so willing and careful with Tony, so easy to control, to direct. So good at taking direction.

Peter would be—could be—the perfect alpha for Tony. He’d barely need any training to be exactly what Tony wants; after all, he already loves Tony. He already wants Tony. It’s like this is what he was born to be.

It’s awful, but Tony’s still thinking it during his heats. Is still thinking it outside of his heats, day to day, watching Peter and seeing all the ways in which Peter would be perfect. He already smells like Tony. He already knows exactly what Tony likes. Knows how difficult Tony can be and isn’t bothered by it. And he’s gorgeous, he’s so fucking gorgeous, so tempting.

He thinks Peter’s watching him a little too.

There’s something wrong about contact between them now. There shouldn’t be, but when they’re curled up together, watching TV; when Peter slides up behind him and hugs him; when Tony leans against his side when he corrects Peter’s work— those touches are off, are too much, too charged. Heavy with a kind of intent that does not belong there.

Peter doesn’t leave during his next rut. Just stays in his bedroom most of the time, and Tony’s on edge the whole first day despite himself. When Peter emerges every now and then, he follows every move Tony makes, unmistakably hungry.

Tony should feel hunted, should feel angry and horrified the way he had been the first time Peter looked at him like that.

Oh, he doesn’t. Stares back at Peter on the second day, challenging. What, that stare says. You want something? Gonna do something about it?

Peter ducks back into his room and hides, but his scent is thicker, coating the inside of Tony’s lungs. He’s not handling this as well as Tony’s managed his heats with Peter in the house.

Not nearly as good at keeping quiet when he moans Tony’s name either.

The last day— the last day, Tony wakes up and feels sore, heavy. Lies there and thinks, sluggishly, a little too hot, that he really wants to curl up and waste the day on some TV marathon. Really wants to—

Fuck, he thinks a second later. Oh, fuck; this is… not great.

Peter’s in the hall when Tony comes out of his bedroom. Close, like he was lurking, drawn in by the scent of Tony’s heat, and the scent of Peter, of Peter still in rut, hits Tony so hard he shudders. God, he wants.

“Dad,” Peter says, his voice low, rough. “Dad, this—”

“I know,” Tony says, cutting him off. “I’ll just— I’ll visit Natasha for a few days.”

“No,” and Peter walks—fucking stalks—toward him. Backs him up against the wall, his hands on either side of Tony, trapping him. Tony feels frozen. “I don’t want you to go.”

“That’s just your rut talking,” Tony says. “That’s all.”

Peter shakes his head, slow. “No,” he says. “I’ve heard you, Dad. I know what you want when you’re in heat. I could give it to you.”

Tony swallows, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He should be afraid, he thinks, distantly. He should be worried about what this alpha might do, might try and take, now that he’s got Tony nearly pinned, but— he doesn’t fear Peter. Never will. There’s just… heat, a sharp screaming hunger riding up in him.

“I’ve heard you too, kiddo,” Tony says.

“Dad,” Peter moans, swaying closer, nearly touching him. “Dad, please, please, I want— I know you don’t want an alpha, I know, but I’d be so good. I’d be so, so good for you, I promise.”

It’s too much, too much, and Tony has held out too long. Has stopped being able to beat himself up enough for the things he’s been thinking, for what he wants. “I know,” he says. “I know you’d be so good. Fuck, Peter; you’d be perfect, wouldn’t you. You’d be every last thing I’ve ever wanted in an alpha.”

Peter closes his eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath. “Let me,” he says, his voice so rough they’re barely words.

Tony doesn’t even bother to think. “Yes.”

He gets a growl from Peter for that, gets Peter pressing closer and kissing him, his hands all over Tony. Tony hooks his hand around the back of Peter’s neck and pulls him in, holds him there and kisses him deeper, again and again and again.

“Peter,” he says once Peter’s pulled back a little. “Not here, kiddo. I’m not up for getting knotted anywhere but bed anymore.” Peter moans; yeah, he thought that might catch his attention. He’s still like all alphas in some ways.

“Why did I even bother getting dressed,” Tony mutters, walking Peter back into his bedroom, shoving him toward the bed.

Peter’s still watching him, so intently, but a tiny little smile creeps onto his face anyway. “So I could undress you?” he says, and fuck, he’s going to be cute about this. Of course he is; it’s Peter.

He kisses Peter, hands up under his shirt. “Better get on with it then,” Tony says.

Oh, he’s seen Peter naked plenty of times, across all ages, and he’s sure Peter’s seen him naked a few times too. But this is completely different; this time, they’re looking. This time, they’re touching, and it’s so good, it’s everything Tony’s been wanting for months now, the contact he needs to settle his heat a little.

They fumble their way onto the bed, tangled up on their sides, Tony’s hand sliding down to Peter’s cock as they kiss, and he loves the way Peter’s breath catches. Peter’s hand curls over Tony’s side, spreads across the curve of his ass, and then hesitates. He presses his fingers down and slips them a little lower, a little closer to Tony’s hole.

“Dad,” Peter says, “can— can I, uh. Before I—” He cuts off with a groan, and it’s adorable. “Oh my god, I’m going to be terrible at this.”

Tony nips at Peter’s lip, at the edge of his chin, teasing. Playful. “You’re going to be perfect,” he says. “And yes. Whatever it is, yes.”

“Fuck,” Peter whispers, and then he’s rubbing his fingers along the cleft of Tony’s ass, right over his hole, spreading around the slick that’s already leakingout. Presses one in slowly, watching Tony, and sure, Tony doesn’t need it but it still feels good to finally have some part of Peter in him. He’s still early enough in his heat that he can let Peter have this without immediately needing more.

He scrapes his teeth over Peter’s neck, getting a shiver from Peter. “Gonna open me up for your knot?” Tony says, and Peter whimpers. “Come on, kiddo, you can get more than that in there.”

Peter listens, pushing a second finger in so easily, and Tony loves how quick Peter is to obey; how easily, thoughtlessly he does. He’s not going to really challenge Tony in any of this. Is more likely than not going to let him take the lead—ask him to, even—just like he does anytime he runs into something new. He always brings those things to Tony, like he’s certain dad will know what to do.

His slick is running down Peter’s wrist by the time he’s given in and gone for three, Tony grinding back onto them, his hand slow on Peter’s cock, mouth slow against Peter’s. So sue him if he’s a little distracted.

“I’m going to need more than that,” Tony says. Pushes Peter over and straddles him, and the way Peter stares up at him is fucking addictive. The way Peter moans when Tony rubs his ass over Peter’s cock, when Tony slides down onto it, is even better.

“Oh fuck,” Peter breathes out. “Dad, you feel so good I can’t even believe it.”

“Feel pretty good yourself, alpha,” and Peter’s fingers dig into his thighs, hard. “You like that, huh?” Peter bites his lip. “Like having an omega all to yourself?”

“Yes,” Peter whispers, and Tony— he was so sure Peter would be good for him, but—

“Do you feel it?” he asks, quieter. “There in the back of your head, looking at me and seeing an omega?” Peter’s breath catches, and Tony settles down on him, grinding slowly.

“Does it make you want things?” Tony murmurs. “Make you want to just… get me under you, get me pinned and fuck me, make me beg for you knot? Make you want to get your mouth on me, make me bleed and bond me and break me in? Is that what you want, alpha?”

He hopes not, but he has to know before he ends up caught, has to know if the mistake he’s making is just that Peter is his son. Just, he thinks, fuck, just.

Peter’s staring at him, his hands painfully tight and that dazed, heavy look gone. “No,” Peter whispers. “Dad— no, I don’t. I don’t want— am I going to? Is that what— is that all I can do?” his voice rising, anxious.

“Oh baby, no,” Tony says, leaning down and kissing him. “Of course not.” Peter’s hands ease on him, and he draws in a shaking breath.

“Good,” he says. “I want— I want other things, not that. I just— I didn’t know, I’ve never—”

“I know,” Tony says. “Aren’t you lucky, getting me for all these firsts.” He raises his ass, starting to ride Peter slow, far slower than he really wants to. “So what do you want, sweetheart?”

Peter shakes his head, without words as twitches under Tony. It’s like getting Peter’s cock in him sets Tony off, brings all that want, that need from his heat back front and center, taking over his brain. “How about this,” Tony says. “This is what you want,” as he fucks down onto Peter, clenches around him. “You want that, want to feel me so tight all around your knot, don’t you,” and Peter groans, his hips jerking up, meeting Tony. “Want to feel me keeping you there, stuck with me.”

He gets a hand on his cock and Peter’s eyes snap to it, his mouth gaping open as he stares. “You want to be caught by me; you know it’s true,” Tony says. “Want to know I wanted you when I’ve never looked at another alpha.”

“Oh god,” Peter says, “yes, yes, you can catch me, Dad,” and it should sound like the cheesy line it is, like an alpha teasing, pretending they’d hold true to it when they’d been caught good and hard.

It doesn’t.

Tony’s suddenly desperate for Peter’s knot, the need for it sinking into him and spreading; he presses his hands against Peter’s chest and starts riding him fast and hard, just like he’s wanted to for months. “God, Peter,” he says. “Want you in me, want you to knot me up good.”

“Dad,” Peter whines, “you can’t say that, fuck.”

“No?” Tony says. “I think I can say whatever I want and you’ll love it. And what I want is for you to fill me up, lock so tight not a single drop of come could get past. Come on, kid; show me you can be as good as you promised.”

Peter’s gasping, flushed bright red and thrusting up into Tony frantically. “Gonna,” he manages, and he’s got that glazed, heavy lidded look again, sinking deeper into rut, into the mindless animal hunger of it.

“Look at you,” Tony says. “Is that all it takes, huh? Telling you how much I want you swelling inside me, stretching me out? All you need to turn into this needy rutting beast?” Peter moans, his fingers leaving bruises on Tony, fucking him hard. “You’re such a slut for an omega hole, aren’t you,” and it’s fucking perfect; he can feel the first swell against his ass, the barest bump of a knot starting.

“Tell me, baby,” Tony asks, “is it better that we’re who we are?”Peter’s staring up at him, hanging on Tony’s every word; Tony leans closer, wants to be sure Peter can hear him over the loud, messy sounds of them fucking. “Do you like it more, knowing you’re going to knot your dad? Gonna come in your dad, breed him?” and he doesn’t need Peter to say anything, not with the way his knot is growing, still sliding in and out of Tony but there’s a little force to it now.

“I mean, who could possibly know you better,” Tony says. “Or is it more than that, hmm? Do you like knowing that you came from me? Came out of me right where you’re about to come in me?”

Peter jerks so hard, his knot really getting with it now, barely slipping out of him on the next stroke. “Dad,” he gasps.

“You were always meant for this,” Tony tells him, starting to pant himself. “Meant from the start to be so desperate for me, so needy, just begging for an omega to fuck, to milk you dry,” and it hurts when Peter tries to pull out that time, his knot hitting the point where they’re already stuck together; Peter could come like this—Tony could let him—but it’s not good enough, would just be a waste to have a loose knotting.

“I didn’t even know it,” Tony says, “but I made you to be so fucking filthy, so perverted. I picked the best donor for you, wanted you to be the best you possible could, but you’re even better.” It almost catches, Peter humping against him the limited amount he can, whining pitifully; Tony leans down, pulling on the knot a little, till his face is right over Peter’s. “You need this,” he says, Peter nodding immediately. “Need to be caught so badly, baby. You’re going to wind up being one of those alphas they talk about, that just can’t get enough, can’t ever get enough of being in an omega. It’s going to be so easy to make you knot me again and again, as many times as I want.”

He laughs suddenly, nearly dizzy with the possibilities that just opened in his mind. Kisses Peter hard, biting his lip. “Think you’ll knock me up?” Tony whispers, pulling back just enough to see Peter’s eyes, wide and dark, shocked. Wanting. “Gonna give me a grandkid to spoil rotten?”

The sound Peter makes at that is incoherent, but the way his knot sinks further into Tony says enough. “Like the thought of that, do you?” Tony says. “Guess we’ll have to keep trying till it works.”

He feels it catch, feels it swell inside him, fucking huge, god. Peter’s got the most perfect alpha cock, the best Tony’s ever had. “That’s it,” he gasps, “fuck, that’s it, kid. Just like that, oh god, you’ve got such a good knot, so hard, ugh!” Feels it twitch as Peter starts to come, as Peter jerks under him, sinking even deeper, settling in and shooting off in Tony. Some distant part of Tony nearly hums with satisfaction. It’s a tight lock, a good breeding; Peter’s going to seed him easily like this.

That shouldn’t be appealing at all, but it really fucking is, Tony’s cock throbbing in his hand; a few more strokes, another little thought about Peter’s pup, their pup, the best of all possible choices, growing in him, and he’s coming, clenching down hard around Peter’s knot.

When he sinks down, ass pulling wonderfully at Peter’s knot, Peter wraps his arms around him. Kisses him, slow, messy, pretty fucking out of it, but to be fair, so is Tony. He closes his eyes, shoving his nose into Peter’s neck, mouth over his scent point. Licks at it and Peter moans, turning his own face into the same spot on Tony's neck, breathing hot and humid against it, and Tony wouldn’t say no if Peter bit down right now.

He won’t because that’s just… not how Peter is, but Tony wouldn’t say no.

Tony squirms on Peter's knot every now and then, unable to help it, needing to remind himself how good it feels, how tight it’s settled. Peter moans every time, clinging tighter.

“Still okay?” Tony says softly, and Peter tilts his head back, looking at him.

“Yeah,” Peter says, a little slurred, but it looks like he’s hitting a lull in his rut. “I needed you so much, Dad. Wanted you so much. The way you smelled— I was losing my mind. How could I even look at anyone else when you were there?”

He’s tracing his fingers over Tony's back, slow, mindless circles. “I know you don’t want an alpha,” he says, quieter. “I won’t be all like, super alpha though, I promise.”

“You’re not an alpha,” Tony tells him. “You’re my alpha.”

“Fuck,” Peter murmurs, shivering. “Please— I can be your alpha. I can. I will.”

“You will,” Tony says, meaning it, making that commitment without a second thought. “You’re a dream come true, Peter. Perfect, so perfect for me, like no one else ever could be. You’re already mine, already made from me.”

Peter moans, pressing his face harder into Tony's shoulder.

They stay like that, drifting a little; it’s a hell of a catch, Peter’s knot not shifting in him even a bit, not shrinking at all. Tony wonders how long it’ll stay. If it’ll be this tight every time.

He hopes so. Of course his son would do this well too.

It lasts and lasts, and— and Tony’s slipping back into heat, Peter’s knot still just as caught in him as before. God, this is going to be a wild heat.

“You said,” Tony starts, Peter stirring slightly, “said you’d heard me.” He drags his nails down Peter’s side, slowly, just feeling how he presses up into it. “So were you making sure I heard you? Doing it on purpose?”

“Um,” Peter says. “I— maybe. A little. I mean, I— I didn’t want you to know? I felt so bad about it. But I still… really wanted you to know. Really wanted you to—”

“Wanted me to what?” Tony says, propping himself up a little so he can look at Peter. It might be nearly torture for Peter, but Tony can still get off like this, listening to Peter’s dirty little fantasies. Can still come all over Peter and all around his knot. “What were you thinking when you jacked off and came calling my name?”

“Ohmigod, Dad,” Peter mutters.

Tony snorts. “Little late to be embarrassed, kiddo.” Twists, clenching at the same time, and Peter groans as his knot gets all that movement. “I wanna hear; entertain me, baby.”

Peter wrinkles his nose, but his arms stay tight around Tony. “I— I was thinking about you—” He takes a deep breath, turning until his face is tucked against Tony’s neck. “Was thinking about you fucking me,” he says, just a little muffled, and that was not quite what Tony was expecting.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Yeah,” Peter mumbles. “You— you’d tell me I hadn’t earned the right to knot you yet. That I’d have to work at it, show you how good I could be.”

“Fuck, Peter,” Tony says, squeezing his cock. “How were you supposed to show me that, hmm?”

Peter seems to realize what Tony’s doing then, tucking his head in more and looking down. Reaches down a second later, his fingers brushing over Tony’s, over his cock. “All kinds of ways,” Peter says, wrapping his hand around Tony’s, pressing their fingers between each other’s, slowly stroking Tony’s, using their hands together. “Anything I could think of, Dad. Letting you fuck me anywhere you wanted, any way; blowing you, or sometimes you’d just fuck my face and come all over it,” and Tony groans, hips jerking into their hands and pulling at Peter’s knot in the samemovement.

“I’d think— I’d think about you tying me up on the bed, to it, telling me alphas couldn’t be trusted,” Peter says, hand moving faster, tighter. “Telling me you’d help me learn, that maybe if I did well enough, you’d ride me like that, still tied up, after you came in me.”

“Jesus,” and it feels so good, this dual sensation, Peter all over him, in him. “You’ve got a filthy mind, baby.” He nips the underside of Peter’s chin, licks it, just barely, and he doesn’t know if Peter will even understand what that means. “I like it, Tony says. “After all, I know where you got it from.”

Peter huffs out this strangled laugh, his hand tightening around Tony’s cock. Moves faster as he starts talking again, Tony thrusting into it, closer by the moment. “You wouldn’t let me knot you even then,” Peter says. “You’d pull off as soon as I was almost there and make me come like that, play with my knot after until I felt like I was going to cry or pass out or something,” and he probably would. An alpha’s knot is so sensitive, not meant for anything but the warm, soft inside of an omega.

Tony shudders. “Next time,” he tells Peter, “next time, sweetheart. When—oh, fuck—when I’m not in heat, when I can give you the full attention you should get.” He pants, rocking against Peter, clenching tight around him. “I’ll make you knot like that when I’m not in heat, because you haven't earned that yet, have you. God, I can’t fucking wait, wanna see what you’ve got in me.”

He’s close, so close, Peter breathing heavy against his neck. “I should— Peter, baby, please.”

“Should what,” Peter whispers.

“Should get you like that,” Tony says, his eyes closing, right on the edge. “Get your knot popped and then compare you to some of my aids. See what you’re closest too and fuck you with that one.”

“Fuck,” Peter says, shaky. “I— I know I’m bigger than most, you’d have to— I don’t know if I could take one that big,” and Tony’s coming, squirming on Peter’s cock and twitching in Peter’s hand.

Peter’s knot might have gone down a bit, he thinks as he lies on Peter, his brain most static and white noise. Just a few things, circling round and round— wait.

“Bigger than most?” Tony says. “How would you know, huh? You haven’t even seen the size of what I get in me.”

