Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11719746.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Spider-Man:_Homecoming_(2017), captain_america:_civil_war_-_Fandom,
      Marvel_Cinematic_Universe, The_Avengers_(Marvel_Movies)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Parker/Tony_Stark, Peter_Parker/Avengers_Team, Steve_Rogers/Tony
      Stark, Peter_Parker/Wade_Wilson, Harry_Osborn/Peter_Parker, Norman
      Osborn/Peter_Parker, Michelle_Jones/Peter_Parker
  Character:
      Peter_Parker, Tony_Stark, Steve_Rogers, Natasha_Romanov_(Marvel), Clint
      Barton, Vision_(Marvel), Wanda_Maximoff, James_"Bucky"_Barnes, James
      "Rhodey"_Rhodes, Sam_Wilson_(Marvel), Thor_(Marvel), Bruce_Banner, May
      Parker, Wade_Wilson, Happy_Hogan, Harry_Osborn, Norman_Osborn, Michelle
      Jones, Emrys_Killebrew
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Superfamily_(Marvel), Extremely_Dubious
      Consent, Tony_Stark_Has_A_Heart, Peter_Parker_Needs_a_Hug, Non-Consensual
      Drug_Use, Explicit_Sexual_Content, Group_Sex, Fluff_and_Angst, Sexual
      Slavery, Other_Additional_Tags_to_Be_Added
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-06 Updated: 2018-03-17 Chapters: 19/22 Words: 90086
****** Asunder ******
by pansley
Summary
     Omegas are rare, but male omegas are practically nonexistent. Born
     with the same tendency to go into heat as their female counterparts,
     but without the ability to bear children, a male omega is treated
     more like a prized commodity than a suitable mate. So it makes sense
     that Peter Parker, a 15-year-old Avenger-in-training, a male omega
     surrounded by superhuman alphas in a beta-dominant world, would hide
     his second gender at all costs.
Notes
     Hey guys, please make sure you READ THE WARNINGS before jumping in
     here. This thing is going to get pretty dark pretty fast. Updates are
     going to be posted first on my tumblr page, the link to which is in
     my profile. Enjoy!
***** Family Dinners *****
Omegas are rare, but male omegas are practically nonexistent. Born with the
same tendency to go into heat as their female counterparts, but without the
ability to bear children, a male omega is treated more like a prized commodity
than a suitable mate. So it makes sense that Peter Parker, a 15-year-old
Avenger-in-training, a male omega surrounded by superhuman alphas in a beta-
dominant world, would hide his second gender at all costs.

The only person who knows is his aunt May, and she, thankfully, is just as
determined to keep Peter’s secret as he is. Omegas are carted off when they
present and mated and bred when they turn sixteen, but everyone knows that male
omegas are treated differently. Unable to bear children, they aren’t awarded
the same domestic lifestyle a female omega is. It’s a commonly-held belief that
a male omega is kept purely to satisfy the sexual needs of their alpha; rumors
circulate that drugs are used to keep a male in a permanent heat-like state,
completely at the mercy of the one who claims them.
It’s not a surprise that Aunt May would go to extreme lengths to spare her
nephew from that fate, though it worries Peter. Hiding an omega is a felony
offense, and after everything she’s done for him, Peter doesn’t know if he
could stand to watch her be penalized for his sake.
And then there’s the Avengers.
Peter wants to believe that if he was ever found out, his superhuman second
family would protect him and his aunt. But the truth is, he’s not so sure they
would. Every one of them is an alpha, and while most of them have beta
partners, none of them are mated to an omega, to Peter’s knowledge. It’s not
unheard of for an alpha to have a beta partner while keeping an omega mate, and
Peter doesn’t flatter himself into thinking any of them would be interested in
him, but still. The threat nags. If that were to happen… If he was reduced from
Spider-Man, their teammate, a hero, an equal, into just an omega, something
that belonged to one of them, a possession…To have his very identity, his
mantle, his entire sense of self stripped away and be forced to submit entirely
to the will of someone else, well…
There were very few things that Peter considered a worse fate.

Aunt May knows this. For three years, she’s been working herself to the bone to
afford his suppressants, which, being an illegal product, cost nearly a fortune
from the back-alley dealer she gets them from. Even so, she won’t let him get a
job, and whenever he tries, she always says the same thing:

“Just focus on school, sweetie. Get that scholarship, go to an amazing
university, and when you graduate and land some fancy career, you can pay me
back with a condo in Florida. Deal?”
“Deal,” he says, voice soft. The guilt weighs on him heavily as he takes in her
mussed hair, the dark bags beneath her eyes. Aunt May works all day, every day,
to provide for them. The very least Peter can do is abide by her wishes and
stay out of trouble.

At least, that used to be the case.

Everything changed when he was bitten.

Now, now he has responsibilities, more than taking care of himself and
listening to his aunt. People are depending on him to keep them safe, to catch
their bike thieves and purse-snatchers. And that responsibility, well. It makes
all the difference. Because staying out of trouble is damn near impossible in
the superhero business.
But, hey, at least he has the Avengers watching his back.

For now, anyway.

“You gonna be gone all weekend again?” Aunt May asks, hastily throwing together
a meal she can eat on the bus on her way to her first job of the day.
“Uh huh,” Peter says, stuffing his textbooks into his backpack, squeezing them
in next to his change of clothes and toiletries, and beneath all that, his
suit. “Mr. Stark has a lot of work for me at the new compound upstate. Intern
stuff. But hey, at least I get to use the pool afterwards!”
Aunt May smiles at him and ruffles his hair, leaning in for a quick peck to his
cheek. “Okay, big guy. Don’t have too much fun. Work hard, okay?” She heads for
the door, hesitates, and turns back to him. “Remembered to pack your
medication?”

“Yes, May,” Peter sighs, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “I got ‘em.”

“That’s my boy,” she praises. “You’re getting picked up from school, right?”
“Yep. Mr. Stark’s gonna send a car. Probably Happy.”
“Well, aren’t you a lucky boy,” she teases. They head downstairs together and
part ways in front of the building, May hurrying toward her bus stop a block
over.
Peter watches her go until she disappears around the corner before heading
toward the train station. School is long and slow, and by the end of the day
Peter finds himself counting the seconds until the bell rings, knowing there’ll
be a car out there waiting for him.
He says his goodbyes to Ned and MJ at the front door before booking it to the
parking lot, practically throwing himself into Happy’s black car with
unrestrained giddiness. “Hey, Happy!”
“Jeez, kid, relax,” Happy admonishes. “This is, what, your fifth weekend coming
to the compound? How are you still so excited?”

