For @somethingwittythiswaycomes, 👻🍀🥳 and “alpha Jazz, a dark alley, and a very pretty omega”.
“Omega,” Jazz says, falling back just a bit on her alpha voice again. Red Hood goes very, very still in her arms, his fingertips digging deep into her back. Hopefully that means he’s still affected enough to listen to her, even with his helmet’s pheromone filters running. Or–because they’re running, maybe. Depending. “Who can I call for you?”
Red Hood’s vocoder–crackles, very briefly, but he doesn’t answer her. It feels like he’s breathing a little rougher, though she doesn’t know why. Heat drop? Stress? Arousal or anger?
Just the effort of not answering that question, maybe.
Maybe he doesn’t want to expose whoever he’d want to call for that as a friend or ally of Red Hood’s to a stranger, she realizes. That would more than make sense. Whether he is a crime lord or a vigilante, she can’t imagine he’d want to risk anyone he trusted like that. Which is understandable, obviously, and she’d do the exact same thing in his situation.
But also it’s a problem, obviously.
Dammit, Jazz thinks, trying to think. What can she do here that isn’t going to make this omega feel like shit in the morning? A heat spent in drop and left both unsatisfied and unsoothed would make just about anyone sick for weeks–and that’s assuming Red Hood is much more mentally healthy and much less stressed than she’d expect from anyone who went out in a mask and custom kevlar often enough to have an alter ego with a name attached to it.
Not to generalize, obviously, but the behavior does imply a certain psychological profile.