It’s cute how Peter blushes, avoiding his gaze like he can pretend Tony isn’t there while he’s literally stuck on Peter’s cock. “Uh, I—” He squeezes his eyes shut, the rest coming out in a rush of words. “I snuck in once and found them and maybe played with them a little and that’s how I know.”

“You— you little perv,” Tony says, but it’s delighted. “Shit, Peter. That’s— I wanna say I can’t believe it, but boy can I. So what, you borrowed them for a bit? Or did you get off in my room and do your little comparison there?”

“Ahhh,” Peter moans, so embarrassed, but he brought this on himself. “It— it was when you went off to that conference overnight.”

“So it was in my bed.”

“Maybe,” Peter says. “But, uh. Yeah. I did that, so I do know that I’m bigger than all of them except the new one, so—”

“Wait,” Tony cuts in. “Wait wait wait. New one? New one? Peter Benjamin Stark, that was not a one time experiment, was it.” Peter’s got his face hidden, an arm thrown over it like that’s any actual protection. “How else would you know that any of them are new, hmmm? Unless you just happened to see what was there before I got it and after.”

He pushes at Peter’s arm until he can see one eye; waits. Peter opens it, eventually, squinting at him. “You sneaky slut,” Tony says. “You went back for more, didn’t you. How many times?”

Peter shakes his head, his face flaming red. “Too many,” he mumbles.

Tony opens his mouth, about to demand more details, when Peter’s knot slips. He shudders, feeling it get smaller by the second, sliding out of him and leaving him feeling empty. “Ugh,” he groans, and clings to Peter a little, Peter gasping sharply.

Oh, he feels gross, god. A hot shower sounds amazing, but that would require standing, and walking, and just in general moving and all of that sounds awful. He sighs against Peter’s collarbone. “So which one was your favorite?”

“What?”

He nips Peter, lightly, but Peter still jumps. “Which heat aid?” he says. “I know you probably tried them all.”

“They— uh, I— it’s—” It’s almost painful to listen to like this; Tony takes pity on him.

“I just wanted to find out which one I should use, when I get you knotted on one while you’re still caught in me. That’s all, baby,” Tony says. Grins. “But I can just pick one, if that’s easier.” Peter makes a helpless little sound. “How about the one that expands?” Tony asks. “Or— what about the one with a tube; I could fill it up and make it squirt in you. Could lick it back out of you after, even. What do you think?”

“Daaaaad,” Peter whines. “You— I can’t— oh god, whatever you want, please.”

Tony laughs at him. “You really are a slut for this,” he says, tilting his head up and kissing Peter. “Love you, kiddo.”

“I’d like any of it,” Peter says. “Anything you wanted from me. Anything at all; I love you too, Dad, so much.”

“I know,” Tony says. God, he knows. This— if Peter hadn’t loved him, maybe he might have been able to hold out longer.

If Peter hadn’t loved him, this would have gone so much worse. He sure as hell wouldn’t be kissing Peter right now, warm and soft. Wouldn’t be nipping at Peter’s scent point, teasing, pestering him until Peter huffs and squirms away. Wouldn’t have Peter following when Tony rolls off him, flops over again onto his stomach, face buried in his arms. Stretches a little, and Peter’s hands are on him, stroking down his side, over his head. Peter’s mouth is on him, trailing kisses across his shoulders, lingering for a moment at Tony’s scent point, darting out his tongue to taste it.

Peter’s hand wanders lower, practically groping at Tony’s ass. Not that Tony can blame him for being tempted, but there’s something— he’s not sure it’s entirely sane, the wave of humor that hits him at the thought of it. Maybe just a little hysterical, he decides, and he’s going to blame that completely on his heat. It’s always made him overreact.

“Dad?”

“Mmm?”

“Can— would it be okay—”

“Peter,” Tony says. “I told you. Yes. Whatever it is, yes. Carte blanche, kiddo.”

Peter huffs. Mutters to himself, something Tony can’t quite make out, and then, at the end, “Fine.”

Fine what, Tony wonders. Peter’s hands are on his ass, spread across each cheek and pulling him open as Peter shifts on the bed, settling between Tony’s legs; maybe that was it, maybe Peter wanted to look.

Or not, oh, god, Tony jerking as Peter licks up the cleft of his ass, stopping right before Tony’s hole. Pulls back and licks another line up, a little to the side of that, and it takes Tony entirely too long to realize Peter’s licking up the come that’s dripped down Tony’s ass. Can he be blamed, really, for being a little distracted by the wet, soft heat of his son’s tongue there, of all places?

“Fuck,” Tony gasps. “What the hell, baby, what—”

Peter pulls back, his breath hot against Tony’s skin when he answers. “I was going to ask,” Peter says, just a little sharp. “But noooo—”

“I’m not regretting that,” Tony says. “Just— Jesus, kid!” as Peter presses his mouth against Tony’s hole, licking at it.

He doesn’t bother with words after that. It’s easier, better, to focus on the feel of Peter’s tongue against his skin, all along his rim and inside, firm and soft and wetter by the second as Tony starts slicking up again; he doesn’t know if Peter’s going to be able to keep up with it.

So much better to dig his head and his knees into the bed and push up into Peter’s touch, into his mouth. Peter lets him, waits until Tony’s settled in and then keeps him there, his arms hooked around Tony’s thighs, hands on his ass. Buries his face as deep as he can and laps at Tony, eager and fucking hungry. Tony can feel every touch, every breath, every moan Peter makes, and he’s getting pretty noisy himself. “God, Peter,” Tony manages at one point, “where the hell did you learn this?”

Peter barely pulls back enough to answer. “Didn’t,” he says. “I just— wanted to.” Dives back in and Tony groans.

“You’re filthy, that’s what you are,” Tony tells him. “Fucking nasty, baby. Of course you’re a natural at this, you— oh fuck, right there, kiddo, right— yeah, keep it up.” He’s not sure if he can come from this—hell, if he can even come again so soon—but he’s going to try.

“It’s— it’s just ingrained in you, isn’t it,” Tony says. “Down to your bones, buried so deep, that you’re a slut,” and Peter moans into Tony’s skin. “Such a slut, such a good fucking slut, hungry for slick; you’re a disgrace of an alpha, you know that?”

That gets him a huff, and then a hand on his cock. Tony almost tells him no, almost insists on testing this, but it feels so good and he just wants to come. He’s past caring how, just— “Come on kid,” Tony gasps, “come on, show me what you can do.”

Peter keeps licking after Tony’s come, lighter, softer, but still going even when Tony starts squirming, too sensitive and worn out. “Peter,” he whines. “Baby, ugh, stoppit. I know you’re a slut for slick but enough.”

There’s one more broad, long swipe of Peter’s tongue and then he’s pulling back. “It’s not my fault you taste good,” Peter says, and Tony laughs.

Turns a little to look over his shoulder at Peter and doesn’t regret it; Peter’s face is red, his lips even redder, wetness smeared all over his mouth and chin and cheeks. Spit or slick or come, it doesn’t matter. “You think it tastes good because it tastes like you?” he asks, idly, watching Peter lick his lips.

“What,” Peter says, staring down at Tony’s sill spread open ass. “Because it’s my come I’m eating out of you?”

Tony snorts and Peter gives him a confused look. “No, dumbass,” Tony says, Peter scowling, “because you’re half me. More than half, technically.”

Peter rolls his eyes, actually rolls his eyes, god. “Or maybe you just taste good, Dad,” he says, wiping the back of his hand over his chin.

“Well, come on,” Tony says. Crooks his finger at Peter when he frowns. “Let me have a taste, then.”

Peter’s mouth drops open, and then he’s crawling up over Tony, making things difficult as Tony tries to turn over at the same time. Kisses him, pressing his tongue into Tony’s mouth, and honestly, Tony doesn’t care what any of it tastes like. Just wants this, Peter’s lips on his.

“You know,” Peter says when he pulls away. “You’re kind of a slut too, Dad,” and the laugh slips out of Tony before he even thinks about it.

“Guess it just runs in our genes,” he tells Peter.

“Yeah,” Peter says, nuzzling up to him. “I guess I had to get it from somewhere.”

“Guess you did,” Tony says, and— maybe no one will ever understand, but this was the right choice. Peter was the right choice, was the alpha he’s been holding out for all this time.

Of course he’d ended up carrying the perfect alpha for himself. This was always meant to be.

“Love you, baby,” Tony tells him, soft, almost a whisper against Peter’s skin.

“Love you, Dad,” Peter whispers back, and that’s what really matters, isn’t it.

AO3

#starker #DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT #heed the tags #abo #bottom!Tony #top!peter #alpha!peter #omega!tony #my work #fanfiction #ironspider #tony x peter #peter x tony #tony stark x peter parker #mcu #spiderman #marvel #iron man

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nam-nam-joon · 4 years

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Pairing: lucas/wong yukhei x reader

Genre: meet cute; rich kids AU

Wordcount: 10.6k

Warnings: lots of swearing; yukhei punches someone

Summary: one word is all it takes, and the opaque glass dome surrounding him cracks, and then there's you peeking in through the opening.

notes: i started this in february '19, when i was in san fran, and very much walking through the fashion district and marvelling at the sketches in the boutique windows of dior, and watching the actual rich people around there. and i've loved @stormae 's rich kid AUs for so long, i wanted to try and write my own :)

The first time he sees you, he doesn’t know it’s you yet.

And he also doesn’t see you, not really.

That is, his mind registers a person crouching off to the side as he steps up to the crossing, one hand in his pant’s pocket, the fingers of the others lazily curled around the thin velvet strings of a small bag, carrying a bottle of the expensive scent his mother always leaves a hint of wherever she goes.

That she forgot at home before this trip, and sent him to fetch for her, because of course they didn’t take Doyoung with them for this weekend trip to the fundraiser in the city by the bay.

And in lieu of their usual boy-for-everything, the next best thing is of course their own son.

He doesn’t mind.

It gives him an excuse to saunter around the streets of the high society neighbourhood their hotel is located in, somewhere among the sparkling city lights of downtown.

A breath escapes him.

It is a city like any other. The only difference with this one are the light buildings and summer etched into every corner and crevice, even though the temperatures aren’t quite there at this time of the year.

Running his mother's errand gives him an excuse to breathe in the air that smells of big city, of a million different foods, like gasoline and a bit of freedom, too.

When he walks the streets like this he can be nobody. Just another face in the crowd - a very expensively dressed crowd, but nonetheless. Here he doesn’t have a name, doesn’t have watchful eyes on him scrutinizing his every move, like his father likes to do. Noone there to clutch at his arm and whisper harsh words to him, in a tongue foreign to most of those surrounding them, behind the back of those who take selfies with their new purchases safely tucked into bags that boast the name of brands. His mother’s words are unforgiving about anyone falling outside her perception of no less than perfection, of people like his father and his colleagues, and ultimately, him and his friends.

Because, really, they’re the next generation of perfect people, carefully raised and curated by the last generation of perfect people.

But then there’s movement from the end of his field of vision and you step into it from the right, hand brushing back a few stray hairs that escaped into places they're not meant to be in and the first thing he sees is the way the headlights of passing cars momentarily create a glowing circle around your head, the way the traffic lights tint your face into a multitude of colours, and his eyes, usually so fleeting and only ever interested in the horizon, can’t let go.

They slip down your body with a practiced ease that has been second nature longer than he can think.

He doesn’t know anything about you other than you look absolutely ethereal bathed in the unassuming shine of artificial light.

But then his gaze runs down the length of your body and he comes up empty handed. Not one piece of clothing that you’re wearing bears the label of a designer he’s familiar with.

The washed out pants are rolled up over the worn out converse, there’s the hint of a flannel peeking out beneath your open jacket that seems just light enough to not cause sweat on this early spring's evening. The model of your phone is that from four years ago, but that’s all he can recognize.

Although it tells him enough.

And yet…

Another vespa zips by and in its headlight something at your belly blinks up. A small flutter spreads through his stomach as he takes in the knobs and levers, the metal and beaten black plastic. The long lens with its round cover and your left hand protectively curled around the whole creation, cradling it so close that he can’t think other than to immediately assume it’s just a part of you.

“Hey.” He says, before his brain can stop his mouth. It comes out low and even, a smirk playing around his lips.

The light switches to green, after what feels like an eternity, and you begin to walk before turning your head in his direction.

But instead of the million little things he is so used to hearing in return to one of his “Hey”'s - you don’t say anything. You just look at him and smile, you look into his eyes and smile. And then your gaze leaves him, without a second look, without scanning him. Without seeing him.

It has the smirk threat to slip for a second.

“So, uh, I noticed your camera. You really like photography, huh? Is it a hobby of yours?”

You stop at the next corner and turn into the direction of the setting sun flooding the street that gently slopes down in front of you, lift the camera and keep quiet for a moment. His gaze is fixed on the way your fingers turn a ring close to where the lens meets the rest of the camera, making adjustments, before your body seems to freeze for the fraction of a second that it takes until the camera clicks and you lower it.

Your eyes meet his again and he notes how your right hand automatically turns a little lever, a ticking noise emitting from the case in your hands for the duration of the movement.

“Yeah, you could say that. But I mostly just like to take pics of pretty things, or things I like. It’s not really- Not like I earn money with it or so.”

He nods. “Been here before? In the city, I mean." Then he adds. "I’m Lucas, by the way.”

He waits, one step ahead of you, until you put the cover back over the lens and slowly catch up to him.

“_______. And nah, First time for me. You?”

“Me neither. You like it?”

“It’s alright.” The grin on your face screams that your passive tone is a lie, and his lips curl into a grin until you crack and join in. “Yeah, I love it. Been here for a week now and am still finding new favourite spots every day. What about you? Here for a vacation?”

If only, he thinks, as his eyes catch on the dark clouds opposing the radiant sunset.

“Family trip.” He says instead.

“Oh, awesome! I’d love to have my fam here now- it would be so nice to go sightseeing with them. Where have you been already?”

His eyes trail back to yours, slightly irritated at the energy you just revealed, and the passion behind your words when speaking of the people that created you.

“Just arrived today.” He says, and it’s only half a lie. But he doesn’t know how to explain that his parents aren’t the type to go sightseeing with their offspring; that the idea of his mother in her Manolo’s strutting over the local tourist hot spot bridge is… bizarre.

“Oh, okay.” You say, and he can sense the slight dent his answer gave your enthusiasm. “Well… where do you wanna go? What stuff are you here for to see?”

You add, after he keeps quiet for a moment while trying to come up with a smooth save.

“The… bridge.” He says, as it is the first thing falling into his head. A knowing smile has your eyes glinting, like you are somehow able to see through him.

It has an uncomfortable feeling spread inside him - the pretense he always dresses in to keep his parents - his friends, everyone around him - happy so much more important than some pretty person his mind couldn’t let go of after laying eyes on.

The subdued panic wells up in his chest. He briefly considers walking off, especially now that your head is tilted down and his feet are in your direct line of sight.

The black sock sneakers carry the little printed letters that spell ‘Balenciaga’ along the outer sides, their low rise only allowing a thin slip of skin to show around his ankles before the elastic band of his pants covers the rest of the leg that the sun touched with a tan again, now that he’s away from the snow of winter.

He almost holds his breath.

All of his friends are like him.

Young, good looking.

Wealthy.

You’re no less good-looking and yet as different to him as night is to day.

Your eyeliner is a bit messy towards the outer corners of your eyes, like you had wiped at it, forgetting it was there. There’s frizz making short hairs stand up over the rest of where it is kept together. He can see it’s been a while since you last plucked your eyebrows, but all of it contributes to an image that is so much more human than what he’s used to.

You’re not proper, with skin smooth as if airbrushed like the girls his mother wants him to converse with at events, you have your camera to snap keepsakes of your travels, alone, in a city that is not your own.

You’re walking these streets without fear, and without caring that almost everyone else here is dressed in clothes that, a single item alone, probably costs more than all of yours combined.

There is something fierce inside you that he catches a glint of as a Tesla purrs by and your eyes flash over the car; the way your eyebrows quip upwards for a moment and your lips purse, and suddenly he feels awfully aware of what he’s wearing.

Of how confident you look, how comfortable, without a single brand name lining your side.

Your eyes meet his again, and this time, they stay longer. Flit around and take in all his features before you open your mouth and the spark of mischief beautifully adorns your expression.

“I know the perfect place to see the bridge. Wanna come?”

“Wh- Now?” His eyes fly to the smart watch on his wrist, the time ticking away, and the notification that his mother send him a message, asking about her perfume.

“Yeah. Now. Unless you got somewhere else to be?”

He has. He really has.

“Uh… can I meet you sometime later? Like… eleven, maybe?”

Is that disappointment on your face?

“Ah, I see. Sorry for going in like that, I thought… Nevermind. Hey, look, if you need to go, I won’t keep you.”

This expression he knows, although it’s strange to see on your soft, warm face that holds no trace of the practiced smiles and pleased looks that cover the features of him and his friends. You’re pulling back, distancing yourself.

He swallows down the panic that rises in the pit of his stomach against all the rules and mental restrictions he built over the course of miserable years of splendor and grandeur; the very same walls you crept around and instantly closer to his soul than anyone since his childhood nanny.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I really do want to go with you. It’s just- My parents- I have to bring this to them, and they’ll expect-”

He notices, notices the way your eyes catch on the little bag he holds up, and it’s a pinprick into his chest as he remembers the triple digits he paid for with his travel credit card.

But then your eyes touch his again, and they’re not hard, not unforgiving, not condescending. Just curious.

He gapes at you as you look up at him without a single wrinkle of displeasure on your face.

And in that moment he makes a decision.

“You know what, fuck my parents.” He steps around you and lifts a hand, a cab setting its blinker almost immediately to respond to his call. “I’ll bring this to them and then we can go to see the bridge.”

He pauses with the door held open, wondering why you’re still standing on the sidewalk, camera in hand.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“I don’t really have money for taxis.”

He furrows his brows and puts one arm over the door. “It’s alright, I’ll pay. Don’t worry about it.”

When you slip into the seat next to him he tells the driver the address of his parent’s hotel and the car leaves the curb.

“Four Seasons, huh.” You say flatly.

“Yeah. My mother won’t stay at any other.”

It comes out matter of fact, and he has to look over to see the shadow of a grin around your lips before he realizes your sarcasm is such a subtle tease he didn’t pick up on it at first.

“Are you sure they won’t kick me out?”

He brushes past the portier opening the glass door for you, but as he turns around to look back at you he catches you mouthing a thank-you at the young man in the neatly pressed uniform.