“Uhh,” Peter says, shyly. “I dunno, because it’s… the Avengers? Y’know? World-
saving superheroes? I guess?”
Happy makes a sound like Peter is the single most annoying thing he’s ever had
to endure the presence of and closes the partition between the front and back
seat.
Resigned to a long car ride in silence, Peter sits back, puts his headphones in
and watches the Queens cityscape go by.
The sky is just starting to get dark when they pull up in front of the
compound, and all the sluggishness the ride up here produced is zapped out of
Peter like a shot of caffeine. He doesn’t wait for Happy as he dons his
backpack and practically leaps out of the car, jogging up the stairs to the
front door two steps at a time.
The doors slide open for him, and Peter resists the urge to call out I’m
home!though he feels just as comforted by these high white walls as he does by
his own. He makes his way toward his room when Vision suddenly walks through
the wall and stops in front of him.
“Welcome back, Peter,” Vision greets in his smooth, deep voice.
“Hey, Vision,” Peter smiles. “What’s new?”
Vision thinks for a moment. “Things seem to be just as they were five days ago,
when last you were here.” Then his expression changes slightly, just a flash, a
thought running through his head. “Caption Rogers and Tony have begun
communicating with each other… a little.”
“Wow,” Peter says. “I’m glad to hear that.” And he was. The last few weekends
he was here, the air was practically suffocating with the tension between Mr.
Stark and Captain America. Although the civil war between them seemed to be
quelled (enough for them to all live together again, anyway), there was
obviously still some unresolved issues there; issues that Peter felt zero
desire to get involved with. His own issues took up more than enough time as
is.
“What’s for dinner?” Peter asks, more than a little enthused. For whatever
reason, Friday night “family dinners” had become a tradition—the one day during
his visit when everyone would get together in the same room and eat a (usually
moderately unhealthy) meal. It was easily his favorite part of staying at the
compound.
“Individual pies, I do believe,” replies Vision, walking Peter the rest of the
way to his room so he could drop off his bag. “Tony added some unusual
ingredients to the weekly shopping list: pizza dough, tomato sauce, shredded
cheeses…”
“Why not just order pizza?”
Vision is quiet for a moment. “I could be wrong,” he says, “but I believe Tony
is motivated by the prospect of everyone cooking dinner together.” He sends
Peter a sideways glance and smiles. “There is something rather… familial, about
the act, which appeals to Tony, I believe.”
Peter nods. He could see that, too. It was the same reason he liked the Friday
night dinners so much already. The Avengers really felt like a family, even
with the infighting. After all, normal families had fights too, didn’t they?
“When can we start?” Peter grins.
It takes a while before everyone else shows up to the kitchen, but Peter
doesn’t really mind too much. Talking with Vision is nice; they share the same
natural curiosity about… well, everything, that makes their conversations
interesting and light-hearted.
Captain America is the first of the other Avengers to arrive, and he smiles
warmly at Peter and walks straight toward him when he sees him. “How was
school, Peter?"
“Hey, Captain!” Peter beams. “It was—it was good! Pretty much the same! How
was… here?”
Steve smiles. “We’re not in costume here, Peter. Call me Steve, okay?” Peter
flushes a little and nods. “And here was good. As peaceful as a building filled
with superhuman warriors can be, I suppose.”
“A few minor altercations,” Black Widow says, entering from the hallway. “But
nothing we couldn’t handle.” Steve smirks at her as she approaches them,
Hawkeye behind her.
“So when do we get to eat pizza?” Clint asks, a hint of whining in his voice.
“I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry,” Natasha says, spotting Scarlet Witch appearing in the
doorway on the other side of the room. “Ready for pizza, Wanda?”
“I am,” Wanda says as she approaches Vision to stand next to him. “When do we
start?
“As soon as Stark gets here, I guess,” Clint gripes, sidling into a barstool
next to Peter. “Heya, Spidey.”
“Hi, Clint.”
“I’m sorry, did someone say: Gee, I can’t wait until Tony gets here, especially
since he so generously bought pizza-making ingredients for the whole team
without asking for anything in return?Because here I am, and yes, I did,” Tony
spouts as he strides into the kitchen, Rhodey in tow, both of them carrying
multiple shopping bags.
Tony’s face lights up when he sees Peter. “There’s my protégé. Ready for the
best damn homemade pizza you ever had, kiddo?”
“You know it, Mr. Stark!” Peter says. “But shouldn’t we wait for everybody
else?”

“They snooze, they lose,” Tony says dismissively, setting the bags on the
counter. “We’ll save them the crusts.”

“There’s that Stark generosity,” Falcon says, having snuck in while Tony was
hogging the limelight, as usual. Tony gives Sam a half-hearted glare, which
softens when Bruce walks into the room and surveys its occupants with a fond,
quizzical expression.
“We having a party?” He asks.

“Just our usual Friday night soiree,” Tony says, tossing Bruce a green pepper.
“Care to chop the veggies, big guy?”
Peter reaches across the island for the bags at once. “I will! I wanna help
out.” He pulls out an onion and begins unwrapping the outer layer. “It’s only
fair, since I’m here every weekend eating your guys’ food.”
“See, now why can’t the rest of you show initiative like that?” Tony blusters.
“I think he’s the only person in this room who’s not an ingrate.”
“That’s because he doesn’t have to live with you full-time,” Clint grumbles.

“Yeah, way to make us look bad, kid,” Sam says, a joking grin stretching across
his face. Peter flushes a little at the ribbing but returns Sam’s smile when he
sees it. “I just… it’s the least I could do,” he says.

“Actually, the least you could do is nothing,” Bruce says, rinsing off the
green pepper and pulling a cutting board out of the drawer. “Trust me, I’m a
doctor. I’ve done the math.”
Peter laughs, passing his peeled onion to Bruce for chopping and grabbing
another from the bag. “What sort of guest would I be if I didn’t at least try
to help out?”
“You’re not a guest, Peter,” Steve says, softly. “You’re one of us. The
Avengers Compound is just as much your home as it is ours.”
“Listen to Captain Spangles, kid,” Tony intervenes, turning away from the oven
he was preheating. “He’s not always right, but when he is, there’s no denying
it.”
Tony and Steve look at each for the first time since Tony walked in. There’s an
awkward lull throughout the room that settles uncomfortably on everyone, before
Tony coughs to clear his throat, turning away from Steve and back to Peter,
wiping his hands on his slacks.
“So how was school this week, honey?”
Peter’s face goes red all the way to his ears at the nickname. He knows Mr.
Stark doesn’t mean anything by it, but still. Even Aunt May rarely uses such…
doting pet names on him.
“It was good, really good, nothing too crazy happened, I mean, I had this
American history test that I didn’t really study for, but, I did really well on
it which was a huge surprise, so it was really nice.”
“American history, huh?” Tony says, watching as Rhodey and Vision hand out
plates and plain pizza crusts to the room. “Should’ve just texted Gramps over
here. I’m pretty sure he was there when the Declaration of Independence was
signed.”
Steve gives Tony a look but yields when Sam cuts in, “Nah, he’d be no help.
Steve is the worst texter on the planet. I’m pretty sure Bruce could send a
more legible message while hulking out than Steve can totally unpressured.”
“Let’s not test that theory,” says Bruce, loading toppings onto his pizza.
The rest of the night carries on pretty much the same. Rhodey has to coach
Vision and Wanda on how to properly make Americanpizza, Natasha has to
repeatedly swat at Clint’s greedy hand reaching for her plate, Bruce happily
munches away at his stereotypically healthy choice of toppings, and Tony makes
the most indecent face ever when he takes a bite of the pizza Peter made (which
he stole when Peter wasn’t looking).

“You should quit crime-fighting and do this instead,” Tony says, mouth full and
eyes closed in absolute delight. “Better idea: come be my personal pizza-chef.
I’ll give you a room in the penthouse.”
Peter laughs and tries to stifle the uncomfortable, prickling sensation
crawling up the back of his neck. “You should try my aunt May’s cooking
sometime. She’s the best. My uncle Ben used to say all the time that it was the
reason he married her.”

“She can come, too.” Tony grins. “Fair warning, though: if you’re hiding any
more amazing secrets like this pizza here, I might never let you leave.”