“Of course they wouldn’t. Just- just wait here, okay? I’ll be back in a sec.”

You grin and shake your head.

“Hey Lucas!” You call out then, as he waits in front of the elevator. “Wear something plain, okay?”

“Where do you think you’re going.” Comes the voice from his father, stern and with the disapproval so expertly woven into it that he has long since stopped hearing it.

“Out.” He says flatly, picking up his leather jacket he left draped over one of the chairs on his mother’s side of the bed on his way out, back down to you after switching pants and shoes. The flask with perfume is safely clutched in his mother’s hand. It clinks against the marble vanity as she sets it down.

“Lucas! We have an event scheduled, you cannot be-”

“That’s not my name!” He interrupts the higher voice of his mother, his own voice suddenly spiking.

It’s the name _______ knows you by, an evil little voice whispers in his head that he shoves down.

“That’s not my name.” He repeats into the heavy silence after his outburst, more controlled. “Don’t pretend you care about me being there with you, I would just get in your way, as usual. Have fun getting drunk.”

The heavy oak door cuts off his parent’s voices, the nagging one of his mother and the scolding one of his father.

When he rips the clean, neat button down off of him it almost feels like he's shedding a layer that reeks of his parents. He dumps it in one of the artfully concealed trash bins and tugs the white tee shirt he's wearing underneath out of his pants.

He knows he’ll pay for this little act of rebellion, this act of defiance, but when he leans his head against the cool tiles in the elevator, he doesn’t find it in himself to care.

You greet him with crossed legs sitting on one of the decorative, uncomfortable couches in the lobby, the latest Vogue open on your lap.

“Finally. The receptionist was creeping their hand closer to the phone to call the cops on me by the minute.” You grumble, and it’s really not your fault, but he tips his head back and laughs.

He catches you as you eye the plain white shirt, the leather jacket over his arm. Your eyebrows rise as you take note of his shoes - the Balenciaga’s are gone, replaced with a pair of Adidas, so new they practically sparkle.

“What.” He ducks his head to meet your gaze, but you refuse to meet his as you exit the hotel.

“Just look at you. I can’t take you anywhere like this, people will think we’re super good targets to mug and then leave in a ditch. Here, put this on. And give me your jacket.”

He’s too baffled to refuse to take the flannel you just shrugged out of. It’s still warm when he takes it, and it smells more like the scent he only caught a trace of when you sat next to him. He draws a deep breath and hopes you won't notice.

It’s big, at least for you, but on him, it fits. Out of your backpack you conjure up a smaller, slouchier bag, littered with patches that carry unknown town’s names. A water bottle and a polaroid camera find their new home in it, before you stuff your own jacket into the bigger bag and hand it to him. He takes it, again, slinging his arms through the hoops and adjusting them so they fit him.

“C’mon, bend down a little, won’t ya? I’m not a giant like you.”

He complies against his better judgement, cautious eyes under worrying eyebrows keeping track of your facial features, watching out for any trace of malice that might appear as you come close.

It's all he can do to not flinch too heavily when you lift your arm.

Your hand ruffling through his hair, messing up the slicked-back look, catches him off-guard and he’s left to stare at your face in wonder after you lean back, satisfaction radiating from you.

“There, better. Now you’re just a backpacker like me, with fresh splurged-on shoes. Let’s go.”

He offers to take another cab, to wherever you want to go, but you simply shake your head.

“Half the fun is getting there.” You tell him and his burning calves as you climb what is possibly the steepest street he’s ever encountered.

He admires the way you push forward, always half a step in front of him. At the top you look back to where he’s briefly catching his breath, beckoning him forward with a smile.

His jacket looks good on you, he notices. The sleeves are so long that you can make paws out of them, and in the fresh, almost cold evening air, you do, which he thinks is adorable. In a good way.

It takes longer than he thought, from the bustling core of the fashion district across town. You lead him through the criss-crossing streets, point at stuff, and show him things he’d never notice otherwise.

It’s long since pitch black dark before he’s following you through a patch of trees, down a slight slope.

“You sure this is the way? I-”

“Yeah! It’s just one more corner, bridge should be there then, don’t you fret! I’d never lead you astray.”

Doubt sparks sharply in his thoughts, but he fights it down.

He doesn’t know you, not really, he reminds himself; even after a cab ride and a trek across the city spent talking, but it’s this or the fundraiser.

His breath stinging his sides or his mother's manicured fingers pinching him to keep him from slouching.

The refreshing air, heavy with moisture and the smell of trees, or the stuffy warmth that has him light headed without any alcohol - that is saturated with perfumes so thickly he could cut it into pieces.

He steps in a puddle and his adidas aren’t so white anymore, he’s pretty sure he walked himself a blister somewhere and the cold is beginning to seep in, after the hills of the city are behind you

“Lucas! You coming?”

The name is another setback, another pinprick, but he jogs up to where your voice comes from.

The sky behind the trees is oddly red, as if a great light is illuminating the clouds.

He’s only reached you when you already turn, and he wants to call out for you to stop, wait up, and then…

And then he sees the bridge.

The two towers rise high into the night’s sky, six streams of cars flow between them, one side white, one red lights.

It connects the curving street to the dark mountains across the water, where the trail of light vanishes between the sloping tops.

“It’s good, eh?” You smile up at him, suddenly back by his side. He nods and swallows, unable to look away.

The sight shouldn’t be special, he’s seen bridges like these lit up all over the world, so why is this one so breathtaking?

He hears the snap of the shutter, the clicking of the film being turned, once, twice.

He turns his head just in time to hear it click a third time, and he needs a moment before he realizes the last picture definitely has him in it.

“Hey! Did you take a picture of me?”

“So what if I did?” Your grin is shit-eating wide, and he feels himself give in.

“-That’s not allowed.” He says for a lack of anything better when it looks like you’re still waiting for an answer.

You laugh and turn to the front, admiring the sight again.

The countless headlights sparkle in your eyes, the red glow shining on your face.

He gets the urge to snap a picture as well, and in that moment understands you a little bit.

This close, shoulder to shoulder, the details of your face stand out differently.

He should say something, break the silence that’s stretching uncomfortably between you, but there’s nothing coming to his mind.

You turn your head and meet his eyes, and deep down he dreads the comments that will come, about him staring, about him not conversing, about him being rude.

But all you do is smile up at him like he’s the nicest thing you've seen all day, and inch a bit closer.

“It’s cold, no?” He breathes in, breaking eye-contact in favour of the dark water and the park spreading out around you.

“You want your jacket back?” You’re already lowering your backpack’s strings before his hand catches yours, pauses your movement.

“No, no it’s fine.”

“You sure? I can handle it, I’ve got my own jacket. You don’t have to be all tough, don’t wanna get you sick.”

“Trust me, I’m good.” His hand lowers, and he smiles.

“No it’s not!” You speak up, catching his palm in your own. “You’re all clammy! Here, take your jacket back and give me mine, c’mon.”

No matter how much he protests, you don’t take no for an answer, and fifteen minutes later he’s begrudgingly trotting along the beach on the other side of the street, back towards the city, wearing his own jacket.

Your connected hands gently swing between you.

Now and then you sigh, and then take a breath as if wanting to say something, but then you don’t and he’s left to wonder.

The moon breaks through the clouds now and then, bathing the wide walkway in silver-grey light, and then shrouds itself again.

“What’s on your mind?” He brings out, after another sigh of yours.

Your eyes meet his, your face open even though you’re biting on your lip and struggle with words.

But he meant what he said, doesn’t look away, even stops and tugs you to follow his example.

“I’m just,” You begin, looking off into the distance. “Every vacation comes to an end. Guess I’m both relieved and sad about it at once.”

“When do you go back?” He can’t believe he hasn’t asked until now.

“Next week.”

“That’s still some time.”

“I know. It’s what I keep telling myself, but… Time flies. One moment you’re arriving in a new city and the next you find yourself leaving. Life is so fast sometimes and it’d be nice to... Live slow. You know?”

Oh, he knows.

He’s never known anything slow.

The cars he and his friends drive are fast, whenever one of those friends takes an interest in a girl or a boy or anyone, really, they’re fast to proclaim their love and date and then fast to break up. The planes that are bringing him from city to city are fast, the way he only has to tap his plastic on the card reader and it rings up his purchase, fast.

But you’re slow.

You walk, everywhere, you tell him, and he listens. You talk slow, too, there’s a lot of breaks between your sentences, he learns, and occasionally you’ll pick up a topic to talk about that he thought you’d finished already and moved on from, just to add another perspective he hadn’t considered.

The ocean is slow, too, with the waves rolling on the sandy beach and barely grazing the stone steps you sat down on to watch the water.

“Can I lean into your side for a while? I’m not feeling so well.” You say quietly, barely above the wind and the waves.

He turns his head, takes in how your eyes are a bit distant, staring out over the rippling surface.

Instead of answering he puts his arm around your shoulders, shuffles closer until the length of his thigh touches yours and he can tug you into the side of his body.

Both your arms snake around his waist, under his jacket, and because it is right there and not doing it seems weird, he leans his cheek on the top of your head.

This is fast, too, he muses, cuddling the same day you met; but his sore feet and the hours of walking around and talking make it seem like he's known you for longer.

He can’t remember any of his friends ever having talked so much with him.

The bar in the basement of the hostel is loud, filled to the brim with people, there’s music pumping between the walls and he doesn’t know anyone but you.

You vanish to put away your bags and even though this is a place he should feel more comfortable in, he doesn’t.

Maybe it’s because it’s not so dark that he can still see everyone, and everyone can still see him, and everyone is dressed much like you, if not a little more shabby and run-down.

He’s stood by the bar, waiting for two small colas, because they don’t sell the champagne he usually goes for.

“That’ll be nine bucks mate.”

He waits for the clerk to put the card reader out for him, and when the guy doesn’t, he feels the annoyance bubbling up.

“Card?” He says, irritated.

“Sorry buddy, cash only.”

“What?!”

“‘scuse me says so up front.” The guy shrugs, hands inching closer to take the cheap plastic cups away.

“I got it!”

He turns and you’re back, with hair fresh up and shockingly clothed with just a single t-shirt. Gone are the layers and layers from before, and it's like you're a different person.

You put a note with a ten on it down on the counter, politely say thank you upon receiving your change and then turn, handing one cup to him.

He feels strange, still riled up because of the embarrassment and because you were the one to save him, and because you seem to not find fault in that, just smile and take a sip.

“I’m Yukhei.” He blurts out.

Your eyebrows twitch closer together. “I’m ________.” You repeat.

“No, I mean… That’s my name.” He shifts, uncomfortable.

“And Lucas?”

“That’s… That’s my western name. The one my parent’s call me by. But… Yukhei is my real name.” He takes a sip as well, almost cringing at the sugary taste.

“Do you prefer Lucas or Yukhei?” You take another sip, and your eyes are so soft again.

“-Yukhei.” He answers, looking into them.

“Come on guys, make some room for Yukhei and me alright?”

He preens, unseen by anyone but himself, under the way you call his name, and he takes another sip, almost used to the taste by now.

Under a lot of shuffling and grumbling the present people free up a tiny space on the bench and you motion for him to sit down.

As soon as his butt hits the worn out wood, he finds you in his lap, using him as a seat for yourself.

The hand not busy holding his drink comes up to your hip by instinct, he looks up at you out of wide eyes, lips twitching but finding no words for the bold move.

He's had people grinding down on him in clubs everywhere, this shouldn't feel different. It does. This is so much more intimate.

“Everything alright? If I get too heavy I can get off?” You turn and are a lot closer to him than he thought, noses almost touching.

“Huh? Uh, no, I’m good, don’t- Don’t worry. Is this okay for you?”

You nod, half listening to a conversation happening at the table again.

Over the course of the next hour you go and refill your own and his cups, with fanta this time, which he likes a bit better. Every time you come back to him he looks up at you and expects you to demand a seat for your own now, but every time you shuffle back into his lap. The hand on your hip slowly extends each time until you take his fingers and drag them over until his arm is lying around your belly.

His chin is on your shoulder whenever you’re there, but he mostly listens and doesn’t contribute to the chats much.

To his surprise his trips to Tokyo, Monaco or Dubai sound a lot less glamorous, exciting and adventurous compared to what some of the people here, not even much older, can talk about.

One backpacked his whole way down the Rocky Mountains, across a whole continent; another hasn’t been home in two years and is looking to get another visa somewhere else already.

One has just arrived from their plane coming in from the other coast, and another travelled all of the north and is now looking for something a little more southern.

He learns that you’ve been to quite a few places yourself, listen intently as you recall memorable moments and rant about impossible people you’ve come across.

He squeezes once after a loud round of laughter has mostly died down, and even though you’re currently talking to a girl diagonally across from you, your own hand comes up to cover his and squeeze back, and he doesn’t think twice about it but knows you heard him, told him to hang in there.

Once you’ve both said your words you turn to him, curiosity on your face. The way you’re sat, twisted, is a little unstable and so you put a hand on his shoulder, to keep steady.

“Hm?”

“Where’s the bathroom here?”

“Ha? Oh, it’s through that door, on the left side, you just have to follow- Do you want me to show you?”

He feels silly, already mentally beating himself up about not being man’s enough to just go, but already you’ve stood up, linked your hands and are pulling him along.

“You okay? You’ve been so quiet?”

He feels like his ears are half deaf, now, in the silent hallway after the door to the bar shuts.

“Just… tired.” He avoids your question, but not entirely, either.

“Shit, you arrived today, I forgot… Hey if you wanna get out of here just tell me.”

He nods and mirrors your smile before pushing open the door to the washroom.

You’re still there when he comes out again, leaned against the wall, tapping on your phone.

“All done.” He announces, bouncing his hands by his hips, and you smile at the cute voice he puts on.

"Wanna go back inside? Or have enough yet."

He rubs a hand over his neck and looks to the side.

"I think I can stomach another cola. Or fanta. How much do I owe you?"

You shake your head and wave a hand.

"I’ll send you a bill, pretty boy. Come now, don’t think you get a lot of chances at getting out of your ivory tower to mingle among the common folk, eh."

He wants to open his mouth and disagree, and then he doesn't

You squeeze his hand and part with him before you get back to the table, motioning in the direction of the bar and likely referring to the last drink he mentioned, and he nods and goes to sit back down.

You join him soon after, leaning forward a bit to squeeze between the table and his legs, and over your shoulder he catches the leer of one of the guys that’s been eyeing you a little too much all evening.

But you don’t seem to notice and so he clenches his hand into a fist and presses it against the wood.

Soon after, one of the girls from the right side of the table puts her drink down and gestures towards him.

“What about you, where are you from? You staying in the hostel as well?”

He answers, as best as he can, and he’s had a lifetime of dodging and carefully evading clear answers and if the others are aware of him shifting the topic of conversation around and asking for more travel stories of them, they don’t say anything.

You wiggle out if his lap and whisper you’ll use the restroom really quick and that he better not dare to run off, and then your reassuring weight is gone and he’s alone at the table but it feels safer than sitting at one of the round tables of a gala, with crystalline flutes of bubbling liquid and stiff jackets all around.

The door to the hallway closes behind you and the guy from before turns to the person next to him, an ugly grin spread on his face, and says something low on his breath. Following a sudden impulse he gets up to head to the reception of the hostel upstairs and doesn’t really hear the spoken words, and part of him doesn’t want to, and another part strains his ears to pick it up nonetheless.

When he comes back the same girl who’d asked before directs another friendly question at him and his attention momentarily slips.

But not for long.

His eyes find the door when you push it open again, and in the same moment he hears the two guys clearly.

“..._______ such a slut.”

At once the anger is back and his fingers flex.

“What?” He says, and it’s louder than anything else he’s said this evening. The others at the table pause in their chat, and he feels eyes on him. “What did you just say?”

The guy glances around and then leans back, fake confidence mixing with real one.

“I said what I said. Cute ass, too.”

“Apologize!”

The guy pulls a face. “Why should I? She isn’t here and it’s not like she didn't have it coming-”

He’s on his feet before he can blink and then there’s a sharp pain on his knuckles and the guy is curling forward, pressing a hand to his mouth and cursing.

Right afterwards the guy rises to his feet, and to his satisfaction Yukhei notes that he’s a couple inches taller than the asshole, a little broader too, even though the other guy looks like he packs more muscle.

“You wanna fuckin’ go?” The guy hisses, red seeping between his teeth and eyes glinting.

“Apologize and we won’t have to.” He growls, hand still clenched.

"Yukhei!"

He hears you exclaim into the awful silence that suddenly fills the dingy space, but the adrenaline is rushing in his veins, his blood loud in his ears.

"Stop it!"

"Do you know what he called you? How he’s talking about you behind your back?"

The fury about someone reducing you to a glimpse, a fraction of who you really are, just based on your shirt slipping a little too low-

As if he isn’t just as bad.

Giving you a once-over upon first seeing you, running a mental checklist of brands you were sporting, how compatible your styles were.

He knows how shallow him and his friends, but especially his mother and father are. And maybe that's why his anger is boiling over now, roiling in his stomach. Because he knows he's no better, because in just a couple of hours spent with you he's lived so much more than in the months preceding this trip alone.

But there's your hand on his elbow, the warm skin of your palm as your fingers weave between his, and even though the asshole is still dabbing at his busted lip, sneering so ugly, he lets you. Lets you tug him away, out between the people staring from their seats, into the weird hallway and up the flight of stairs.

"You really don't care that guy called you that? For no reason, at all?"

He doesn't mean to sound this accusing, this hurt that you rejected his offer to stand up for you. At the top of the stairs you turn back, fingers twitching in their hold on his hand. He looks down into your face when he comes to a rest next to you, rubs his thumb over the back of your hand once.

"Of course I care." You blink, and he worries his eyebrows because he doesn't understand. "I don't like being labelled like that, by assholes like him. But it happens all the time. And even if I would've spoken up about it, which I would have, by the way, that- speaking up should have been enough. I'm not going to fucking deck a guy just because he can't handle me showing as much skin as I want. Worse things have happened."

"But-"

"I appreciate it, you standing up for me. But you don’t have to, I can handle it alone.”

The words of protest are heavy on his tongue but he swallows them down.

“I think we need some fresh air.”

He hears you mumble.

The clouds that move across the expanse of darkness above are the colour of rust.

He’s quiet again, but for a different reason than before.

Now and then he sneaks glances at you, wondering when it would be a good time to open his mouth again.

You lead him, again, around corners and across streets until he’s lost his way for sure and could only find his way back by taking a cab.

Then again, he was sort of lost as soon as you brought him out of the fashion district already, so this isn’t that much of a change.

“Hey, you hungry?” You ask suddenly, stopping in front of a fast food restaurant. “I’m hungry. Let’s go in.”

He doesn’t object.

The cup of ice cream he got with your enthusiastic approval is nice and cool against his bruised knuckles.

Through half a pack of crispy golden fries already he sees you pause, with your gaze locked on his hand.

“It’s not-”

He starts, after you swallow and he practically hears you complain already.

“It doesn’t hurt, don’t worry. I’m sorry- I- I’m not sorry about hitting the guy. He deserved it. I’m sorry he said that about you.”

You close your mouth and take a sip of the drink. Just one shared cup, without a lid or straw, because you said there is enough plastic in the oceans already.

You look away from him, put the cup down and reach for his hand.

He wants to object and pull it away but you glare at him and he doesn’t want to upset you further and so he lets you examine it.

There’s a soft, barely there touch to his raw knuckles and his eyes are darting back in time to see you put the most careful of kisses first to where the skin is sensitive, and then to the back of his hand.

He feels himself calm down. It’s like his entire being is solely focused in this moment in your touch. For just a moment nothing else matters.

You lean back and sigh, not letting go of his hand.

“What am I gonna do with you, hm.”

He hopes it’s a question you don’t intend him to answer, because there are no words coming to his mind.

He holds the door open for you as you exit the 24 hour restaurant. The air here in the city is a little less crisp than out at the bridge, but it’s still fresher than inside. His legs ache, and the soles of his feet burn, reminding him of the amount of walking he’s done trailing after you today and then there’s the flight from the morning and he’s very suddenly very tired.

So much so he stumbles and bumps your shoulder, even.

“Hey, Yukhei? You okay?”

And you look at him again, with your eyes so soft, and his hand clenches around the bandana you got out from who knows where and wrapped around his knuckles as a makeshift bandage.

“Just tired.” He whispers, head filled with the image of your face lit up by the restaurant’s neon signs beside you two and the glow of the streetlights to the other side.

“Maybe that’s a sign to head to bed then.” You grin at him, but despite your words, there’s no flirtatious meaning behind them, no other intention than innocent honesty.

“Would you like to come back to my hotel?” He blurts out, hand curling around your bandana over his palm, feeling the tightness of it and the small pain as it stretches over his skin.

There’s doubt on your face.

“The four seasons? With your parents? I don’t know…”

“We could get a room at another hotel. Without my parents. Just… us.”

And he doesn’t mean anything else than what he just said either and instead he’s silently hoping, wishing, you won’t leave him. Not yet. Not like this.

You smile.

“Are you paying?”

“Of course.”

The smile widens into a grin.

“You’re cute when you make puppy-eyes. Okay fine, I’ll bite. Where are we going?”

“To catch a cab.” He huffs. “My feet are killing me.”

“New shoes,” You whistle and pat his arm affectionately. “Yeah, I’m praying for your feet man.”

The big black expensive wooden door clicks close behind him almost without sound.

He doesn’t care.

It’s not the Four Seasons, it’s the next best thing, but the room he left his card for at the front desk is bigger than the dingy bar at the hostel alone, and his chest warms at the sight of awe on your face.

“You have got to be kidding me.” He hears, and turns from the panorama window overlooking the city to see you resurfacing from the bathroom.

You’re holding on to the door frame and seem to be caught between anger and wonder.

“There's a bathtub the size of a fucking swimming pool in here. The fuck. And-” You lift a hand and he sees a bottle of lotion or shampoo in your grasp. “This shit costs sixty bucks! What the entire hell.”

He grins, and it’s one he settles into easily, one of the million-dollar-smiles that are his trademark.

“Like what you see?” He lifts an eyebrow.

You shake your head and put the bottle down, gingerly, as if it isn’t made of plastic and would probably survive a good toss across the room.

The mahogany floating cupboards you pull open reveal a set of bath robes and pyjamas so soft you push your face into the first shirt you pull out, turn to him and shake your head again.

“Wanna take a swim in the bath-pool?” He asks, because he feels the exhaustion with every move, settling deeper into his bones.

You nod and follow him as he crosses the room.

The tub is big, he thinks, but not the biggest he’s seen or even been in. He turns the faucet on and even in here the windows reach from ceiling to floor, allowing glimpses of the streets far below.

You shoo him out to get in first.

The foam is so thick he has to search for your face upon coming back in.

He hears you giggling and then a portion of it moves and there’s your smiling face.

“Come in, it’s amazing.”

He’s reaching for the belt around his robe and you cover your eyes like a child. It feels weird, being allowed such privacy, when all the other girls he’s usually around would eat up any and all chances at seeing him.

He sinks into the foam, on the other end of the tub, because you only agreed to this if he kept his distance and there was no ‘accidental’ touching involved.

He can’t seem to bring himself to mind.

Every other girl he would have met somewhere, in a club or else, and they’d have at least rolled in the sheets once by now. But not you. It feels more thrilling than he could have expected.

“What are you thinking about?” Comes your voice and then a tiny mountain of bubbles gets parted and he’s able to see your face again after sinking into the water.

He shrugs, because that is his go-to answer.

“No thoughts, head empty?” There’s a quirk around your smile like he’s supposed to know what it means but he just nods.

“Tired.” He says, and only after it leaves him does he realize how often he’s said it.

“Are you, really?” You ask, and your voice is softer than before. “Putting what you feel into words is difficult.”

“Yeah, it is.” He agrees, and cups a handful of foam between his palms. “I don’t know. I don’t really need to say what I feel, if I shrug or say that I don’t know, it’s enough for people.”

His eyes glaze over.

“And right now? I mean, you’re tired, but what else is in you?”

“Huh?”

You gesticulate but you're a bit out of focus.

“I, for example, I’m tired too, but also happy because I got to show you the bridge, and I’m in awe at being here, in a hotel room bigger than a house, in a tub with a cute boy I met this afternoon. There’s more, but just, you know?”

He puts an effort into blinking and clearing his eyes, and turns your words over in his head.

“I feel… Tired from travelling, and from my parents wanting me to be like them and going to the fundraiser with them and be seen as their perfect son. I’m… Seeing the bridge was nice. No, not nice, it was… Amazing. It shouldn’t be but it was one of the nicest- most amazing things I’ve ever seen. I liked watching the ocean with you, I felt… Like I could pause and take a breath. This is nice, too. Sharing the tub but not… doing anything.”

He shuts his mouth and it’s strange how light his chest feels suddenly.

“Wow.” It slips out.

Across the foam, you smile at him.

You make him get out of the bath first, cover your eyes again and tell him to leave the room so you can come out, too, but then after you come out looking scrubbed clean and fluffy wrapped in your bathrobe, he goes back in to wash the gel out if his hair and the metaphorical dust of travelling off his skin.

You’re watching the skyline when he re-emerges, smelling like the expensive shampoo and lotion the hotel supplies.

The spaghetti top fits you nicely, he thinks as he approaches, and hugs you from behind.

You stiffen in his hold, just for a moment, and then you relax again, cover his hands with yours.

“It’s so pretty.” A yawn breaks the last word and he chuckles, even though he’s just as tired.

“I know.” He says, but his head is leaned against yours and his eyes are closed.

He wakes to white sheets and the soft golden hues of dawn.

For a moment he doesn't recognize who's in bed with him, hair sprawled over the pillow and half buried under the blanket.

Did he get drunk last night?

But when he reaches back in his memory there's no haze, no blurry images, everything is clear and he remembers everything.

It's you, there with him.

He lifts his head.

It's quiet in the spacious room.

Only the sunlight comes in, and it touches everything into a magical glow.

And among that you sleep soundly, curled around your hands fisted in the sheets, and he leans over to the bedside table, fishes his phone up from there and snaps a picture before he can lose the precious sight.

Then he puts the device away, lays back down and continues watching you, even though his eyes droop once more.

It seems like a dream, everything that went down yesterday, but he is once more reminded that it isn't when he reaches out to brush hair away from your face and sees the bruise on his knuckles, standing out against his skin.

His heartbeat is loud in his ears.

His chest is a bit tight, like his heart is too big for it, and he softly exhales in hopes it might soothe the ache.

He dozes off again, wondering if this is what love feels like.

A hand combing his hair rouses him from slumber, the pad of a finger rubbing his cheek.

He blinks his eyes open and squints at your radiant smile, almost as blinding as the sunlight from before.

"Hey," He rasps, and swallows and clears his throat.

"Hey." You answer, smile impossibly brightening. "Slept well?"

"Mhm, yeah? You?"

You laugh and lean your forehead against his shoulder.

"Yeah. This bed is like a tiny cloud. I feel so refreshed."

"That's good." He smiles and yawns and stretches.

Your fingers touch the smooth expanse of his stomach, revealed as the blanket slips away, and he cracks mid stretch and giggles.

"N-No- Mercy, mercy please! Please!"

The giggles turn into a laugh as you push up into a sitting position and he twists and turns and bats half-heartedly at your hands.

"No." He breathes, trapping your wrists in his palms and pushing himself up as well. "Don't. Bad… Bad human."

Your eyes sparkle again and it's the cutest thing he's seen.

"Okay, okay. I yield."

Satisfied, he lowers your hands.

"Wanna order breakfast?"

"What?" Your eyes widen. "Like, up to this room?"

"Yeah?"

"Isn't there like, a buffet downstairs or so?"

"Maybe? I don't know."

He shrugs, and it's the truth. He doesn't feel like he has to pretend he knows everything.

"Let's get washed up and go downstairs. I wanna have a look at all the rich people in their morning attire."

He purses his lips and is about to tell you there's nothing special about that, really, but his thought process gets cut short by your palm on his cheek and your lips pressing a soft smooch to the other.

He's left gaping while you hop off the bed and vanish in the bathroom, and only after the lock clicks into place does he feel his entire face burn, cheeks tingling with the ghost of your touch.

He brings his own hand to the spot your lips were in just moments prior and is absolutely powerless against the big, flustered grin spreading on his face.

He gets up and out of bed, stretching once more and feeling as good in his skin as he hasn't for a while now, and just unlocked his phone to check for messages when the lock clicks across the room and the door opens.

"We didn't order-"

The words die in his throat at the two figures waltzing in, not even bothering to close the door behind them.

"What did you think you were doing, young man?!"

His mother's words drip venom that could have left black burned holes in the plush carpet under her steps.

At once his shell is back, the hardened surface that had peeled back in your presence.

"Taking money out of your account, eating at a… At a fast food restaurant? Are you out of your mind?"

"You know I usually think you should be allowed your freedom but I'm agreeing with your mother here." His father helpfully supplies, hands behind his back from where he wandered over to the window.

"So what if I do with my money what I want? It's not like it matters to you?"

"That's enough. Get dressed, we're going back to our hotel. Gods help us none of the-"

"No." He says, and feels something welling up inside him.

His mother pauses, glaring at him.

"-Nobody saw you out, that would be such an unnecessary-"

"I said no."

His volume increases alongside his anger at being ignored and talked over.

"Lucas, pull yourself together. Why you would book another hotel room when you have one next to ours is useless spending, not to mention-"

A door opens behind him and he turns. His stomach hits the floor between his feet.

He forgot about you, hidden in the bathroom.

You're carefully closing the door behind you but pause when you realize all eyes are on you and the conversation stopped.

"Good morning." You dip your head slightly, eyes flicking from them to him.

"Lucas, what is that."

His mother asks, not turning her eyes away from you, and you're obviously left speechless at such blatant rudeness thrust in your face this early in the day so you keep quiet.

"This is my friend, mother."

His tone is freezing as he crosses the space separating you and takes a hold of your hand. "Not that it concerns you."

"Lucas," His father speaks up, hands outstretched in front of him. "You know we don't mind you socializing, but someone like that…?"

He obviously means the messy bun you put your hair in, the simple - cheap - outfit with the worn flannel around your hips.

Nobody of their standing would be caught dead like this.

He bristles under the comments, his chest filling with a prickling rage, but then you squeeze his hand and he looks down into your wide eyes and the half hidden panic in them.

"I'll go now. Thank you for everything, Yukhei."

You slip away from him and give his parents the widest berth you can manage before picking up your shoes and taking your jacket off its place by the door.

"No, wait-"

He hasn't asked you for your number yet, or Snapchat, or Instagram or anything; it feels like you're slipping through his fingers and he knows if he doesn't get you to stay, somehow, you'll be gone in a heartbeat and he'll never get you back.

Cinderella running as soon as the clock strikes midnight, but unlike her prince, he doesn't even have a shoe that would allow him to find you again.

"Lucas-" His mother warns him, but with a hate-filled look he's out the door, heart hammering away in his chest at the prospect of losing you.

Losing soft, warm, you, with your slow words and your camera and your view of the world that's so different from his.

He manages to wrench a hand between the doors of the elevator just before it closes and he's panting and high strum when the metal slides back and allows him in.

"Yukhei? What-"

He turns and sees his parents come out the door, and hurries to press the 'close doors' button even though neither of them would do as he did and sprint to catch them.

As soon as the cabin moves, he turns to you, hands feeling jittery and out of breath.

"Can I have your number? Or social media, or address or… anything? Anything I can reach you with?"

"Yukhei…" Your eyes are still wide as you look away from his face.

"Please." He swallows and tries to calm his erratic breathing. "Please, you're- You're the fucking best thing that's happened to me in months, months, okay, I don't- I don't want to lose you, I want to, I want for us to have breakfast together and do stupid tourist shit together and I just want more time with you, please…"

The doors open and reveal the first floor, and the presence of an elderly couple shuts him up momentarily.

They get on and upon seeing the button for the ground level lit up already settle against the opposite wall.

He catches your eyes again.

"Please."

He whispers.

"Boys like you aren't good for girls like me, Yukhei." You tell him, cupping one of your hands over his cheek, and with a sadness on your face that installs more fear in him than his parents showing up unannounced.

"What do you mean?" He asks, and wraps his own fingers around your wrist.

The doors open again and reveal the lobby, and everyone gets off.

"I mean…" You sigh and look around, at the brown suitcases with golden letter print, at the names flashing from every purse, shades or shoes. "I mean, boys like you... Don't spend much time or thought on girls like me. We don't mix and match. We're too different. Boys like you… Lose interest in girls like me once they get what they want."

He knows you're right and he hates it.

He wants to say something, anything, but his tongue weighs too heavy and you look like you know your words are true to the bone.

"And, your parents…" You lift your eyebrows and tilt your head, having said enough.

He feels powerless and he hates it, but unlike with his parents he can't act up, he can't step out of line, he can't risk a slap or punch in exchange for a brief moment of exhilarating freedom. Because you are freedom in the shape of a person already, and he is at a loss at what to do.

"Let me prove you wrong."

A plead. He knows your time together is running out and he knows he's grasping at straws but he's desperate.

"I appreciate that."

A beat of hope in his chest.

"But you don't have to, really. You have nothing to prove to me, Yukhei."

"Lucas!"

He freezes at the shout, the voice of his mother reaching out of the elevator.

"It was so nice getting to know you."

"No- No-!"

And you're slipping from his hands, are gone faster than he can gather his thoughts and defreeze his tongue and all that's left of you is one more kiss, quick and fleeting, pressed to his other cheek and then you're skipping to the exit, look back once you reach the door, with a smile on your face.

His mother's hand takes a hold of his elbow like a claw wrapping around prey, the rings on her fingers pressing into his skin, and her voice is talking but he doesn't hear.

He still feels your soft lips on his cheeks, the ghost of your fingers between his, and it's so little contact to what he's used to from the girl's he's usually around, and yet it feels like it meant so, so much more.

He closes his eyes and hangs his head and mentally shuts off to let the words spoken at him roll off his skin without allowing them in.

It's late and the sky is dark and he's locked in his room while his parents are out on the second evening of the event.

The screen of his phone lights up and he turns his head to check, not really interested in whatever is happening. His attention spikes when he reads the Snapchat notification that he's just been added as a friend.

Turning on his side he pulls up the new chat, and there are the little dots that indicate the other person is writing.

-Yukhei what the ruck!!!

-*f

A smile finds the corners of his lips, the first one since the more than harsh awakening this morning.

>found my gift? ;)

-what the fuck! i can't accept this??

>no take backs. get something nice and pretend like it's a souvenir from me

At least that way you could have something to remind you of him. If you want that.

-that's so much koney tho??? are u sure?

-*money ruck

-*FUCK

>don't worry about it. i owed you, you know. consider it paid back, with interest

Your bitmoji drops down and it seems like you're considering what to do next. It feels good, to know you received the envelope he left at the front desk in the spur of the moment, his Snapchat handle scrawled on it alongside a short “Please add me when you get this :)”

Then…

-did u get in trouble? bc of me?

>nah

>my parents caught me doing worse

He pauses and bites on his lip, weighting pro against con of telling you.

-do i want to know??

>hosted a party and couple of my friends had an orgy in my parent's bedroom. they came back early and…

-holy fucking shit what the fuck

He opens the camera and snaps a selfie, pouting and adding a text about being grounded for the remainder of this trip.

He holds his breath in anticipation until the little pink square next to your name fills out and he can click on it.

It's a close-up of your face, from an incredibly unflattering angle, and you're clearly not shredding an ounce of sympathy for him.

No text is added.

He sends another pouting selfie, zoomed in as well and lays on the puppy eyes thick.

The next image is half your face hidden under your blanket, with the word "no" taking up much of the screen.

He swipes into the main menu and then further to the friend page, clicking on your story.

What unfurls before his eyes is a miniature movie, single pictures taken all over the city and pieced together with selfies and you talking to yourself.

At once his heart beats a little faster.

His screen lights up, months later, and still his heart won't beat normal.

That morning a letter arrived for him - a letter, for him, in a battered envelope with an entirely foreign stamp and his name proudly on it.

It's from you.

In it he found copies of the pictures you took of him in front of the bridge, the light and dark touching his face.

And then the tiny polaroid he had asked you to take two times, one for you and one for him, and then hadn't gotten the chance to take it with him.

He'd snapped a selfie of the letter and him and sent it to you before opening it, and now he's blinking to keep the tears from spilling over.

Wong Yukhei does not cry, especially not at something like this. And yet…

But instead of an answer snap to your “omg u got mail!!” he opens the screen to a video call, and hurries to brush his eyes dry and fails when the connection stabilizes and he can see you.

It's a different time of day for you, and your hair has grown and changed, too, but the smile that's on his screen is still the same, radiant one as before.