Clint barges in with some snarky comment that Peter doesn’t hear; all of his
attention is immediately focused on calming his breathing. Mr. Stark doesn’t
know. He knows Mr. Stark doesn’t know. None of them do. It was just a joke. In,
out. In. Out.

His heartrate starts slowing back to normal and Peter looks up to see Natasha
watching him, expression unreadable. He gives her a small, shy smile and goes
back to eating his pizza in hopes of thwarting any further attempts at
conversation. Tony seems to have his hands full fending off Sam and Clint’s
mockery, anyway, so he figures he’s safe.
When everyone’s finished eating and beginning to retire for the night, Steve
clasps Peter’s shoulder in a firm grip after Tony says his goodnights.
“Think you’re up for a little sparring match tomorrow?” He asks, expression
warm. Peter grins up at him and nods. “I’ll feel better about you fighting
criminals all by yourself if I know what level you’re at.”

“What if I’m the single worst fighter you’ve ever seen? Like totally hopeless?
A lost cause?” Peter says dramatically, his wide smile giving his joke away.
“You won’t be when I’m done with you,” Steve replies, giving Peter’s shoulder a
fond clap before he heads for his own room. “See you in the gym at 06:00 hours.
Good night!”
Peter stares after him, equal parts excited and displeased. He sighs, pulling
out his phone to set an alarm for the morning. Of courseCaptain America goes to
the gym at 6 A.M. on Saturday mornings. So much for sleeping in.
Despite the remarkably comfortable bed in his room, Peter doesn’t sleep that
well. He wakes several times throughout the night, skin damp and hot with
sweat, breathing labored. When he stands to fetch a glass of water in the
middle of the night, his legs tremble. Peter groans with the ache of his
muscles. The last thing he needs is to get sick during his weekend excursion at
the Avengers Compound.
By the time 5 A.M. rolls around, Peter’s whole body feels like it’s been the
Hulk’s personal punching bag. He’s had maybe four hours of sleep in total, and
his skins feels tingly and warm to the touch. He sets his alarm off before it
can even ring and heads for his third shower of the night.

The hot water soothes the aches in his body and lulls him slightly, but a
strange feeling of dread and tension lingers beneath his muscles. Peter
recognizes his “spidey-senses” for what they are: a warning; a subconscious
alert of danger he would otherwise be unable to detect. As the warm water
rushes over him, his mind goes a mile a minute trying to find the source of his
anxiety. His spider-senses have never been wrong before, but still, it’s hard
to imagine he would be in any danger here,surrounded by the Earth’s Mightiest
Heroes. Unless…
Unless the real source of danger is coming from within him.

Peter stands up, shaky but abrupt, turns the shower off and reaches for his
towel. He’s rummaging through his bag, nearly ripping open the case his
medication is kept in, when Friday’s voice comes through the intercom. “Mr.
Parker, Captain America is waiting for you in the gym on the first floor.”
He sighs, pouring two pills from the bottle into his hand and grabbing his cup
of water. “Thanks, Friday. Please tell him I’m on my way.”

“With pleasure, Sir.”
The medication goes down with ease after three years of daily consumption. Once
he’s sure there’s no chance of him throwing it back up, Peter stashes the pills
deep in his bag and reaches for his suit.
***** One On One *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The bright overhead lights in the compound’s gym make Peter’s head feel like
it’s going to explode. He hastily pulls his mask down before Captain America
can see the way his eyes are watering or the red, flushed out tone of his face.

“Didn’t sleep well?” Steve asks, not dressed in his Captain America ensemble,
but posed for a mock-fight all the same.

Peter debates telling him the half-truth; no, he hadn’t slept well, and could
they maybe save this for next weekend, but he doesn’t, because this is Captain
America, one of his childhood heroes, one of his mentors, but more importantly,
his teammate. Very few people on this entire planet get the chance to be
personally trained by their idols—idols who view them as an equal. Peter isn’t
about to let one sleepless night ruin this for him.
“I’m okay.” He says, joining the other man on the large mats in the center of
the room. “I guess I was just too… uhm… excited? To train together?” Which
technically isn’t a lie. Peter is completely stoked about having a one-on-one
session with the Captain America. He’s glad the mask hides how red his face is
from the confession, though.
“Well, I was planning to go easy on you anyway,” Steve says, lifting his shield
in the defensive position. “So to start, let’s just have you come at me. Try to
disarm me or neutralize me if you can. Got it?”

“Got it,” Peter says, wrists flexing with anticipation to shoot some webs.

“Begin!”
Peter lunges, slinging a web from his right hand, aimed at the captain’s
shield. Steve, unfazed, pulls his shield back sharply, which sends Peter
careening toward him. The boy plants his feet firmly on the mats and uses the
leverage to leap out of the way of the man’s countering kick.
Peter charges him, using his much smaller body to his advantage and sliding
between Steve’s legs before he can stop him. Attaching two ropes of webbing to
Steve’s biceps, Peter shoots the webs at opposite walls in the room, hoping to
incapacitate Cap long enough to grab his shield and web it to the ceiling where
the man can’t reach it.

He’s not fast enough. Steve uses the edge of his shield to cut through the bond
on his left arm before Peter has a proper aim on his right, causing the webbing
he shoots to miss entirely and splatter all over some unsuspecting gym
equipment in the corner. Steve seizes his opponent’s momentary lapse in defense
and swipes at Peter’s ankles with his foot, tripping the boy and sending him
sprawling on his back in a painful heap.
Peter feels—more than sees—the captain standing above him victoriously and
forces himself, exhaustion be damned, to leap from the floor and aim a kick at
the man’s head. Steve catches his foot with ease and, without effort, pushes
him out of momentum, turning Peter away from him.
Bracing his aching body for another harsh impact on the floor, Peter is stunned
when a hand shoots out and forcefully grabs the nape of his neck, pulling him
back toward the captain, Peter’s spine squeezed not-quite-painfully against the
man’s chest.
Before he fully realizes what’s happening, Steve has him in a hold not unlike a
full nelson, his arms pressed uncomfortably away from his body by Steve’s
larger ones. Futilely kicking his legs, Peter strains against the man’s grasp;
the unpleasant sensation of Steve’s hot breath ghosting over his neck, even
through the material of his suit.
They’re too close. Way, way too close. Peter can smell him—and it’s strange,
really, because Peter’s smelled him before, especially with his heightened
senses—but not like this. He smells Steve, smells his shampoo and his sweat and
his laundry detergent, but he also smells something… else. Something pleasant
and terrifying. A hint of some biological, chemical scent that makes Peter’s
mouth start to water.
Then Steve leans in, presses his nose against the nape of Peter’s neck and
inhales.Fear torpedoes through Peter’s body with nowhere to go, and he can’t
move.
And then it’s gone. Steve releases his hold on Peter’s arms and lets the boy
dart away from him, planting himself at a safe distance on the other side of
the mats.
The two regard each other silently for a moment, and Peter can’t make heads or
tails of Steve’s expression. If he knows, there’s no dawning realization on his
face, nothing that gives away whether or not Peter’s been found out. The
silence stretches between them to an almost painful level before Steve stoops
down, grabs his shield, and raises it defensively again.

“Come on,” he says. “One more time.”

Peter manages a nod, shaking off the odd sensation in his body to the best of
his ability. He crouches for a better hand-to-hand combat position, determined
to focus on nothing else but the fight until it’s done.