"You got my letter!"

You exclaim, and even though it's a bit warbled and the rendering is a bit blocky, he feels your excitement.

"I did."

"Was beginning to think it got lost in the mail. Do you like the pictures? I put the polaroid in as well, did you-"

"Yeah," He smiles, and the word comes out rasped. "Yeah I- I got everything. Thank you."

You smile again.

It's so nice to see you again.

The words spill out before he can hold them back.

"So, hey," He brings up, an hour later just before you have to end the call. "I'll be flying out next month, to- Maybe we can-"

The grin on your face impossibly widens.

"You serious? My town? When?"

"Uh-" He has to minimize snapchat to pull up his calendar to tell you the exact date.

"You wanna meet up? Get to know my city?"

Warmth explodes in his chest, showing in a barely contained smile of his own.

"Yeah! Yeah that… I'd love that. More walking for me."

You laugh and then both of you fall quiet, content watching the other for a moment.

"I'm happy." You tell him. "I'm really happy I'll get to hug you properly. This-" You gesticulate towards the phone screen. "-isn't really holding up well."

“I’m looking forward to it, too.”

He drops his head on his pillow and smiles.

notes: i hope you liked it :) comments/reblogs make my day, so if you send an ask or just say a few nice words, i’d love that ^-^

you can also find all my other writing on Ao3 - runningfaucet is my @ there

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pfreadsandwrites · 4 years

Note

Twist or Stone with our man Kakashi? 🥺

Oh! Thank you so much for sending something 🥰

I’m going to do both!

Twist - what is a smell they love and a smell they hate?

Kakashi strikes me as the kind of guy that loves the smell of cut wood, fresh pine, things like that. Just a woody, natural kind of smell. Also, it just hit me right now, but mint. Looooves the smell of mint. Helps him feel serene for some reason. He also likes subtle, floral scents on an s/o, though nothing too overpowering.

Idk why cheese is coming to my mind lmao but I think he really hates the smell of cheese. It’s just very heavy and rich and goes up his nose the wrong way. Also, he really dislikes sickly smells, but really most things super distracting or strong, but really it’s artificial smells. Like the smell of really sugary sweet candy or like, battery acid, burnt rubber? Things like that.

Stone - How easily do they get drunk? What are they like when they’re over their limit?

So Kakashi is not that great at holding his liquor. He’s not a total lightweight but it’s not like alcohol has no effect on him - a few shots of something strong and he’s definitely heading into tipsy territory if he’s not into it already. I kinda see him as strictly a sake or soju drinker, and those aren’t weak drinks, but he just isn’t much of a drinker generally.

He’s really funny when he’s drunk though, mostly because he’s a lot more honest than he is usually? Like he’ll be more honest with his friends and loved ones, maybe more sentimental and affectionate too. He’s also slightly more jovial and talkative. Though sometimes him being more honest might be him accidentally offending you too, but he doesn’t mean it. He just forgets to be as diplomatic as he is normally. He rambles a lot more and just generally doesn’t have great control over his body or his words. Like he might just go on for what feels like a million years about some much too vivid part of Icha Icha, but his balance has gone to shit and you’re struggling to keep him upright. Kinda a touchy feely drunk if he’s got an s/o too. His hands are all over you and he might be trying to be a bit suggestive but depending on how drunk he is, he might not be as coordinated as normal so he might be a little rougher or need a little more help sobering up. But he’ll also say very sweet things that he’ll deny to the death when he’s sober again :)

Hope you liked this 🥰

Word Prompts here - Send me a character and a word and I’ll answer it!

#kakashi imagines #kakashi headcanons #kakashi #kakashi hatake #hatake kakashi #answered #wordprompt #i feel like i did bad but ty!!!#i also am so hungry i could kill for some cheese #pfthinks

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dontasktheradiodemon · 4 years

Text

Snake Bite

Chat log: Alastor learns to dab, Sir Pentious bites Alastor, and a couple of lonely old villains reluctantly talk about feelings and friendship.

If the read more doesn't work for you and you've gotta see this WHOLE LONG CHAT LOG on your dash, 1) you're probably on mobile, and 2) I am very very sorry, it's tumblr's fault and I did what I could.

Sir Pentious

Pentious is waiting outside the Hotel in HIS realm, he's out back in the garden and pacing... well. As well as a snake can pace. He's occasionally slithering in a circle.

Alastor

Alastor's practically scrubbed his skin raw in the shower; he's brushed his teeth until he's numb to the taste of artificial mint; he's picked a bow tie out of the ones Angel gave him—one of the red-and-gold ones designated for "sparkly douchebags" with the matching rose-shaped pin; and he's left something like a will with Rosie, along with a note to put it into effect if she hasn't heard from him by Monday.

He doesn't know what to expect.

He knows biting is going to be involved. He knows Sir Pentious wanted him to clear his schedule, with no indication of how long he was supposed to clear it for. Everything else is a mystery. Interpreting Sir Pentious's words literally, he's going to get bitten, writhe around for a while in excruciating pain, and then go home.

But knowing Sir Pentious—knowing his own—it might be a plot to disable Alastor so Sir Pentious can gloat over him for an hour before taking off his head with an exterminator's blade. And knowing the population of Hell in general, it might all be a euphemism for something far more salacious that he was simply expected to assume. All he knows for sure is that Sir Pentious is going to be very close, and aside from that it's going to be very unpleasant.

He could have asked for clarification. But asking for clarification would imply that his answer would change depending on Sir Pentious's.

It won't.

So here he is. Painfully clean, absolutely clueless, braced for anything, looking around the lobby, and realizing he's actually braced himself for anything EXCEPT the possibility that he might be stood up completely.

A few minutes after one, he sends out a few shadows as espionage—to Sir Pentious's room, to the boiler room, to the hotel's public areas—and finally, relieved, heads to the garden. He wasn't expecting outside. Maybe Sir Pentious wants to show off his big victory over the great Radio Demon.

When Alastor finally sees him, by way of greeting he calls out, "So how DOES one perform a 'dab'?"

Sir Pentious

Pentious awaited him in the garden, merely to avoid the eyes of that Weird Cat and the others who hung around the Hotel. The outside was brighter, and provided much more ominous lighting. Upon seeing Alastor and hearing his voice, he perked up quite suddenly, hood raising.

The question gets a scoff out of him.

"THE DAB? YOU DON'T KNOW??? IT'SSS LIKE THISS!" Stretching one arm out to the right, he bends his left at the elbow, and dunks his head towards the bend in his arm, holding the pose for at least three seconds.

Alastor

"Like this?" He copies the gesture, a mirror image of Sir Pentious's. A new weapon in his arsenal. "Ha. Like Dracula trying to hide from the sun." He plays a sizzling bacon-in-a-frying-pan sound, like vampire skin burning in the day.

Sir Pentious

Pentious claps his hands together, clearly amused.

"YESSS, JUSSST LIKE THAT! THEY HATE THAT ONE THE MOSSSST."

Alastor

The applause sends a jolt through his chest that he studiously ignores. "I'll add it to my catalogue of torture techniques."

He'd stopped walking far enough away from Sir Pentious that they're out of arm's reach of each other but close enough that they can talk at a normal volume—he wants to get so much closer and stay so much farther away, and this is the point where the impulses barely balanced out. Doing his best not to sound as awkward as he feels, he says, "So, speaking of Dracula..." He spreads his arms: here I am, ready and willing. "Were you planning on having this bite out here? Fine weather for it."

Sir Pentious

Pentious eyes him--he's happy with this distance, too. Satisfied, though, he wants to get closer too... his fangs ache a little, watch the other spread his arms. Yes, they had agreed upon that... At the time, he really didn't think that Alastor would agree. And now here they were! His head darts around some, the cobra looking him over.

"YOU AREN'T GOING TO TRY TO SSSLITHER OUT OF THISSS, ARE YOU, DEEREST ALASTOR?"

Alastor

The jolt is replaced by something more like a knife at the punny term of endeerment. He thinks he kept his wince off his face, but he's not totally sure. He lets his arms drop. "If I was going to be a coward, I would have gotten it over with before agreeing to meet and wasting both our time. I even dressed up for the occasion." He tilts his head, calling attention to his new bow tie.

The trophy Sir Pentious is showing off in his own attire hasn't escaped his notice.

Sir Pentious

"AH, I NOTICED. SSO HAVE I."

He pulls on the bow-tie gift from Alastor, truly VERY smug about it.

"THEN HOLD SSSSTILL..." He moved closer, quite suddenly--the rapid and threatening striking of a snake, his tongue flicking as he was mere inches away from the other.

Alastor

Alastor's eyes widen, he leans back, and his hand flies halfway up to his throat; and then he freezes. Damn. So much for acting completely unflappable.

Sir Pentious would enjoy seeing him flinch, at least.

So. Outside it is. Sir Pentious is probably hoping half of Hell will hear him make the Radio Demon scream.

Alastor completes the motion of his hand up to his throat, but only to undo his tie and fold down his high collar. When was the last time he'd been this close to Sir Pentious? Alastor can see individual scales on his face. He forces himself to make eye contact, offers a wan smile, and says, "Ready when you are."

Sir Pentious

He certainly does enjoy it.

His tongue flicks again, the appendage briefly touching the other's cheek. He didn't MEAN anything weird by it, but he certainly got a scent of him.

Pink hellish slitted eyes focused on the other, and he opened his mouth, baring those enormous fangs. Not yet dripping with venom, but oh the threat was there... Not allowing for anymore hesitation, he lunged--SINKING his fangs into Alastor's neck, deep and piercing.

Alastor

Alastor's eyes automatically squeeze shut as Sir Pentious licks him, his breath freezing. Before he has a chance to process the what the hell that means—

He gasps in sharply, a noisy crackling sound, as Sir Pentious's fangs sink in; but the gasp itself is buried under the sound of his voice stuttering across several stations, bursts of overlapping songs—a few incoherent notes of "Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life" and " Snake Eyes" and "Black Snake Moan." The pain from the bite alone is excruciating. Focusing. Focusing him primarily on the fact that Sir Pentious's face is pressed between Alastor's shoulder and his throat.

Sir Pentious

Pentious didn't really know what to expect upon sinking his fangs in, but the radio sounds should have been first on his guess list. It was definitely jarring to hear them so close to his head. Pentious places his hands on both of Alastor's shoulders, now digging his claws into his suit. Just claw him up! Why not!!!

At this closeness, it was all too easy to hear that raspy, human like breathing that cobras made. Like he was going to devour the Radio Demon whole.

Alastor

If Sir Pentious wants to take a strip of Alastor's throat with him when he pulled back—hell, if he wants to take Alastor's whole shoulder—Alastor isn't going to complain. He has to bite his lower lip hard enough to make it bleed to fight the urge to bite Sir Pent back—he's RIGHT THERE, it would be SO EASY to taste his blood—but that would be the end of this trust exercise.

At times it's struck Alastor that Sir Pentious's hissing sounds more than passingly close to a radio's static—and that's even more evident now, hearing his breathing like a rush of wind over a microphone, blowing over his neck. Alastor tries to steady his stuttery station-jumping breath. He leans into the pain cutting up his shoulders and curls his claws into the fabric at the waist of Sir Pent's jacket.

Sir Pentious

He can taste Alastor's blood, and it fills him with madness.

Pentious draws back, blood coating his fangs, as he holds the other up.

"HHMMM.... YOU REALLY DIDN'T MOVE. HAD YOU TRIED, I WOULD HAVE INJECTED YOU WITH MY VENOM!!!"

... But also, the lack of trying to escape, of trying to turn this into some sick broadcast... It resonated with the inventor. Pentious looked over his former ally, and frustration filled his gaze. Frustration and longing.

"... Why couldn't you have ssstayed?"

Of course, this wasn't the same Alastor. Not his own, but... whatever. A moment of vulnerability, just one.

Alastor

Alastor leans longingly after the retreating fangs before catching himself and straightening back up.

At the question, for a moment, his smile almost cracks. His brows draw closer, the corner of his bloody mouth twitches. When he replies, the constant distortion overlaying his voice dies. He almost sounds like a person. "Because I'm a coward."

He didn't mean to say it. He would never have said it under any other circumstances, but he's dizzy and lightheaded and euphoric from the pain and the close contact, and sick guilt he's spent over half a century trying to suppress is buzzing in his chest—and he's said it now.

Sir Pentious

The admission causes Pentious' hood to flare out--whatever he was expecting to hear then, well, just as before, it completely caught him off guard. He couldn't take it at face value, he couldn't trust him. His hand immediate shoots to Alastor's neck, grabbing him and pulling him closer.

"ARE YOU MOCKING ME, ALASSTOR? TELLING ME WHAT YOU THINK I'D WANT TO HEAR??? YOU??? A COWARD??? YOU MUSSST THINK ME A FOOL!!!"

Not that it sounded any which way! But... Pentious was angry to hear it, all the same. It's like he wanted the other to deny it, he wanted him to make up some sort of joke and play him for a fool. He wanted an excuse to tear him apart--but hearing this vulnerability in return put a sense of mortality in him he hadn't known in so, so long.

He'd been betrayed by his only friend, after all, and the serpent struggled so much in trying to make any.

It had been years since then, but still... It hurt him in a way he hadn't thought possible for his old black heart.

Alastor

His hands immediately fly up to the hand around his neck, claws digging into the wrist, prepared to wrench it off—and then, just as abruptly, he forces himself to let go. No, damn it, he's not here to fight.

"You don't want to hear this! I don't think there's a single answer you'd trust out of me but whatever's the cruelest thing I could think of to say—no matter what the truth is." Wasn't that the point of this exercise? To get around the limitation of words, the fact that Sir Pentious couldn't trust and Alastor couldn't be trusted?

So much for that. Hadn't Alastor already known there were no such thing as second chances? Let him be torn apart, it would heal in a few days and he'd learn an important lesson.

Sir Pentious

"CAN YOU BLAME ME!?"

Pentious' voice cracks as he speaks, and he eyes where he'd bit him. He had to think of Valera's words... He seems lonely. She'd compared the two, made them sound so similar... Could trusting him really be a good idea?

... He really did enjoy that visit they had together, eating pasta bolognese and drinking brandy. It had been so... familiar. Pentious frowned, frustration and... distress pulling at every part of himself. His claws flexed, but he pulled them away from Alastor's neck... and he looked down, pulling at his hood like he were considering covering his face with them.

Alastor

"No! I can't!" His voice is thick, a feedback echo whining under his words. "You have EVERY REASON not to trust me! I'd sooner ask Saint Peter for a second chance than ask you." He flings a hand carelessly in the vague direction of Heaven.

And yet, for a moment he'd been stupid and let himself hope. He had to remind himself who he was here to help. "I'm not ASKING for a second chance. Just—don't fight me. And I won't have to fight you."

He feels colder without Sir Pentious within touching distance. He crosses his arms tightly, biting one corner of his mouth to make sure his smile is still up.

Sir Pentious

It stings.

Pentious knows how he's being difficult. His hands open and close, and he grits his teeth, eyes closed tightly. He wishes he could just... move past this and immediately either be fully friends or fully enemies. This was purgatory like no other.

Agreeing to anything felt like giving up and the snake wasn't good at that either.

He glares at Alastor, "DON'T GO ANYWHERE. LET ME THINK."

Alastor

What is there to think about? How hard is it to decide whether or not to keep starting one-sided fights with someone?

But he collects himself. He takes a deep breath, uncrosses his arms, smooths out his bangs, clasps his hands behind his back, corrects his posture, fixes his smile properly back in place, and tries to look past Sir Pentious's visible turmoil and at the garden. Lightly, he says, "I'm not leaving," and immediately regrets as he realizes how easily he could have followed it up with this time.

Sir Pentious

Sometimes he wants to just... grab him by the face and force that smile OFF. But he'll calm himself...

He can't have him as a rival, or as a nemesis. Their paths were too different, and not only that, they were from entirely different Hells!

So close, yet.... Pentious took a deep breath. You're not losing anything, man. You're not. Why was this so hard?

His gaze travels back to the bite, and he flicks his tongue.

"... WHEN WASS THE LASST TIME YOU ALLOWED YOURSSSELF TO BE ATTACKED LIKE THAT?"

Alastor

He blinks, taken aback by the question—and then has to stop and think.

He's always had an unusually casual relationship with pain—and that only increased after he died and no longer had to worry about any damage being permanent. Hell, he's voluntarily been skinned alive so that he could get his own hide tanned—but that wasn't being attacked, that was more like an extreme cosmetic surgery. He's let people who would otherwise never leave a scratch on him get in a stab wound—but that was so he could lure them in close enough to rip them apart. As a child he'd sometimes been too afraid to fight back—but that's very different from consenting to being attacked, isn't it?

"Never."

Will Sir Pentious even believe that? Probably not. Of course not. Alastor wonders why he bothered to ask.

Sir Pentious

He looks at him a long time... studying his expression. Looking for something to pick apart... but it was always that same damn face.

The hum of radio feedback if he stared too long.

Alastor

There isn't much to pick apart. He meets Sir Pentious's gaze when he feels that sharp stare on him, then almost immediately looks away.

He wants to ask whether he ought to be contributing something to the proceedings or if this thinking Sir Pentious is doing is still a solo endeavor, but he forces himself to swallow his nervous chatter and quietly start playing "Snake Eyes" again to fill the silence.

Sir Pentious

The tune is so jaunty, and Pentious twitches... but this was exactly like Alastor, too. You couldn't have a moment's silence with him... The snake groaned, covering his face. Alright. Alright.

".... ALASTOR."

Alastor

The music snaps off. "Sir Pentious?"

Sir Pentious

... You know, it was. Definitely surprising not to hear "Sir Harold". It takes him a moment.

He takes out a GUN, and aims it at Alastor.

"TELL ME AGAIN WHAT YOU WANT OUT OF THISS, AND I WILL NOT QUESSTION IT AGAIN. YOU HAVE MY WORD ON THE MATTER. DO YOU WANT TO BE MY ... FRIEND? OR DO YOU JUST WANT ME OUT OF YOUR HAIR?"

Alastor

Oh—oh, good god, he hadn't planned on being asked directly. (Or with a gun. But the gun was meaningless, the gun was for emphasis. The gun was an exclamation point.)

Being honest had been the biggest mistake of this conversation so far. The closer Alastor got to telling the truth, the less trustworthy he sounded, the less Sir Pentious was going to take what he said into account. The safe answer was "out of my hair." It was the answer that would make sure Sir Pentious was...