Honestly, if Peter had slept last night, even a littlebit, his defeat probably
wouldn’t be so completely and utterly humiliating. More than twenty minutes go
by of Peter trying—and failing—to steal Cap’s shield, trip him, web him up,
anything, but the man evades, blocks, or counteracts everything Peter throws at
him. It’s nothing like their last battle in Berlin, and Peter can tell from the
look on Cap’s face that he’s becoming more and more underwhelmed with every
passing minute.
The thought of Steve being disappointed in himcreates a burst of energy within
Peter that manifests itself in the form of a punch, which is what makes Peter
realize that something is wrong.
Steve—either by choice or by miracle—doesn’t block the punch in time and it
lands fully and firmly on his cheek. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. His
expression doesn’t morph from the pain, the skin beneath Peter’s hand doesn’t
redden. For a moment, they stand there, looking at each other, Steve still as a
statue and Peter heaving in deep gulps of air.
Something is wrong.
Steve might be a formula-enhanced super soldier, but Peter is a mutant-by-
radiation. He might not have the strength to send the man hurtling through the
air with a single punch, but there’s no way hitting him can do nothing.He can
stop a three thousand pound car flying forty miles an hour with his bare hands.
Even when tired, he should still be able to at least knock the man back a foot
or two. That punch just now, that was like…
That was like he was still a normal human being, before he was bitten.
A shiver of fear goes up Peter’s spine, and then he can’t stop shaking. The
trembles become more and more violent until his body is quaking like a leaf in
a storm. He lowers his fist from the man’s face and stares at his hand,
dumbstruck.
Weak.
What is wrongwith him?
“Kid,” Steve begins and that’s too much for Peter. His knees thud to the floor,
and he lets the exhaustion built up from last night crash over him like a wave
and pull him under into a fitful, inky blackness.
Before consciousness really sets in, the familiar torrent of anxiety swirls low
in Peter’s stomach. He feels it, even in his sleep; the twisting, serpentine
blackness that wraps itself around his insides, heavy enough to make breathing
cumbersome.
Before he was bitten, Peter had only felt something like this once before.

The grief of his uncle Ben’s murder.
Unlike the anxiety his spider-senses cause, grief isn’t a twisted snake that
coils inside of you. Grief is its own entity, almost tangible enough to be a
complete human being. It follows you room to room, inside and outside of your
home, sleeping next to you in your bed. At night, you can still sense its
presence; can feel its body next to yours. You’re asleep, but you know that
you’re still grieving; that the grief will be there to greet you like a lover
when you open your eyes, intimate and suffocating.
Both of them make for an equally restless sleep.
The anxiety is the first thing Peter feels. The second is pain. A dull,
insidious throb in his lower back that sets off fireworks of pain in his
muscles with every pulse. He groans, his first conscious thought after waking
is hurts, and his second is, I’m not alone.
Sure enough, his eyes slowly blink open revealing his dimly-lit bedroom—his
compound bedroom—and two steely-eyed Avengers, Tony in a chair beside his bed,
Steve leaning on the wall across from him, staring at him. He’s no longer
dressed in his Spider-Man suit, which means someone changed his clothes while
he was passed out. Peter’s too exhausted to let the humiliation of that get to
him, though if he was even a little less tired, he’d be dying of embarrassment.
“Hey, guys,” he says weakly, thinks about trying to sit up, and then thinks
better of it. Even with the room being nearly dark, his senses are all a little
too overwhelmed for that at the moment.

“Don’t hey me, kid,” Tony says, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his
knees. “What the hell? Why didn’t you tell us you felt sick? Or at least Steve,
before you decided to try and beat the crap out of each other.”
Peter glances at said super soldier and hates that he looks as guilty as Peter
feels.
“I just—” he starts, his voice cracking a little, feeling shame wash over him.
“I didn’t know I was. I just wanted to train. I was excited about it and didn’t
get much sleep, that’s all.”
“Peter,” Steve’s voice is quiet and gentle. “I’m not trying to embarrass you,
but usually one all-nighter doesn’t cause quite that level of loss of strength.
You were having trouble just staying on your feet back there.”
“On top of that,” Tony adds, his tone firm where Steve’s had been tender.
“Friday says you took some medication before you went down to the gym? If you
aren’t sick, you care to tell us what that’s all about?”
Peter feels his fever-warm skin go cold with dread. He tries to look
unsuspicious but knows he’s failing. Mr. Stark knows. And if he doesn’t know,
he’s going to find out. Peter sees the future he dreamt of for himself being
ripped apart like the ground in an earthquake.
He has to get out of here.
“I—” he starts, sitting up too quickly. His words die in his throat when the
worst sensation imaginable makes itself known; a warm, wet, sticky substance
dripping over his genitals, coming from his…
Steve is just fast enough to push the trashcan in front of his face as Peter
retches violently, his whole body suddenly on fire with shame and discomfort.
His suppressants are failing, his body going into heat, now?
Oh, God, not now.

Not here.
“I have to go home,” Peter says, vomiting again, tears spilling down his
cheeks. “Please, Mr. Stark, call Aunt May. I wanna go home.”
“Kid,” Tony says, his hand a firm weight on his shoulder. “You sure you’re up
for that? That’s a long drive. And I’m not so sure a moving car is the best
place for you right now.”
Peter feels the wetness between his legs worsen and throws his pride to the
wind. “Please,” he begs between his sobs, “I wanna see my aunt. I want—want my
own bed. Please, Mr. Stark. Lemme go home.”
Tony sighs, waits until Peter is done another round of vomiting before he says,
“Okay, Pete. If you’re sure. I’ll get the car—”
“No!” Peter cries, voice desperate. “No, Mr. Stark, please, can’t Happy drive
me?”
“I can drive you, Peter,” Tony says slowly, “Why don’t you want me to?”
“I’m…” Peter pauses, mind racing desperately for an excuse. “I’m just… so
humiliated. I neverwanted you to see me like this.” That part, at least, was
true. “Please, Mr. Stark. I’d just be more comfortable if my childhood hero
wasn’t watching me be sick like this. Please ask Happy?”
Happy, who wasn’t overly fond of Peter and, more importantly, a beta.
Tony sighs, sharing a look with Steve that says both men feel the same way
about letting Peter leave in this condition.
But ultimately, they relent, Tony gently patting Peter on the back as he tells
Friday to phone Happy and get him here ASAP. Steve shoves the few belongings
Peter brought with him back into his bag and sets it next to the bed for easy
grabbing, both of them content to let Peter lie there, a ball of tension and
discomfort, until Happy walks in.
“Nothing’s ever easy with you, is it?” Happy says to Peter, earning a look from
Tony. Peter feels an odd deliriousness settle on top of him and doesn’t say
anything, so Happy bends and scoops him up, making his way back down to the
garage, Tony and Steve right behind him, Peter’s backpack in Steve’s firm grip.
“You let me know the minute you get him home safe, you hear me?” Tony says
after Happy deposits Peter into the backseat, handing him a bucket just in
case. “And ask his aunt to call me later and let me know how he is. I’m going
to grow gray hairs if I don’t hear he’s getting better soon.”
“Like you don’t already,” Happy mutters, rolling his eyes at his boss’s sour
expression. “Tony, relax. I’ll make sure he gets home okay, and then his aunt
will make sure he’s nursed back to health, and you’ll be asking me to pick him
up again next weekend or the weekend after at the latest.” He accepts the
backpack Steve hands to him and tosses it into the passenger seat when he opens
the driver’s side door.
“Now move out of the way so I can drive this kid home.”
Peter can sense Tony and Steve’s worried gazes as the car pulls out of the
garage and toward home. Happy, thankfully, drives slow and easy all the way
back to Queens. Peter doesn’t move an inch, one hand clenched steadfastly over
his lower stomach, pressing his legs together as hard as he can.
Aunt May is standing on the curbside, waiting, when they pull up. Peter is
reasonably sure he’d be able to feel her worried presence even without his
spider-senses. Before the car even fully stops, she’s pulling the door open and
gathering Peter into her arms, shushing him with quiet, comforting words.
“Can you stand? Just until we make it inside?” She asks, grabbing his bag and
slinging it over one arm.
“I can carry him,” Happy says, holding open the car door. “Please, ma’am, it’s
no trouble. Mr. Stark told me to personally make sure he got in all right.”
“This is enough,” May says, helping Peter to his feet and supporting him with
an arm over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mr. Hogan. I’ll call Mr. Stark in a
little while and tell him you took great care of my nephew, and that he’s just
fine now thanks to you.”
Happy looks like he wants to protest, but May silences him with a curt, “Have a
safe drive back,” and hurries herself and Peter into the building and to the
elevator.

Once inside, May collapses both of them onto the couch and then immediately
begins fussing over her nephew.
“Tell me what happened,” she says, running her hands over his sweaty face, his
sticky bangs. “Mr. Stark said you collapsed while working out? Is it the flu?
Or does it have something to do with…” She can’t bring herself to say it any
more than Peter can.
“Suppressants didn’t work,” he mumbles, half out of it. In the safety and
comfort of his own home, a blissfully alpha-free abode, with his aunt and her
comforting, soothing presence all around him, Peter’s ill-like symptoms ebb
away to chart-topping levels of exhaustion. He can feel sleep pulling him down
by the ankles.
“Hey, before you nod off, let’s get you into a hot bath, Peter,” May is already
pulling him up before her words even fully sink in. “You’ll sleep a lot better
after you’re warm and clean, in fresh pajamas.” And really, that does sound
nice, so Peter lets his aunt half-carry him to the bathroom and seat him on the
toilet while she fills the tub.
“I’m going to grab you some PJs, okay?” She says, her soft hand combing through
his hair. Peter hardly manages to nod, waiting until she’s left the room before
he strips down, half-stumbling into the tub, his dirty clothes in a heap on the
tiled floor.
He pulls the curtain half-closed for modesty’s sake when he hears Aunt May
coming back down the hall, and doesn’t bother opening his eyes when she comes
in and sets his clean clothes on the counter.
“Will you be all right to wash up yourself?” She asks quietly.
Peter nods, so his aunt turns to leave. But then she doesn’t. Peter hears a
quiet rustling followed by a sharp gasp, and then a heartbroken, “Oh, Peter…”
He forces his eyes open and looks at her, her back to him, but he can see the
dirty clothes she’s holding. His wet boxers and sweatpants. Christ. A wave of
nausea hits him and he lurches forward, hand pressed tightly against his mouth
to keep the bile down.
Aunt May is next to him instantly, her hands running down his back, in his
hair, her voice taut with worry but softened with deep affection. “Shh,
sweetheart, it’s going to be all right. We’re going to figure this out, you and
me. Don’t cry. It’s all okay.”
Peter realizes he is crying, his eyes swollen and aching from how much he’s
cried today. He lets himself lean against his aunt, lets her run a soapy cloth
over his skin and rub shampoo into his hair. All of his shame is gone,
swallowed whole by his exhaustion.
“I hate this,” he whispers, too tired to lift his head. “I don’t want to be
like this. I don’t wanna be this way.”
“I know,” she says, rinsing his hair. “I know you don’t. We’re going to get
through this. Together. I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”
Peter knows she does. The only smile he can manage is a small one, but he does
it anyway and lets sleep whisk him away in her arms.
Chapter End Notes
     Hey all, thanks for the overwhelmingly positive response to the first
     chapter. I'm happy y'all are excited for this one. Please keep an eye
     out on the pairings and additional tags, because I'm going to be
     nitpicking those over the next few days, probably with each update.
     Thank you for reading!
***** Rendville Motel *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Whatever is wrong with Peter, it takes him by storm.
He sleeps fitfully for a few hours, but then he’s awake again, retching and
sobbing himself half to death. Aunt May is there, kneeling beside him, trying
to soothe his agony, but nothing she does works. There’s no medicine, food or
drink she can give him that seems to help at all.
She spends that evening desperately searching online for any information about
what could be wrong with her nephew, but details of omegan biology are
classified and hard to come by. Her research is continually interrupted by the
horrible sounds of Peter writhing in pain, and all she can do is sit next to
him, holding him, running ice-cold, damp cloths over his skin to try and calm
his intense fever.
A doctor is out of the question. They’d arrest her and take Peter away, and the
two of them have discussed that scenario enough for her to know that Peter
would rather die than be reduced to his second gender. As hard as it is to
watch him suffer like this, she won’t sell Peter out to a fate he considers
worse than death.
This is just another battle they have to fight through together, that’s all.
It’s late, and drowsiness clings to her back like an unwelcomed hug. Peter is
finally passed out again, though he’s still tossing and turning, his skin
soaked with sweat, murmurs of pain escaping through his clenched teeth. She
sits at his desk, almost completely draping her upper body on top of it as she
fights to stay awake, browsing through what feels like her thousandth short,
vague article about omegan health.
She knows it’s hopeless. Information on how to properly treat and care for an
adolescent omega during their heat is kept completely confidential from the
general public, in an attempt to dissuade people from hiding their omegas just
like she is right now. Who knows if this is even a regular heat or something
much worse; Peter could be sick or even dying right now and she wouldn’t know.
Society purposefully set it up that way.
She lets her head collapse into her hand, pressing her forehead hard against
her palm. If this is a heat, then they won’t be able to stay here much longer.
If Peter’s body starts trying to call a mate, his scent will attract every
unmated alpha within miles. Who knows how many live in this apartment building
alone.
Either a frenzied alpha will break in and force himself on her nephew, or the
cops will find them, first. Either way, someone will take Peter away from her
if they stay here.
But where can they go? For all her extra hard work, they have virtually no
savings to speak of. All her extra income has gone toward Peter’s
suppressants—suppressants that have now failed.
Then it hits her.

Maybe he will know what’s wrong with Peter.