... gone, again. Gone and safe.

But, unless Alastor was completely wrong about everything he thought he knew about this Sir Pentious—

—it sounded like he was, impossibly, offering Alastor a second chance.

He croaked, "Friend."

And then, with the dam broken, more tumbled out: "I give you my word that's not what I came to ask for. I'm only here to try to get myself out of YOUR h—hood. But if— What I want— That's what I WANT."

Sir Pentious

Well, he was damned. Valera was right.

This Alastor, much like himself, was a lonely old man. He wanted to be his friend. The snake could only stare, his arm lowering, and with it the pistol too.

"... Really?" This wasn't a voice of accusation or vitriol, or demanding anything. Just, outright, innocent confusion.

Alastor

Alastor had been half expecting a bullet through his pretty new rose-shaped pin. He HADN'T been expecting that look. Perplexingly, it looked like a sort of expression that suggested that Sir Pentious might actually believe him.

A wild panicked voice in the back of his head tried to tell him to yell JUST KIDDING, drop Sir Pentious through a particularly painful portal, and bolt from the scene like a buck out of Hell.

It was the same panicked voice that had gotten him into this mess fifty-fucking-four years ago. He wasn't going to listen to it again.

He looked for something snappy to say, couldn't find anything, and said, "Yes. Really."

Sir Pentious

VALERA WAS RIGHT AAAAAHe put the weapon away, straightening his Alastor's bowtie, and gave a smile... although it was strained. Struggling. "... YOU REALLY ARE FROM ANOTHER DIMENSION, YOU KNOW. THISS COULD NEVER BE MY REALITY."

Alastor

Bow tie. Right, he should—Alastor straightened his collar back into place and retied his now slightly bloodstained bow. "Nor mine," he muttered, his smile sinking toward a grimace. He could have said the exact same words to his own Sir Pentious—but those words NEVER would have been trusted by someone who knew exactly what he'd done when he left. The only reason he'd gotten this far was because that not-knowing meant he could get the benefit of the doubt.

What could he do, then, but milk it for all it was worth as long as he could?

"I can't do anything about my duplicate in your universe. But any time you care to come to mine... well." Well. Friends.

Sir Pentious

Oh, damn. There was that warm feeling in his chest--it felt like he had internal bleeding. It ached and stung, and Pentious clutched his suit some to try to soothe the pain.

He was too expressive for his own food, clearing his throat.

"DON'T SSOUND LIKE YOU'RE ABOUT TO TAKE YOUR LEAVE, ALASTOR. I TOLD YOU TO TAKE THE DAY OFF, AND YOU'RE GOING TO!"

Alastor

"Am I!" His face lit up. "Why? Are we finally going to get to thar part you promised where I'm crying like a baby from pain?"

Sir Pentious

"WHY DO YOU SSOUND SSO EXCITED?"

"YOU WANT THAT?"

Alastor

"Well, you were so graphic about it, you got my hopes up! I set aside the rest of the week to recover and everything." He paused just long enough to get Sir Pentious time to process that. "KIDDING! No, what did you have planned?"

Sir Pentious

.......... NOW HE'S ADVANCING ON ALASTOR, hood raised and eyes glowing red. That menacing long grin.

"OH, NO, ALASTOR, YOU WERE SSSSO EXCITED. I INSSSISSST!"

Alastor

For a moment, he stares at Sir Pentious, eyes wide. Somewhere beneath his usual static, S.O.S. beeps in Morse.

Then he flatly asks, "Do we have to?" But he's reaching for his bow tie again. One final test would be fair, wouldn't it? Alastor deserves at least that much.

Sir Pentious

Oh no. He looks conflicted!!! This man just told him he wanted to be friends!

",,, ALASTOR! YOU CAME HERE WANTING TO BE BITTEN AND POISONED AND NOW YOU DON'T WANT IT BUT ALSO DO?? BE CLEAR, BE CONSISE!!

Alastor

"I was joking about the poison part!" No more masochistic humor in THIS universe. "It sounds a little bit extreme for my idea of a fun afternoon. I was willing to do it to prove my, ah... sentiments—but if we're PAST that, I'd just as happily move on to something less excruciating."

Sir Pentious

He HUFFS. His fangs ache, wanting to bite into something again, but also... He looks strained.

".... SS... SSSSINCE YOU'RE HERE.... DO YOU WANT TO... COME INSIDE???"

Alastor

Is Sir Pentious disappointed? Alastor eyes him carefully a moment, then says, "Sure." After another pause, even more carefully, he asks, "Are you opposed to letting me see what you've been up to in that boiler room of yours?"

Sir Pentious

Little does Alastor know, Penny is suffering from a dizziness spell. It was a side effect of using his fangs like that, even if he didn't use his venom. He had a lot of physicality issues.

Pentious slithered towards the front entrance, "AH, MY RAIL GUN? SURE, AS LONG AS YOU DON'T THINK YOU CAN TAKE IT FROM ME."

Alastor

"Wouldn't dream of it!" Rail gun! Alastor followed after Sir Pentious, just short of skipping in delight. "What would I do with it, anyway—try to carry it around on my shoulder like a bazooka? Ha! No, no—I just want to see what kind of damage it can do."

Then they went inside to play with dangerous toys, the end.

#hissandvinegar #chat log #((anybody who followed my RP blog randomly rather than through my main fic blog is prrrobably gonna be surprised lmfao))#((SURPRISE guess what we ship around here))#((for those of y'all who DID follow me from my main fic blog: look it's like it's an AU post CDIH redemption arc speedrun))

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betawithablog · 4 years

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How do you think a transgender Alpha would deal with the world. He was a female omega but now he's a male alpha

Oh boy, double whammy...

Well, first off, I imagine there'd be a lot of questioning - both from himself and others - whether they're actually just transgender (ftm) or just transdynamic (omega to alpha) and not the other... a lot of self-doubt, a lot of outright doubt from others

Horome treatment would be double-y intense (I imagine there being a bunch of additional hormones deciding your dynamic)

He would be a hell of a lot smaller than cis Alpha males; he likes those big boots that give you a bit of a boost and avoids baggy clothes that make him feel even smaller

He'd probably cover up his scent with artificial Alpha pheromones until the hormone treatment starts altering his natural scent

He might take up traditionally Alpha hobbies - physical contact sport like rugby and wrestling for example - not necessarily because he thinks he'll enjoy them but to try and prove himself as a "real" Alpha. He learns to accept that his passtimes aren't what make him an Alpha... and he may also discover a completely unexpected passion

Learning to respect himself enough to drop anyone who judges him for any traditonally Omega behaviours - or just anyone who judges him in general

I have this hc that Alphas have much bigger canines than Omegas and Betas; transitioning with hormones would probably lead to a lot of tootache as his Alpha canines grow in

Also, every dynamic's tastebuds are different, so picture one day he pours himself a bowl of his favourite cereal and literally spit-takes at he first bite because "what the hell and heck is wrong with my cereal??"

Lots of talking out emptions and problems with pack members

Probably working through ingrained beliefs about gender - reminding himself he's just as much an Alpha for letting people take care of him

Feeling oddly comforted from people being like "oohh so that's why you're always so protective of everyone all the time / that's why you're always showing off in front of Omegas all the time / that's why you never really wanted to nest" etc. etc.

Going to their pack's head Alpha about it first (because your lead Alpha should always be someone trustworthy enough to be the first person you feel comfortable going to about major stuff like this)

The head Alpha taking them out to buy a bunch of new clothes and dump all their old clothes at a charity shop the very same day

Waking up - high as a kite - surrounded by their pack after surgery (if they want to have it, that is), everyone eager to snuggle up to and scent him, everyone giggling at his drugged up "I love you guyssss"

all I can think of right now! thanks for the ask 😊💕

#omegaverse #a/b/o #alpha/beta/omega #alphas #transgender omegaverse #transgender a/b/o #trans alpha #transdynamic #omegaverse headcanons #a/b/o headcanons #alpha/beta/omega headcanons #omegaverse dynamics #a/b/o dynamcis #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #sorry this is a little late my wifi has been a pain in the butt #drugs mention #mine

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sparklycitrus · 4 years

Text

Yet Another Omegaverse Setup - Part 3

And here comes the not-yet-but-def-coming 00q headcanon. The really, really fun part. I noticed I like torturing James a lot more than Q. Hmm...a writing quirk, me thinks.

And it’s AU day! So, this counts as an extra on my point sheet. XD

Link to Part 1 here. Link to Part 2 here.

Omegaverse Setup Part 3 - Bond & Q

Bond has been on alpha suppressants since his days in the navy. They were nothing fancy, just the generic brand carried by any navy physician, and didn’t really do much except prolonged his rut cycle by a few weeks. Having ruts while confined at sea was a nightmare, so he tried to time the doses to keep his schedule to twice a year. (Alpha suppressants aren’t as fine-tuned as omega ones, and so are much more unpredictable.) His rut was usually every four to five months. With suppressants, sometimes he’d luck out and stretch it out to six.

When he became an agent of MI6 his meds more or less stayed the same. They didn’t really send him out on that many mission before he was fast-tracked to double-oh for exemplary performance. When M called him into her office on the day of his promotion, he at first thought there was a misprint on the paperwork. 007? That’s a beta position, isn’t it? (It did kind of explain the presence of a doctor from MI6 Medical and the Chief of Staff being included in the meeting.) She stated her displeasure with the current system, and asked Bond to be a trial case. For all intents and purposes he has now become a beta – all of his files have been altered, he is in a beta-exclusive position, and the only people who are aware of it were in this room. “You are too good to be saddled with endless missions that only require a working knot,” she declared, to which Bond wholeheartedly agreed.

His new suppressants are specialized now, made exclusively in the MI6 labs as top secret R&D (and classified as such). It keeps his rut cycle at around five months, and shortens its duration to fifty hours, easily concealable by his usual habit of disappearing off the grid during downtime. His alpha scent is almost nonexistent, and the glands on his neck, if not in rut, are barely larger than a beta’s. He can achieve an erection when needed, although knotting is almost impossible outside ruts. It mean he gets less satisfying orgasms, but Bond brushes that off as part of the tradeoff - it’s a miracle he can still perform on such a strong suppressant in the first place. There’s also a booster shot he can take if he happens to go into rut at an inconvenient time. It’ll delay it for another day or so, which is usually long enough for him to get to safety.

The medicine is delivered on a strict schedule in the form of a shot every three months, no exceptions. For national security reasons Bond spends all of his ruts alone, sometimes resorting to outside drugs and alcohol to dampen its effects. It’s always a miserable experience and he hasn’t taken an omega to bed for a proper rut in years. Bond just sees this as another sacrifice for the Country and deals with it by gritting his teeth and trudging on.

Q has been on omega suppressants since puberty. The mother of one of his schoolmates was a nurse, through whom Q got a steady supply of high-quality meds since the initial presentation. Still, he disliked the various side effects – cystic acne being one of the most irritating – and switched brands throughout his teenage years. He always hated the fact that being an omega meant people underestimated him or saw him as nothing but a hole to fuck. So he avoided the whole hassle by pretending to be a beta, and should anyone come too close to the truth, well, there’s nothing that threatening to publicize all their digital dirty laundry couldn’t fix.

He became the Quartermaster through his own sheer brilliance. It’s hard to stand out amongst the bright youth of Q-branch, especially as a nameless beta. In truth Q-branch is a very merit-based place, so Q’s not 100% sure if he were an out-and-proud omega anything would change, but he has spent his whole life this way and didn’t want to make the change. He has the skills to lock and change his own files, so he did, with no one in MI6 the wiser. He is a workaholic, but timing his heats to a few off days has never been a problem.

His current suppressants are a concoction made from years of experimenting and tailored to his physique. They completely eliminate his scent, shrink his glands to beta size, act as hormonal birth control, and give him control as to when he wants to have his heats. The only side effects are the occasional cramps and night sweats. However, this doesn’t mean he can’t smell other alphas when they’re around. Sometimes he gets involuntarily wet from alpha personnel strutting by his desk, dripping pheromones all over and thinking he’s unaffected. After the third time he puts up a sign outside Q-branch reminding alphas that there are a lot of omegas working in the bullpen who like to continue to work un-harassed. They wouldn’t go into the secretarial pool and rile up all the omega girls in front of their executives, would they? The incidents lessened a few days after the sign went up, and eventually stopping being a problem.

His natural cycle is around two months and lasts three days, and Q likes to artificially keep it to that also. Eventually when he comes off suppressants – a long time from now, but it will happen – it will make the transition easier. His med is a daily white pill, with two transition yellow pills before and after his heats, and nothing during. Sometimes he spends his heats alone with various toys for company, and sometimes he invites in alphas whom he has carefully vetted in advance. No one from anything close to governmental agencies. They all gossip and the last thing Q wants is to be outed via an outside grapevine. There’s only one person who knows he’s an omega in MI6 – the Chief of Staff. Q has told Tanner himself, partly because he needs to inform at least one person at work just in case something happens – their profession is fairly dangerous, after all – and partly because they’re pretty good friends. Bill Tanner knows how to handle secrets like a boss, to which Q is very grateful.

#omegaverse #setup #james bond #q #headcanon #007 fest #00q

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secret-engima · 4 years

Note

On a tactical level, the fact that the Glaive are Really Good at suppressing their scents is an amazing boon. Like, the Nifs know the base is blowing up around them. But they can’t find the explosives to deactivate them, because they can’t smell any intruders? They know their fighting the Glaive, they can see them, but there aren’t any scents to use as clues as what the Fae are going to do next. Just, fighters using scents in a fight, and the Glaive Don’t Smell. What. What is going on? Where go?

It really, really is. The Nifs are TERRIFIED of the glaives for a REALLY GOOD REASON. How can you fight something when that something is already hard to spot and your second most relied on sense (smell) is ALSO USELESS? When they never, ever smell them, it leads to rumors that they- don’t have a scent. Maybe they aren’t ALIVE to have a scent. They are just something Angry and Deadly and Terrible. Daemon-changelings parading around in the forms of the Galahdians that were Butchered during Galahd’s fall. And it’s not just their scentless-ness that freaks them out. The glaives intentionally do things to creep out the Nifs during attacks, have special gear that lets them act even more Feral™ and- just- Hang on I think I still have an HC snippet I sent @wolfsrainrules rules forever ago on this very subject-.

...

-The raids are always the same. Unannounced and unstoppable. Night Terrors in human skin that suddenly warp out of the shadows, too-sharp fangs of burned orange and dark green and behemoth purple reflecting eerily in the FIRE licking the metal of their claws, turning the silver of steel to the unique orangey-purple of magic fire that blinds the eyes just as much as their sharp blades tear open the vulnerable throats and bellies of human and MT alike, only for the hell-daemons in human skin to suddenly bound back into the shadows before retaliation can come, fire lingering on their gauntlets for just a few seconds like eerie, bobbing, lethal will o'wisps before it snuffs out and all an enemy can hear is the high, harsh, unnatural clicks and laughs and hissing barks of the Pack, seemingly echoing from everywhere and nowhere as they complement each other on their assault and plan the next round of harrying.-After that, everything boils down to The Moments.

-The Moments of staring in terror past the light of spotlights at the gaping holes in the fencing that weren't there mere minutes ago.

-The Moments where the mindless MT Units and a few reckless Mecha pilots pursue into the darkness despite the frantic calls of their officers and the wails of the base alarms as a building on the opposite side of the compound is struck with lightning in just the right spot to send it and three more into flames.

-The Moments where the few humans on base know they should be rushing to help put out the fires but can't help but linger in horror and listen to the sounds of metal tearing and mecha pilots SCREAMING as lightning flickers dance low to the ground off metal claws now dripping blood before the reflections disappear- too quick to dare waste a shot.-The Moments where, for no purpose beyond creating pure terror, one of the glaive flickers into view on the very edge of the fencing and artificial light and SMILES, channeling fire along the edges their inhumanly sharp teeth (metal, heat resistant fake teeth that serve as protective shields to the gums and tongue and inner mouth, not that anyone KNOWS THAT, the Nifs think they’re actual teeth) to paint their own grinning faces in twisting patterns of light and orange-purple shadow, eyes too-bright and skin too-pale and uniforms too black to be anything but living nightmares before the glaive disappears into the shadows again to strike somewhere else (at SOMEONE ELSE) entirely, too fast for the Nifs to stop another building from going up in flames or to keep unpiloted mecha suits from suddenly listing and spasming, or to rescue that one unlucky soldier who got too close to the action before he's suddenly grabbed by the throat and dragged screaming into the darkness.

-The Moment when, right at the height of the nightmare, right when the surviving officers have called order and begun preparing a counterattack, some far off call causes the glaives and their will o'wisp blades and unnatural fangs to disappear back into the night, leaving the survivors to know that dawn is approaching and there will be no sign of the Galahdian daemon-changelings come morning light save --maybe-- the torn up bodies of those who were dragged away tonight and the broken remains of the MT Units and mecha suits that can do nothing to stop the assaults.-There is a special kind of TERROR that clings like cement to the officers' and Mecha pilots' bones, especially the older ones, as they inform the shaking transfers from the Niflheim continent that they have to prepare for it to happen all over again come the next nightfall (or maybe not, maybe it will be another base entirely that suffers, or a patrol on some faraway road, or an ammo depot that goes up in lightning and flames and gleeful, unnatural laughter. It’s the lack of certainty, of preparing but never KNOWING, that tears their nerves almost as badly as the attacks themselves).-A fact of life on the Lucian continent for years, they say. Ever since the jungle islands burned and the Lucian King somehow chained the daemon changelings called Galahdians to his service, to his magic, and dared name them Kingsglaive (dared call them soldiers, as if they were humans to recruit and stick in uniforms and not scentless monsters and nightmares that parade around in the skin of those who died when their jungles did). A recurring nightmare that keeps Niflheim from advancing like it should (like the politicians and nobles and generals who have never seen the Night and its Terrors insist should be possible anyway, insist can be done because their opponents are only humans and everything else is just rumor. Really).-A Curse, the older, quieter, officers mutter to themselves as they watch the rising sun with weary eyes and trembling hands. An unending punishment for their sins in Galahd. For the unnecessary burnings and the Butchering that the generals insisted would end the night attacks but instead only spread them out into the rest of Lucis proper.-Some of the officers and pilots can predict from experience that their generals will insist on marching on Insomnia someday. Will insist on Burning that city too in an effort to finally win the war and end the resistance. Those who remember Galahd and know that the Kingsglaive's current raids are nothing compared to the days of the Defiant and the Wrath (the days before the Defiant slid into anonymity and the Wrath was leashed to the side of the Lucian King to keep the others in line) would plan to retire before that, except they know it's pointless. The day their Emperor forces them to march on the last nesting ground of the Galahdians will be the precursor to the night the Defiant awakens and the Lucian King lets the Wrath off his silk leash. And then?-Then, the older officers and pilots laugh morbidly over the glasses of whiskey they clutch like lifelines, then there will be nowhere left to run.