And if he doesn’t, well. Aunt May quickly makes her way to her own bedroom and
quietly rummages in her bedside drawer, pulling out the handgun she bought
after Ben was killed, which she had never touched, except for when she put it
away.
If he doesn’t know what’s wrong with Peter, he’s going to refund her this
month’s batch of suppressants, so she’ll at least have enough money to smuggle
him out of New York if she has to.
She leaves Peter a short note next to his bed telling him she’ll be back soon,
and dresses herself the way she always does when she meets with her dealer:
hair up in a tight bun that fits beneath one of Ben’s old, worn baseball caps,
and a large, tourist-sized hooded sweatshirt that has deep enough pockets for
her cash and gun to fit inside without being noticeable.
It takes fifteen minutes of walking and three different buses to get to Sister
Margaret’s.
She finds her regular supplier in his usual corner booth, nursing a scotch. He
looks up at her as she approaches, a wiry, indecent smile stretching across his
unshaven face.
“Well, hello, Auntie,” he says, eyeing her up. “Wasn’t expectin’ you for
another three weeks. What’s the occasion?”
May slides into the seat across from his and fixes him with a hard expression.
“The last batch you sold me was defective. Or something, I don’t know. My
nephew is sick. His fever is 103, he can’t stop throwing up. He’s… lubricating.
I have no idea what’s happening. What I do know is, right now, he is not
suppressed.” She leans in close across the table and keeps her voice even and
cold.
The man looks contemplative for a moment, scratching the patchy hair beneath
his chin, then he says, “Remind me how long he’s been takin’ ‘em? Three years
now, innit?”
May nods.
“Yeah, well, it figures then,” the man continues, looking down into his drink,
cradling it in both his hands. “Three years is a long time to be on ‘em. I
heard of this before, but it ain’t never happened to any of my buyers.”
“What is it?” May asks, unable to keep the hopeful tone out of her voice.
“What’s happening to P—to my nephew?”
The man shrugs, finally taking a sip from his glass. “Can’t be sure, but it
sounds to me like your nephew’s built up a tolerance. If he’s in heat and the
suppressants ain’t working, well. There ain’t nothing you can do about it now,
Auntie. S’only a matter of time before they find him.”
“No!” May shouts, before she can stop herself. A few heads turn in their
direction, and May settles back down into her seat and stares heatedly at the
table in front of her until the attention is back off of them.
“That will not happen,” she says, angry gaze fixed on the man. “No one is
taking my nephew away from me. There has to be something you can do.”

They stare at each other for a moment, silent, unmoving, until May can feel her
eyes start to water from the built-up stress and fear, and she brokenly
whispers, “Please.”
The man’s face changes, just a little, into something that almost looks like
sympathy.
“You know, I…” He starts, dropping his gaze back to his half-empty glass. “I
seen things. I know how to make these drugs ‘cause I used to work in pharmacy.
Was head-hunted by this rich beta who was totally obsessed with omegas, wanted
to know everything about ‘em.”
He swirls the amber liquid in his cup, the ice cubes clinking together.
“This guy, Auntie. He ran the whole omega-relocation operation. Took in kids,
some of ‘em so young, as soon as they presented. He kept ‘em till they was
sixteen and could be mated off, but during that time, he… he did things to
‘em.”
May’s hand clenches around the grip of her gun, palms already beginning to
sweat with trepidation. She doesn’t want to hear this, but can’t bear to block
it out.
“He loved watching what would happen when an omega had intercourse during their
heat, but wasn’t mated. He’d tie ‘em up, induce their heats with drugs, then
let a string of heat-stricken alphas have their way with ‘em. But he’d never
let them mate. If they went to bite the omega, he’d shoot ‘em in the head.”
The man isn’t looking at her; not really. He looks like his mind is far away,
in some dark, terrifying place.
“After a few times, the omegas would go crazy. They’d have mental breakdowns
from being denied a mate. He loved watching it. I don’t even think he wanted to
learn nothing at that point, he was just gettin’ off on watching these poor
kids suffer.” He tips his head back with a swig of his cup, gulping down the
rest of his drink in one mouthful.
“And all the while, I was there, making all kinds of drugs for him, watching
these kids being dragged in off the street, taken away from their parents. Some
as young as ten years old.”
He finally looks back up at her, seeing her, and says, “I’m sorry, really, I
am. If your nephew’s built up a resistance to the drugs, there ain’t nothing to
be done. There’s only one chemical compound that suppresses their heat. If he’s
had any contact with an alpha, he’ll probably be in a full-blown mating frenzy
by morning.”

May lets the warm tears that had been threatening to fall finally slip down her
cheeks. “What can I do?” She whispers.
The man hangs his head again. “That guy I worked for. He always wanted to get
his hands on a male omega. If he finds out about your nephew, you’ll be in
trouble.” He looks back up at her, expression grim. “But you’re already in
trouble. Even if you hide your nephew away some place where no alphas can get
to him, that’s no life for an omega. Believe me, it ain’t. Omegas are
biologically wired to attract and mate with alphas. You deny him that, it’ll
eat him up. There’s a reason we mate omegas off at sixteen. Unmated omegas
don’t live much longer than that, Auntie. They’re all dead by twenty.”
He stands up, giving her one last sympathetic look as he says, “You wanna know
the best thing you can do for him? Tomorrow, while he’s in heat, find him an
alpha. Somebody he likes. Mate him off, before someone else does it for you. Or
worse. That’s your best option now, Auntie. I’m sorry.”
And then he turns his back to her and exits the bar, looking as hopeless as May
feels.
She doesn’t allow herself to think too much of anything until she gets home,
knowing immediately that something is wrong when she opens the door. The
apartment is hot. No, it’s sweltering. There’s a hint of an odd smell in the
air, but nothing she can put a name to. It’s the heat that gets to her. There’s
no way it happened on its own; not at this time of night, not at this time of
year…
“Peter?” She calls, heading straight for his room. The temperature seems to
rise even more the closer she gets, and by the time she steps through the
doorway, her clothes are plastered to her skin with sweat.
Yet somehow, she feels cold when she spots Peter on his bed.
He’s soaking wet, as if he just got out of the shower without drying off. He’s
on his stomach and knees, arms folded beneath his head, muffling his sobs and
moans. His hips are trembling.
“Oh, Peter…” May says, reaching for him. He cries out when her hand touches his
back, as if she’d burned him. She pulls her hand away, crushed by the despair
in her nephew’s voice.
“Peter, we have to go. We can’t stay here,” May says as she starts gathering
his things; his books and laptop and changes of clothes, shoving it all into an
old duffel bag that used to be Ben’s. “We can’t stay here any longer. Can you
stand?”

Peter whimpers, his eyes screwed shut with discomfort. He doesn’t move, except
for his unceasing trembling, so May leaves him where he is as she runs through
the apartment, gathering all the necessities she can think of into three heavy
bags, which she leaves by the door.
They’ll have to make it down to the car in one trip. The more times they open
the front door, the more Peter’s scent will leak into the rest of the apartment
building and possibly attract unwanted attention.
Ignoring the sobs of pain Peter makes when she touches him is hard, but she
pulls him up anyway, one arm wrapped tightly around his waist. Peter’s face is
red and damp, his cheeks swollen from the constant flood of hot tears.