#SE asks #anon asks #Stand Strong Verse #Secret Engima Rambles #these kiddos were raised in the jungle #with coeurls #of course they use their forging abilities #to make metal fangs and claws #that they use while on mission #because Why Not

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cagestark · 5 years

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Can i request something i dont see enough of, which is AlphaPeter/OmegaTony ? :D Lots of fluffy happy stuff, i love angst too a slong as theres a happy ending - { holographic-starker }

this was a tough one to write, but I enjoyed myself and feel like I learned a lot about myself as a writer, even. Thanks for the request, let me know if you’re displeased

Read here on AO3.

Warnings: ABO, consent issues because Tony is in heat. Alpha!Peter, Omega!Tony. Peter is 18+ though. Explicit.

The thing is, the kid is too polite.

Peter is freshly eighteen when he moves into the tower and begins interning for Tony, spending every last moment Avenging and patrolling and attending online classes. Being thirty years older than the kid, a part of him assumes that he should take on the role of a cantankerous old man complaining about the boorish youth. His knees have certainly taken it upon themselves to method act, protesting hours spent cross-legged on the floor. His hair has obviously been visiting wardrobe and makeup without his notice, because there are more gray hairs there than he remembers there being last year, last season, last month.

All this to say that Tony is getting older, and it is no secret that the younger generations are fucking irritating. Disrespectful, he’d say, channeling Howard or Jarvis through that internal Ouija board that keeps coming back no matter how many times he throws it out. And alright, it’s part of their rite of passage. Find him a generation who doesn’t annoy their elders and he’d eat Cap’s shield.

The one exception: Peter.

The kid has sweetness in his DNA. Authenticity clings to his red blood cells which explains why every bone in his body is genuine and kind. The respect he shows the Avengers is nearly comical—would be, if it didn’t drive Tony up the walls for other reasons. He is firm and gentle, thoughtful and conscientious. There are no valid complaints to be had about him.

The kid, if anything, is too polite.

Which means that he can’t possibly be doing this on purpose.

Peter presenting as an alpha shocked Tony to the core, and he wasn’t alone. “I’ve had him pegged as an omega since he was in diapers, Tony,” May had whispered to him while they watched Peter having his blood drawn by Bruce inside the Hulk-proof enclosure beneath the ground at Stark Tower. Judging by how Peter’s face flushes red, he can hear through the glass.

“A lot people had me pegged as an alpha,” Tony responds, maybe a little too coldly. But maybe it hits a little too close to home—children having their designations determined for them at such a young age. How much of Peter’s upbringing had influenced his disposition? Had he been groomed to be an omega even despite his biology? The thought makes Tony sick. He knows how that feels. He knows. “This doesn’t change anything about him. He’s still Peter.”

But it did change things.

Because now they are playing this game together, and either Peter is a better bluffer than Tony ever anticipated, or the kid genuinely doesn’t know what he’s doing to the older man.

It starts the first day Peter returns to his work in the lab after his rut. They have been putting in hours together working on a new AI, one Peter has affectionately dubbed Saturday, no matter how many times Tony tells him that the key to a good name is all in the acronym). Since it is Peter’s first effort to make an artificial intelligence, Tony is letting him lead. He is bent over the lab table examining a microchip the size of his thumbnail, miniature soldering iron clutched between in his fingers when the door to the lab opens.

He whirls around on the stool, beaming. Peter is dressed in his old Midtown High sweatshirt, the collar of his dress shirt blooming around his neck. His hair is dark from a shower, wet curls clinging to his forehead. He looks—good. Healthy. Strong. Fertile.

They smell each other for the first time.

It’s not Tony’s right to tell anyone to wear scent blockers, though he ingests his own via pill form twice a day, showers with them, has them mixed into the sterilization stations at lab’s exits so he can clean his hands and neutralize any happy-angsty scents that were brought about during the day’s tinkering. Because it’s a polite thing to do. Alphas and omegas are very sensitive to smells. Polite alphas will wear blockers to avoid overwhelming omegas or antagonizing other alphas in public—and when it comes to omegas, scent blockers are like protection, like the nano-tech suit he goes nowhere without. If no one can smell Tony, they can’t look at him like a piece of meat, lust over him, come on to him when all he’s trying to do is walk down the fucking street.

The kid is not wearing blockers. Before he presented, Peter had the blandly neutral scent of a beta, and he would have been incapable of scenting Tony. Peter smells of something fond. It takes Tony only a moment to place it: the mahogany of the bookshelves in his childhood home, the lemon-basil scent that would cling to Jarvis after days spent in the kitchen.

He sees Peter’s nostrils flair, surely trying to take in a scent that for all intents and purposes, he shouldn’t be able to smell. But by the way his eyes go hooded, throat bobbing, he can. The boy’s mouth opens, literally mouths the word wow. Tony feels remarkably like a rabbit caught in a dog’s gaze.

Tony burns himself. “Fucking—fuck!” He drops the soldering iron and it barely misses the microchip.

“Mr. Stark, are you okay?”

Peter comes over to examine the burn, a dark, flushed pink, the skin already raw and shiny. The smell comes with him, each of the boy’s emotions playing out like a symphony for his nose: concern, comfort, anxiety. And yeah, arousal.

Tony pulls away before their skin can touch, jamming his hands into the gloves that he should have been wearing from the start. “Fine,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”

Peter becomes—distracting. At best. Arousing at worst. Days spent in the lab under Tony’s tutelage are filled with emotions for the young, enthusiastic boy: joy when he solves a problem, frustration when he can’t, the soft melancholic scent of rotting wood on days when his smile is muted and his eyes seem far away. Tony is too receptive to him. More than once, he’s found himself opening his mouth, desperate to ask for the love of God, Pete, will you take a shower? Will you wear something, anything, to come between your scent and my nose? But the kid doesn’t deserve that, and Tony isn’t sure he could stand the embarrassed, insecure scent he’d give off after being confronted. The need to comfort might be too strong to overpower.

Tony does his very best to maintain a professional relationship, but Peter seems determined to cross every boundary.

Next comes the scenting. To be fair: maybe he doesn’t know how incredibly personal it is. Tony knows that it’s common in schools to separate kids by designation and teach them only the information absolutely pertinent to them. Maybe growing up small and thin and soft hearted, pegged O’ from birth, they didn’t teach him what it means when an alpha scents someone who they aren’t related to.

Tony himself doesn’t know what it means when Peter does it. Maybe Peter doesn’t even know, maybe it’s just an itch that needs scratched, and he knows that scenting Tony can scratch it. Some things are just that innocent. But on his dark days when Tony is hunched over at the lab table, back and eyes aching from working through the night, all it takes is Peter brushing by. His steps will stutter just beyond Tony’s shoulders. He inhales—now Tony is trained like one of Pavlov’s dogs, and the relief, the arousal, it often comes right then, even on just the inhale—and then Peter’s forehead will loll forward, soft hair and skin nuzzling at the scent gland on Tony’s neck until their scents are mixed. Until Tony’s body is soft and pliant (except for his cock, which is hard and throbbing).

Then Peter moves on like nothing happened.

What the fuck, Tony sometimes mouths, keeping his eyes on the tablet in front of him, terrified to turn and acknowledge what the boy just did.

It might not be so bad if they weren’t so fucking compatible. Yeah, he can admit it. Tony had spent weeks agonizing about that after the kid first brought his scent down into the lab, he’s come to terms, thanks. It’s a biological fact, one he remembers any time he takes in a whiff of mahogany and lemon-basil. God, he didn’t think a smell could be so comforting and arousing all at once. It makes him ache, someplace in his chest where the arc reactor used to sit, and somewhere lower, deep in his pelvis where he should have grown children, if he’d been a decent omega. If he hadn’t spent so long trying to pretend to be an alpha, frying his biology, cooking his ovaries right to medium-well-done, AKA infertility.

What use would Peter have for him? Tony is old, past safe childbearing years even if he wasn’t barren. Alphas want legacies, they want homemakers, they want everything Howard worked so hard to empty Tony of. Far too often he finds himself maudlin and thinking such thoughts before the futility of them strikes him. His attractiveness is a non-issue; he is determined that he and Peter will never come together that way.

As it is, the scent blockers Tony takes, while being ultra-effective, aren’t as effective for a pair—not a pair. No, they’re not a pair. Just two friendly friends, mentor and mentee, platonic hi there Mr. Stark how are you doing goodness, no knots involved. God. He should not be thinking about the kid’s knot—anyway, the blockers aren’t as effective for people who are as compatible as Peter and Tony are. They are his last defense, and he often burns through them before the afternoon hits, body working overtime to make his scent potent again so that he might have a chance to attract the virile alpha across the room. It’s embarrassing, smelling so badly of pining omega that he can smell himself in the enclosed space of the elevator.

Like he is right now.

Although, it isn’t the elevator. It’s the bathroom.

Tony grabs the hand towels off of the rack and stuffs them at the bottom of the door where the crack is, desperate to keep his own smell in and Peter’s smell out. Then he crawls into the bathtub there and draws the curtain shut. As if that’s going to help.

He looks to the ceiling, wondering why a deity he doesn’t even believe in seems to be punishing him like this. Inside his pants, his cock is aching, and he can’t help but to press the heel of his hand against it, exhaling in the brief relief it gives. Lifting his wrist to his nose he breaths deep and can’t stop the groan that passes his lips. He smells like Peter, their scents combining, lemon and sugar to make lemonade, so sweet his mouth waters and his teeth ache.

When Peter arrived in the lab just moments before, he’d brought with him the scent of fury: scorched earth, and something sadder. His eyes were red from tears, lips pressed thin together. Tony watched him, paralyzed, as he tried three different times to enter his access code to the lab before FRIDAY showed mercy and let him in. Then as soon as there was nothing between them, it was like two oppositely charged magnets coming together.

They collided. Tony’s arms wrapped around him and Peter’s nose buried in that spot between his neck and shoulder, inhaling and exhaling fire on Tony’s exposed skin. Peter babbles away, lips brushing his skin, something about an argument with Ned and MJ, both sides feeling neglected and wronged, long overdue issues just now bubbling to the surface, he’d imagine. He can barely focus on what the boy is saying. It feels like there’s an invisible hand on the back of his neck, tilting him into the perfect position for his alpha to scent and find comfort in him. Tony holds him until all the anger and hurt and helplessness have seeped out of him.

What the fuck, Tony mouths to the ceiling. One of these days, he’s going to ask FRIDAY to create a montage of his WTF moments so that he might literally have concrete footage of how weird his life is.

Then one of Peter’s hands drifts up like he is going to cup Tony’s shoulder, but instead he firmly presses his thumb into the gland there and it’s like Thor has sent a bolt of lightning down. Tony’s entire body jerks and melts, every bone in his body relaxing for his alpha except for the one in his pants, and speaking of, Peter whimpers and shifts and there is no mistaking an alpha’s cock. There just isn’t. It’s veritably huge and hard and how many years has it been since he’s had an alpha inside him, since he’s been knotted—

The scents around them change, thick with arousal. It takes him that long to realize that Peter’s heightened emotional sensitivity might have a biological cause.

He is going into a rut.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter slurs, hips shifting. “You smell sooo good.”

It takes herculean effort to separate their bodies. The sheer heat and pheromones that Peter is throwing off are tangible even when he’s resolutely breathing through his mouth. He must be a sight: eyes wild and terrified, cock stiff, sprinting bow-legged to the bathroom so that he could get just a moment—just a moment to calm himself down and use his brain.

It’s going…about as well as can be expected, Tony thinks, desperately fisting his cock in the bathtub. If he could just rub one out, maybe it will bleed some of the fire from his veins. There is a gentle knocking at the door and Peter’s muffled voice, but Tony can barely hear it. He’s so close, building up to an orgasm so quickly that it should be shameful, but at least there is no one here to see. Wrist pressed to his nose, he inhales Peter’s scent like a man coming up from water, desperate for air. His balls are drawn up tight, stomach twisted into knots—and still he doesn’t cum.

“Mr. Stark, are you alright? Are you hurt?” Peter’s voice is raised, worried. Tony realizes that he has been whimpering, surely loud enough for the genetically enhanced boy to hear.

The pain inside him rises up but never crests, just rests there, aching in his gut. Cramping. Curiously, he reaches down past the petite testicles, down—

He’s wet. Soaked. The touch of his finger nearly brings him to ecstasy. This is what he needs, something inside of him, filling that emptiness that is so acute it aches. One finger isn’t enough. His hole is already loose, taking two easily.

The door breaks down. I’m in heat, Tony thinks numbly listening to wood splinter and hinges break. Maybe there was a slow build up that he missed, but it burned away in an instant in the face of this alpha. That is why Peter went into rut. Because of me. He barely has time to shove his cock back into his pants. For a moment, after Peter wrenches back the shower curtain Tony feels like a woman out of the old bodice rippers his mother used to keep in her bedside drawer. The ones with helpless omegas ravished by alphas who were driven mad by their scents, alphas who couldn’t have stopped their urges even if they wanted to.

The look Peter gives him is certainly aroused enough. He is hard in his jeans, a bulge that looks impossibly huge compared to Tony’s own. Peter’s chest rises and falls so rapidly that the older man is worried for his health. Those dark eyes scan Tony from head to toe and then the boy collapses, knees striking the tiled floor, groaning. He crawls to the bathtub and rests his feverish cheeks against the lip of the tub, mouth open and panting.

“Mr. Stark.” The voice is absolutely wrecked.

It is pure restraint as a result of his years of experience that keeps him from rolling onto his hands and knees to present for this boy, this wet-behind-the-ears alpha who has barely started his second rut and probably never popped a knot in his life.

“Mr. Stark I don’t feel so good,” groans Peter.

Even burning up, cramping, shaking, Tony reaches out to pet at Peter’s head. He hopes to offer comfort, but the boy snatches his hand out of the air in a bruising grip. Then he draws it to his mouth and presses in the fingers that were just inside Tony’s sopping hole. The boy’s tongue slips between the fingers, searching every crevice for more slick, groaning even as he licks the palm tasting only heart-love-life lines. “Mr. Stark,” Peter pants, trying again for words. “Can I have you? Please. Let me have you.”

“Yes,” Tony gasps.

They come together clumsily. It takes a moment for them to realize that Tony is trying to crawl out of the tub while Peter is trying to crawl in. They end up outside of it on the tiled floor, Tony spread out underneath the young alpha. Peter sheds his shirt and there should be violins, there should be mood lighting and a spotlight because the kid is fucking built. He almost has as many abs as fingers, so lithe and strong. He reminds Tony of spider silk, thin and so strong.

“Undress,” Peter says lowly, helping Tony to sit up so that he might pull off his shirt. Yeah, Tony isn’t 18 years old with genetically enhanced muscles but he likes to think he does okay. Peter’s eyes roll, palms flat on Tony’s pecs to drag down and down, over the scarring where the arc reactor used to be, scraping at the chest hairs. It melts the omega’s brain, primal parts of him purring. His body is satisfying to his mate, even if he is older and grayer and harder than any omega has a right to be. “God, you’re so—Jesus you’re hot Mr. Stark.”

“Knot me,” Tony groans. His hips are thrusting up into the hard cradle of Peter’s pelvis. His cock is throbbing, leaking, but it is nothing compared to the emptiness inside of him. The room is small and filled with so many potent scents that he can barely keep his eyes open. All of his senses are consumed by Peter, by what he’s doing with Peter. “Come on, kid. It hurts.”

Peter goes feral at the thought. He tears at their clothes, ribbons of jean and cotton, tennis shoes nudged off of feet. When he is naked as the day he was born, the fever in Tony seems to reach its boiling point. The kid is sculpted; it’s indecent. If there was any doubt he was meant to be an alpha, his cock disputes it. Tony, who has had plenty of fulfilling sexual experiences with people of all genders and designations, is still intimidated. Aroused. Anxious. He knows that his biology has prepared him for this. His body is made to take cocks of that size, but what if it doesn’t? What if he displeases this alpha, displeases Peter?

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, thumb pressing into that tender part of his neck that has his legs jolting. “Easy,” Peter says, and Tony’s entire body relaxes. That voice drains all the fear and anxiety out of him, Novocain for the soul. Why was he worrying? His head is pleasantly fuzzy like with the buzz of a few strong drinks. Underneath it all is the ache in his cock, the emptiness inside him, but he does not beg. Does not squirm. Because unbearably tender, Peter assures: “I’ll take care of you.”

The tiles under his palms and knees are cold on his feverish skin when he turns over. He lets his back bow to appease the ache inside him until he is presenting fully, cheek pressed against the floor. The sounds Peter makes behind him are wrecked as he folds himself over the omega beneath him, mouth hotly over the skin at the nape of his neck. It makes all the hairs on his body stand on edge—god the only thing better than mating with alpha is bonding with this alpha, bite, bite, please—

“Can’t,” Peter groans. “Can’t bite you. You don’t mean that.”

Tony bucks the boy off until Peter is sitting back on his haunches, cock obscene between his legs, looking more like a confused pup than an assertive alpha. Tony bares his teeth even in the face of his instincts which recoil just at the idea. “I thought you knew what I needed,” he goads.

Peter’s eyes harden. Maybe this polite young man defers to him on most things, but not this thing. He fists a hand in Tony’s hair and wrenches him up until their naked bodies are plastered together from knee to neck. Teeth brush his neck again and it’s like touching a live wire. If he’d jerked any harder, he might have broken skin. As it is, Peter just holds him there, bite firm and bordering on painful until all the fight goes out of him. The boy guides him back down, body lax like all the bones are gone. One hand drifts up and back to run over where the alpha’s teeth were, desperate to feel the indentations.

“Didn’t break skin,” Peter promises, like Tony doesn’t already know. No broken skin, but close. Close enough to have him pliant and purring, the fever in his skin giving him the briefest respite. Then Peter’s fingers dance downward to where the omega is wet and hot and so empty it hurts. Just the brush of fingertips, the promise of pleasure, has Tony groaning into the tiled floor.

Gently, Peter presses in. Attuned to the alpha’s senses, he hears the younger man’s breath catch, turn high and breathy. A second finger joins the first and yes, that’s better, so much better than the gaping emptiness. By the third finger, Tony feels like he could cum from this alone, even if Peter has done nothing but skim his fingers over that spot inside him that’s so good it aches.

Peter hushes him, a hand planted over that fading mark on the back of Tony’s neck. His other hand grips his cock, notching the head where Tony needs it most. The omega takes the first half before he feels full, sated even, but then there is more. Peter makes the rawest noises, and Tony laments not facing him, not being able to see his expression. He can imagine it: the eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, head back. But then there is more cock inside him than he thought was possible, and it burns everything else from his mind. The only thing that exists is that cock, anchoring him to this reality. He can feel the flared base of the alpha’s cock already puffing, desperate to knot.

Content that his cock isn’t going to split Tony in half—though it certainly feels like it from the other side of things—Peter sets a brutal pace. The finesse his fingers might have lacked is overshadowed by his cock which probably couldn’t miss Tony’s prostate if it tried. All he can do is take it, fingers scrabbling to find purchase on the slick floor, body singing, prepared to burn out at any moment.

“To-ny,” whines Peter, drawing the word out obscenely. The next word is softer, said through teeth: “Omega.”

“Alpha,” Tony gasps. “Harder—more. Come on. Need it, need your knot—”

“Then take it,” Peter cries. “Take it! God, you feel so good, you’re perfect, perfect—”

Tony cums, cock spurting onto the tiled floor. Every muscles clenches, cramping, spasming as his orgasm goes on and on, spurred on by Peter’s cock. Tony can’t even take it enough breath to scream, just gapes, cheek pressed to the cool floor. He can feel Peter’s own end coming, the knot growing, the sounds he makes becoming louder and less inhibited.

When Peter finally cums, he howls, crying out the way a man might if he’d just been stabbed only he’s the one stabbing Tony, stabbing him with his cock, forcing the knot past the rim and Tony doesn’t know if he can take it, there is brief pain cresting and then—it’s like it all goes white. His first orgasm was nothing compared to this. This would be painful, if it weren’t so good, if it weren’t exactly what he needed. It’s so much deeper than when he cums from his cock; in a way that feels so external. But this is inside him, deep in his womb, his entire body and being rejoicing at the alpha inside him loading him with sperm. Every spasm of his body is matched a heartbeat later by the cock inside him.

The come-down is slow. Having lost his strength ages ago, Tony is prostrate on the floor, knees and back aching. Above him is a firm, warm weight. The breaths are too ragged for Peter to be sleeping. Still, there is no speaking. Not until the knot inside him deflates and Peter draws back, cum and slick slipping out from inside of Tony.

When he manages to get up on his hands an knees, reaching out to use the sink to brace himself to stand (trying hard not to slip in all the bodily fluids), he sees that Peter is sitting back on his haunches, face buried in his hands, shaking with tears.

Tony nearly flinches at the sight. His heart pounds—alpha, hurting.

“Peter? Pete? God, what is it? Are you—”

“I’m so sorry,” Peter wails.

“Wh—what the hell are you sorry for?”

Peter can’t even answer, he’s so distraught. Tony isn’t good at this. It’s safe to say that most emotional situations have him withdrawing, and hastily. But this is Peter: the young man he’s had a soft spot for even years before the attraction arrived. So instead he lowers himself back down and sits next to the boy, drawing him in. Peter buries his face in Tony’s neck, scenting and scenting. It isn’t hard to exude comfort and warmth, not when he has the young alpha in his arms. Peter’s tears slow and then stop.

Heart in his throat, Tony asks: “What that—not good for you, kid?”

When Peter pulls away, his face is twisted with confusion. “What are you talking about? That—it was—God, Mr. Stark. I’m going to be thinking about that for the rest of my life, probably.”

The omega inside him purrs. “Thanks for the ego boost.”

Peter sighs, wiping at his face. “That’s just so not how I wanted it to happen. When you’re, when you’re in heat you can’t technically consent. You ran from me and I literally—oh shoot, Mr. Stark, I broke down your door.”

“About that—it’s coming out of your paycheck.”

“I’m not being paid, I’m an intern—"

“You—what? You’re not being paid? That doesn’t sound—”

“Can we, like, talk about my pay later?”

Tony’s mouth clicks shut. He nods.

“I just,” Peter sighs, relaxed with his head in the crook of Tony’s neck. They’re both naked, sweat cooling rapidly, but their bodies pressed together are more than enough to keep them warm. “All that effort I put in trying to attract you, trying to treat you right, like an alpha is supposed to treat an omega—then I went and broke your door.”

“Jesus,” Tony mutters. “I should have known you’re too smart not to know what you’ve been doing. Scenting me like I’m going out of style.”

“You’ll never go out of style Mr. Stark,” Peter assures. “I thought I was being subtle. It never seemed to work. Then I got worried that maybe you just weren’t interested. But I can smell you.”

“I’m interested,” Tony says into the younger man’s hair. “Trust me. Interested is putting it lightly. Not to mention, I’m a pretty creative guy. I could have probably stopped you if I wasn’t interested.”

“Even if you could, it’s not right for me to, to just—consent is important!”

“You’re goddamn right it is,” Tony says. He draws Peter’s chin up so they can meet eyes, and even bloodshot and wet, Peter’s are still warm and sincere and painfully adorable. “So, while I’m of sane mind and in between waves, let’s just go ahead and say I’m giving you consent. Enthusiastically. Deal?”

It’s Peter’s turn to melt and then purr, a low growling in his chest, looking like the spider who caught the fly, only more charming and with far less legs thank god. He mouths at Tony’s neck, kissing the gland there to make him shiver, and when he speaks Tony can feel the brush of his lips moving against his skin: “Deal.”

#starker #abo #Omega!Tony #Alpha!Peter

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piracytheorist · 4 years

Text

Though The Sun May Not Rise Again (1/1)

Summary: And so the world is ending. Their humanity, though, is not. Post-apocalyptic AU.

Warning: This fanfiction includes themes of natural mass disaster, mentions of blood, off-screen background character deaths, discussions about death, as well as implied, eventual, untimely major character deaths. Proceed with caution.

Thanks to @fraddit for her quick and effective advice!

Word count: ~2.7k AO3

Nobody expects the world to end that way.

Killian finds himself in a subway station at around 11 pm when what feels like the strongest earthquake ever shakes the whole place. People are literally thrown to the end of the platform, the train that he just missed flies off the tracks to a horribly rough landing against the wall. Light bulbs and TV screens crack and the station is filled by screams of fear and pain.

What it feels like hours later, the earth stops moving and the few people left that are able to move struggle their way to the surface. Killian loses his breath at the sight - and not in a good way.

Towers, skyscrapers - they’re all gone. Very few buildings are left, and even fewer of them look only slightly damaged. The roads are filled with blood and bodies - in one or more pieces, too.

Heavily injured people stretch their arms out in despair, some too speechless to actually call for help. Killian and the other survivors try to help, but it doesn’t take them long to realize that help isn’t coming at all.

The first vehicle they see in hours is a reporter van. There’s only the driver in it, his head poorly bandaged. He doesn’t say a word when they approach him, only leads them to the back of the van, where he puts on a video for them.

It’s a broadcast from the International Space Station, the people on camera frantically trying to say that the Earth has stopped spinning on its axis. It wasn’t earthquakes that ruined the cities - it was the Earth’s own atmosphere that apparently didn’t stop with the Earth. Then it’s images from space, and what Killian sees is so surreal he wonders if he’s dreaming.

He’d never wondered what would happen in such a case, but he guesses it makes sense that just because the Earth stopped spinning, nothing would stay where it was. But it’s just different to actually see waves rise from the ocean and literally swallow the ground - all of Europe, the west coasts of Africa and the Americas, India and southwest Asia, even more than half of Australia, all swept up by huge tsunamis. Any place that had big bodies of water on its west is now gone.

Killian watches the video again and again, a heavy emptiness in his chest as he watches the British Isles disappear under the waves. He had some third-fourth cousins there. And of course, his scumbug of a father. Yet he keeps watching it, every time making it feel even less real.

It only sinks in when, hours later, he walks out from the half-underground assembly station the van took them at, it’s 9 am yet still dark, and significantly colder than he’d expect for October. He sinks to the ground, shaking from sobs.

He still sits outside on the slowly freezing ground when that same van arrives at the station. He looks at it, realizing his breath is now coming out in a cloud, and he counts the survivors coming out of it. One, two, three, four - a child that isn’t holding anyone’s hand, five, six-

His breath is cut short again when he sees Emma exit the van. She’s alive! He stands up slowly, his legs feeling colder by the second and he runs to her, wrapping his arms around her. She’s slow to return the embrace, he can feel her trembling breath against his shoulder, but that’s alright. She’s safe. She survived. She may still be aloof as ever and not even consider getting into a relationship with him now that the world’s ending - what the bloody hell is he thinking?! - but she’s here and she’s alive.

“You’re alive,” he says. It’s the first words he says since the disaster.

He watches her nearly gulp her food down as he holds his chin in his hand, trying to conceal how much it’s trembling. She also happened to be underground at the time of the “stop”, but her exit had been blocked and she with the other ten survivors had stayed trapped until just an hour or so ago.

One of the calmest survivors has managed to move the equipment from the van and contact the ISS.

The Earth is now tidally locked to the sun, they say.

What’s left of the Americas is stuck on the side that’s not being lit by it, they say.

Even if they survive the freezing temperatures and the detriment of civilization, they’ll never see the sun again, they say.

The Earth’s magnetic field will fade away and deadly radiation from space will enter its atmosphere. The dark side will be too cold for plants to grow even with artificial light, and the light side too hot. The inbetween parts will be wrecked by storms created from the exchange of hot and freezing air from both sides. No-one knows exactly how many people survived the “stop”, but it won’t be too long before the oxygen runs out and they suffocate.

“So what do you think?” Emma asks him on day three. “What will we die from? The cold? Radiation? Suffocation?”

“Starvation,” he says, looking at the tinned food the group has managed to scavenge. It’s not enough to last all of them long enough. There’s no doubt there’s more out there, but it would take the courage to actually risk the trek in the cold, and that’s even if the group agrees to risk using up more of the van’s limited gas.

It’s not like there are any gas stations left.

Day six, the power generator stops working. One of the survivors manages to create a dynamo-like extension to at least provide enough energy to listen to the daily announcements from the ISS. The survivors scavenge for wood to burn in the station’s only fireplace. With destroyed homes around, it’s not that hard. No-one says how they fear that’ll probably make the oxygen run out faster.

Day twelve, three of the group leave, desperate to search for more supplies. Only one returns.

Day forty, the ISS says everything on the light side is boiling. There are zero confirmed and zero estimated survivors on that side.

“Never thought I’d miss the sun that much,” Killian tells Emma. “Haven’t missed it that much, but still.”

Day sixty-three, the van returns with more supplies and an empty gas tank.

With the lives lost to illnesses and lack of medicine, the rations aren’t that bad. But they’re probably the last they’ll have.

Day seventy-five, the ISS says they predict people on the dark side have about a year left of oxygen and protection from radiation.

Day seventy-five in the evening, Killian confesses his feelings to Emma.

“I’ve been in love with you since long before the disaster. I’ve feared it didn’t matter if I said anything now. But then I thought, bloody hell, the world is ending. Now’s as good as any time.”

“There’s no room for love in this world,” she says, her face fallen.

He didn’t expect anything better; he knew how much she’s been hurt in the past. “I’m not asking for anything. I just wanted you to know.”

Day eighty-two, Emma and Killian play Never Have I Ever with a half-full, forgotten bottle of rum. When he next wakes, he doesn’t remember sleeping with her tucked in his arms; he supposes she doesn’t, either, but his heart warms when she doesn’t move away upon waking up.

Day ninety-seven, Emma kisses him.

“I kind of wanted to wait for the hundredth day, for some stupid reason, but couldn’t,” she says, shaking her head.

She looks at him with a slightly apologetic face, but he simply leans back in and captures her lips in his.

Day hundred and six, there are about seven survivors left.

“So are you two gonna propagate the species or what?” Keith tells Killian when they’re on their own.

His hand shouldn’t hurt so much from punching the bastard in the face, should it?

“Lack of vitamin D, you idiot,” Victor says as he wraps a bandage that has seen better days around Killian’s knuckles. “Causes muscle and bone pain, and slower healing.” He then looks at Keith, whose nose is bleeding probably more than it would if they had sunlight. Victor just shakes his head. “Next time, you could use your hook,” he whispers to Killian, then flinches. “Not in... not in that way. You- you know what I mean.”

Day hundred and thirty, Killian wakes alone. By now he’s gotten used to the perpetually dark sky. He almost always used to wake up before the sunrise, so much that it had become part of his morning routine. But now his own body knows not to expect it, knows that when he’ll walk to the kitchen area for his breakfast rice and tea, he shouldn’t expect to see the telltale blue of dawn peeking out on the horizon.

Doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss it, of course.

Emma is sitting in front of the window, far from the fireplace, a blanket draped across her shoulders. She’s found a spot on the window that isn’t frosted over, and there’s a clear view of the sky, the stars, and the waxing moon. Grabbing a blanket himself, he sits down with her, hugging her from behind.

He’s welcomed by a familiar scent when he’s close enough. “Is that cinnamon?” he says softly.

She looks back at him sheepishly. “It’s just a sprinkle.” She shows him the cup in her hands... that’s definitely not tea. “Ruby found a mix for hot chocolate and I said that someone should have a first taste of it. It’s not as good without milk...” Her face falls.

He’s surprised how he can still feel a small pang in his heart over her disappointment. They’ve all lost so much and watched much more being lost, they’re now living in a world none of them could ever have prepared for, yet their hearts are still soft enough to understand the loss of something so small as good hot chocolate and why Emma would sneak away a sprinkle of cinnamon to make it better.

“It’s okay,” he says, kissing her hair.

What he doesn’t say is how they’ve reached the point where the existence or lack of spices makes such a difference in their moods.

“Ten days of moonlight,” Emma whispers.

He turns his attention back to the sky. “These days I think I understand why ancient cultures made the moon a deity.”

Emma sighs. “I don’t know. Half the time I just look at it and think how it’s taunting us with the sunlight we can’t have anymore.”

Now he feels a bigger pang in his heart. He hadn’t thought of it that way. “I see it like- like... a memory.”

She scoffs.

“It’s like my tattoo of Milah. When I- after I lost her, and before I met you... it was in memory of what I’d had, not what I’d lost.”

He watches her as she wraps her hand around her swan necklace. “Didn’t peg you as such an optimist.”

“It’s not optimism, Swan. I’d never thought I’d be capable of moving on until I met you.”

She looks at him for a moment, lips parted, before she smiles a bit and drops her eyes. “They did use to say that the moon spurs romantic spirit, didn’t they?”

He smiles at her light-hearted joke in face of his confession, and when she looks up at him, he leans in for a kiss, tasting cocoa and cinnamon.

Day hundred and fifty-eight, there’s no transmission from the ISS.

Day hundred and sixty-three, everyone has accepted the fact that there won’t be any more of those.

Emma and Killian sit cuddled together in front of the half-frosted window, looking at the full moon and wondering where the estranged space station might be now - if it’s still in order even.

“Do you think they’ll wanna make babies up there?” she asks.

“Is that even possible?”

“I think I saw a video once. The baby may turn out... weird? Cause of the lack of gravity.” She flinches. “Wonder how the mom would push it out without gravity’s help, too.” She’s silent for a moment, before adding, “Would you have a baby with me, if we were up there?”

A warmth spreads in his chest. “What you said about the lack of gravity makes it questionable. But I think yes.”

“What would you name it?”

“Alice, if it’s a girl. For my mother.”

“And a boy?”

He smiles widely. How different that discussion would be if the world wasn’t ending.

“I’d leave that to you.”

She smirks. “Chicken.”

He notices how she doesn’t ask why he wouldn’t give his father the same honor he’d give his mother.

She turns back front to look at the sky. “What do you miss the most?” she asks.

“As weird as it may sound, the water. My boat.”

“Why would it sound weird?”

He snorts. “I mean, with all the ice around... who would have known we’d live through an apocalypse where there’s an endless supply of water?”

She laughs softly.

“What do you miss?”

“I do miss that yellow Bug. It barely got any damage during the Stop, unlike other cars in that garage. But we could barely fit through the opening ourselves, much less a car. And I don’t think I was thinking clearly enough at the time to think it was the last time I’d see it.”

There’s not much he’d have taken with him, had he known the world would be ending. Now he resorts to working the dynamo for hours, just enough for the tiniest bit of battery on his phone just so he can turn it on and look at the photos of his mother and brother he has saved in it, before it turns off again.

The tiniest part of him is jealous of Emma for not having such a thing to miss.

Day two hundred.

It’s quiet.

Emma is lying awake next to him, sensing what he doesn’t want to share.

It could be just a simple, minor infection that’ll go away on its own, he’s only had minor stomach pains. Though Emma’s occasional comment about his high pain tolerance worries him that it may be much worse than he thinks.

Still, since they lost Victor, there hasn’t been much they can do when they feel sick or unwell. It will either pass... or they will.

“You once asked me what I thought we’d die from,” he says.

Her brows furrow and she swallows hard.

“If I could choose... I’d go with cold.”

“Why?”

“It’s quick. Eventually you lose feeling of your limbs, and maybe that doesn’t hurt that much. Especially when your body is past the point of shivering. As for other ways, it’s already getting harder to breathe and we’re already starving. So, tried and tested.” He sighs. “Besides, you can be outside and have a last clear view of the sky and the moon.”

Does he have the courage to ask her to take him out there, if it comes to the point where he’s not gonna get better?

He sees tears in her eyes, but she smiles. “You’d probably freeze slower than me. You’re one hand short.”

“I’m also hotter.”

A laugh bursts out of her.

And still, the thought that crosses his mind is how, in spite of everything, they can still have this.

It’s the proof of their humanity that has sustained, despite the world itself doing everything in its power to make them disappear. And out of that, there grows a hope that there are people out there somewhere, in better shelters, surviving much better than they are, maybe even growing their own food and developing technology strong enough to one day, maybe years from now, reach their by then empty shelter and finding their journals, filled with happy little moments like this.

Huh. Maybe he is optimistic after all.

#Captain Swan #cs ff #captain swan ff #post apocalypse #post apocalyptic #also look it's sad but I think this is the most romantic sh!t I've ever written #read the warnings #piracytheorist writes

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