“Hurts,” he moans, his hand clutching his lower abdomen. “May—make it stop.
Please, May, make it stop…”
Her heart clenches like it’s being torn apart. “I’m sorry, baby. Just hang in
there, we’ll be somewhere safe soon, I promise.”
Her back is set on fire with pain when she heaves all three bags over one
shoulder, while still supporting Peter with the other. There’s no time to set
everything down to lock the door, so they book it straight for the
elevator—Peter clearly trying desperately to keep his cries of pain as quiet as
possible.
May prays that no one stops the elevator on their way down. Once inside and
going down to the garage level, May uses the ride as a moment to rummage for
her car keys. The time of night is on their side, the hallways and parking lot
seemingly deserted, but still, she doesn’t delay.
Peter leans almost all of his weight on the side of their car while May throws
the bags into the trunk, before she helps settle her nephew into the backseat,
fastening him in while he curls up on his side. She’s quick about strapping
herself in and throwing the car in reverse, swiftly pulling out of her spot and
speeding toward the garage doors.
She’s almost made it when she sees him in the rearview mirror. A man, trailing
them on foot, his hands splayed like he’s broiling with anger. He’s staring
them down with wild, dark eyes, his face flushed and mouth open with labored
breathing. She has to stop the car while the garage door is slowly pulled open;
her eyes glued to the man stalking them like a beast.
The expression on his face is almost inhuman. There’s no trace of thought, of
reason or logic in his eyes. He has the look of a man who’s out of his mind,
completely running on instinct; a primitive, untamed disposition that predates
their evolution. The door is opening too slowly, his brisk pace turns to a run
and then he’s charging toward them like an enraged bull.
Just before he can reach them, May floors the gas pedal, nearly taking the roof
off her car as it skims the overhanging door. It’s by miracle alone that they
don’t hit any other vehicles as she merges onto the main road, speeding
frantically down the street, eventually losing the man running as fast as he
can behind them.
It takes no time at all for the car to become unbearably warm, so May blasts
the air-conditioning as high as it will go. The temperature stays unpleasant
and muggy, but the edge is taken off just enough that she can stand it. Peter’s
quiet moans of pain are harder to hear over the rumble of the engine and the
blasting air, most of which is directed at him, all the fans pointing as close
as they can to the backseat.
The only plan May has is to go west, out of the city. After that, short of
pitching a tent in the wilderness, miles away from any other living souls, she
isn’t sure what to do. There’s no one she can turn to, her budget is tight, and
Peter is getting weaker with every passing hour. All she can do is drive, and
pray.
They don’t stop all night. May calls all three of her employers and Peter’s
school to tell them there’s a family emergency and they won’t be in for a few
days, and by mid-morning, they’re in the middle of nowhere—Ohio—when May sees
it. A sign. A dingy, worn, leaning sign on the side of the highway that revives
a shred of hope in her.

RENDVILLE MOTEL
NEXT EXIT LEFT
BETAS ONLY!
She’s never heard of such a thing. She’s lived in New York her whole life and
never encountered a public place that forbade alphas—and omegas—from entering.
Not that she’s complaining. She couldn’t have asked for a better stroke of
luck.
Fifteen minutes later, they’re pulling up in front of the shabby motor inn.
There were three large, bold signs stationed along the driveway that explicitly
state that this is an alpha and omega-free zone, and May has never felt safer.
Peter isn’t really conscious, but May turns and quietly speaks to him as if he
were. “Peter, I’m going to go in and get us a room. You stay here, don’t try to
get up until I come and get you. Just lay low and out of sight, okay?”
An exhausted moan is all the response she gets, so May kisses the side of his
head and heads for the front office.
The old man behind the counter is gruff and unfriendly looking, but he doesn’t
complain when he’s forced to put his newspaper down to check her in. While he’s
filling out the sign-in form, May spots a yellowed notice taped to the desk
that reads: All children 13 and over must present ID cards at check-in.
The man’s rough voice is impatient when he says, “Can I see your ID, ma’am?”

May hands him the card, and he hums approvingly at the bold “B” circled next to
her birthdate.
“And how old is your son?” He asks, looking through the window at her car.

“He’s twelve,” she says, feeling for the first time incredibly grateful that
Peter is so slender and baby-faced for his age.

“All right, then,” he says. “How many nights?”

“Do you have a weekly rate?”

He gives her a dubious look. “Two bedroom room is 70 a night or 450 per week.”
“One week to start, please.” She says, handing over her credit card.

The man says nothing as he charges her card and then slides her two old, bronze
keys.

“Best diner in town is Harold’s, two minute walk down the hill.” He points down
the driveway they came in from. “Gas station is across the road, they got
drinks and snacks.” And then he points across the parking lot, to a large
concrete building. “Pool is open till ten, and there’s a coin laundry set-up in
there if you need it.”

“Thank you,” May says, grabbing her card and ID, her receipt, and the two keys
with her tired, clammy hands. She leaves without another word and sucks in a
grateful breath of cool air the minute she steps foot out of the office.
She lets herself take the bags in one at a time, her body aching and worn-out
from the lack of sleep and exertion. When it comes time to help Peter out of
the car, she feels filled to the brim with pride and despair at how well he
manages to look normal; how he forces himself to walk, upright, by himself,
even if the door is only a few feet from where they’ve parked. He keeps his
face neutral in spite of his discomfort and she loves him fiercely in that
moment.
Once inside, he collapses, a miserable cry leaving him as he doubles over in
pain. May is immediately cradling him, lifting him as best she can and tucking
him into the closest bed, before marching to the thermostat on the wall and
turning the AC on high.
Peter curls up, letting the tears he held back earlier flow unabated as he
clutches his stomach. From his position, May can see that his pajamas are
soaked through; the dampness reaching halfway down to his knees. Not wanting to
say anything that will humiliate him further, May simply pulls out some fresh
clothes for him and begins running him a cool bath.
“Peter, let’s get you into the tub,” she says quietly, holding him tightly by
the arms as he wobbles to his feet. “You have the best chance of getting some
rest after you’re cleaned up and cooled down a little.”

Peter doesn’t reply, his head lowered. It goes without saying that she has to
help him get undressed, and her throat feels constricted by how unfazed he
seems by it now; too exhausted to even feel embarrassed. She waits until he’s
submerged as comfortably as possible in the tub before she lets her eyes well
up with tears, practically fleeing from the room.

It’s been a long day. They both need to sleep, and eat, and then sleep some
more. But that can wait until Peter’s done washing up, which, from the
sluggishness of his movements, will take quite a while. May flicks the TV on to
some old movie she doesn’t recognize and pulls out Peter’s laptop. While she
waits, she plans to find as many beta-only hotels as she can. It’s best that
they stay moving, just in case someone’s figured them out and is on their
trail.

In a few weeks, the money will run out, and May doesn’t know what they’ll do
then.

But they’ll cross that bridge when they come to it.

Once he’s done in the bath, May helps Peter dress and then ushers him back to
bed. He turns down the prospect of eating and honestly, May doesn’t feel much
like it at the moment, either. There’s too much pressure hanging over them to
really build up an appetite, though she knows they need to eat sooner rather
than later.

But it can wait a little while longer. There’s an ad online for a beta-only
motel in Oregon that’s hiring housekeepers. Maybe they’d be willing to trade a
room for her labor. She could get a second job for food and gas money. Oregon
should be far enough away, they could start over…

She clicks reply to ad at the same time as someone knocks on the door.
Peter doesn’t stir, he’s completely passed out. May eyes the door warily, not
sure what to do. There’s no peephole to check who it is, though really, the
only person it could be is the front desk attendant. But why would he—
They knock again, louder this time, and then an odd-sounding, familiar voice
calls out, “Housekeeping!” Peter still doesn’t move.

May swallows. A third, urgent round of knocking makes her rise from her chair
and cautiously approach the door. Whoever it is, it’s obvious they don’t intend
to leave, but May knows that voice…
She steels herself and opens the door.

And her heart stops when she’s greeted by the sight of Iron Man.
Chapter End Notes
     And so it begins. I hope the slightly-longer chapter makes up for the
     wait, guys. I want to say a big thank you to everyone who commented,
     with a shout-out to Evehist for giving me the nicest compliments I
     have ever received on my writing. <3 Also, I want to remind everyone
     to heed the warnings going forward. Update coming soon.
***** Good Intentions *****
Chapter Notes
     Hey guys, just wanted to say thank you so much for the incredibly
     sweet feedback you all left me on the last chapter. I'm sorry I
     haven't had time to reply to them yet; this chapter is the longest
     one so far and it's a monster so I've solely been focusing on it. I
     hope it meets all of your expectations, and don't worry, chapter 5 is
     not far behind. <3
Queens is a breathtaking sight at night. The array of twinkling
lights—different sizes and colors, some stacked high on the sides of
skyscrapers and others coiling through the city streets—paints a gorgeous
masterpiece. Peter’s lived here his entire life, but never experienced the city
like this. Being a superhero is amazing, but some of the sweeter perks are
moments like this; perching high on the roof of a fifty-floor building and
surveying the world around him with wide, clear eyes. He loves this place.

His suit is built to withstand injuries and the elements, but it doesn’t keep
out the biting chill of the night air. Peter doesn’t mind. The cool breeze is
welcomed on his skin, the thrill of swinging from building to building keeping
him warm with adrenaline. He’s soaring through the sky, between pillars of
light and the symphony of human life, completely unrestricted. He allows
himself a small moment to close his eyes to the people below him and simply
feel. In this moment, he isn’t Peter Parker, the 15-year-old high school dork.
He isn’t the sad orphan boy. He isn’t the nephew of a murdered man.

In this moment, he isn’t an omega.

He’s Spider-Man.

And he’s flying. Web to web, the wind caresses his skin through his suit as he
sails between buildings. A calm settles over Peter, a state of peace he’s never
known. There’s no grief, no anxiety, no stress. Just him and the night and the
feeling of weightlessness as he experiences his true inner self—the person he
knows he was meantto be. Everything else falls away. He doesn’t need the glory
of being an Avenger and he never will; this is who he is.

And then there’s warmth. It starts in his lower back and makes its way slowly
through his stomach, down the front and back of his thighs. Peter shifts
uncomfortably, landing not-so-gracefully on the nearest roof. He hunches over
for a moment, perplexed. He’s never felt this before, and it’s odd and
confusing and somehow entirely pleasant.

The warmth turns to something elsePeter can’t explain. It settles between his
legs and a tingling sensation begins to radiate, steadily growing stronger.
Peter can’t resist running his hand over his crotch and is baffled to feel
hardness beneath his suit. Maybe it’s just teenage hormones, but that doesn’t
quite feel right. Peter’s never experienced arousal like this. This is
something else, the warmth spreading throughout his body from his core. He
kneels on his trembling legs and is overwhelmed by the incessant desire of I
want to be touched.

And then, he hears screaming.

He jolts upright and peers down to the streets below, but there are no people;
no pedestrians, no cars. The city is empty and silent except for the
screams—angry, tear-stricken cries that sound both far away and inexplicably
close. There’s something about these screams, some foggy, nagging feeling he
can’t quite place. They’re not the screams of distress. They’re screams of
hatred.

The thrumming arousal coursing through his body is dulled by the city
dissolving before his eyes. He rotates anxiously, watching the buildings and
structures crumble into a pitch-dark abyss that swirls all around him. Even the
ground beneath his feet cracks apart until he’s floating in a sea of blackness,
and the screams are clearer now; discernable shouts of No!and Stay back! in a
voice that he knows better than his own.

Peter lets his eyes slowly flutter open, revealing unfamiliar patterned walls
and a lumpy, springy mattress beneath him. He’s on his back, his skin feeling
hot and achy under his clothes. It takes a few seconds of blinking for his
vision to clear enough for him to see Aunt May, standing next to his bed, her
back to him. He trails his gaze upwards and sees a black gun gripped tightly in
her shaking hands. He can see the side of her cheek is red and wet with tears.

And she’s pointing a gun at Iron Man, his hands lifted in the surrender
position.

Peter tries to speak, but all that escapes is a shuddering exhale of breath.
Awake, his fevered arousal is harder to ignore. He can feel the aching hardness
between his legs and the wetness pooling underneath him. His eyes are wet with
embarrassment and frustration and the unsatisfied need to be touched.

“I swear to God I will shoot you,” Aunt May says, her voice turbulent and
coarse. Mr. Stark’s voice sounds like a robotic echo through his mask.

“Mrs. Parker, calm down,” he’s saying, palms displayed non-threateningly. “We
have to get him to a doctor, you know that.”

“You’re not taking him!”

Mr. Stark curls one of his hands into a fist and then points harshly toward
Peter. “Look at him!” He shouts. “You really think this is the best place for
him? And then what, May? You’re going to get him killed!”

“You’re going to get him killed,” she hisses, viciously. “All of you, you
fucking alphas and your archaic notion that you get to decide what’s best for
an omega. I know my nephew. He would rather die than belong to someone else.”

“That alpha will belong to him, too,” Mr. Stark says, “Mating is a
partnership—”

“Not in the eyes of the law. You don’t know Peter at all if you can’t see what
being mated off would do to him. He’ll be a second class citizen—”

“He already is,he was the moment he was born!” The man shouts. “Omegas aren’t
like you and me and they can’t be treated that way. This isn’t about freedom or
humans rights, May. If Peter doesn’t mate he’s going to die. His body will shut
down even more than it already is, and then it will be too late. Is that what
you want?”

“That should be his choice,” she says.

His voice is cold. “You’d be willing to let him die for his dignity, without
even considering the idea that not all alphas are abusive monsters. Let me tell
you something—my entire team is made of alphas, and not one of them would ever
hurt that boy, no matter what he is. I wanted to protect him when I thought he
was a beta just as much as I want to protect him now, not because I look down
on him, but because I care about him.”

He lowers his arms and May has to suppress how intimidated she feels.

“I know you’re his aunt and that you love him,” he continues, his tone just a
hint softer. “But right now, you are standing in the way of me helping him. I
can’t let that slide, May. I’m taking that boy to a doctor, with or without
your approval. And if that doctor says he has to be mated, then so be it. You
forfeited his right to be picky about that when you chose to hide his gender.”

“He would rather die, Tony.” She says, just above a whisper. “If you do this,
he will never forgive you. He’ll fight you every step of the way. Are you
prepared for that?”

“More than I am to let him die.” He says.

May’s glare turns red-hot with malice. She wants to unload the clip in her gun
into his gleaming armor with every fibre of her being in that moment, but she
can’t risk hitting Peter.

Peter, who’s helpless and bed-ridden, who’s too sick to even speak anymore.

Peter, whose worst nightmare is to become someone’s omega, even if it saves his
life.

The mental image of her nephew over the last two days takes up residence in her
mind. The sight of him, collapsed in pain, crying, throwing up, unable to care
for himself… May remembers what her supplier had told her, in that dingy booth
at Sister Margaret’s. There’s a reason we mate omegas off at sixteen. Unmated
omegas don’t live much longer than that, Auntie. They’re all dead by twenty.

Even if Peter did survive, what if he stays like this? What if he gets worse?
She knows that Peter would consider living in his current condition to be just
as bad as living as someone’s pet omega. If he were able to think clearly now,
through his pain, she knows that’s what he would say.

The way he is now, is no way to live.

Her tears burn their way down her chin as she looks into the eyes of Iron Man’s
mask and lowers the gun.

“Aunt May,” Peter rasps, startling her. “Don’t…”

She turns and looks at him, and Peter feels his heart constrict in his chest.
He knows that look in her eyes. That resigned, apologetic look that means she’s
made a decision he’s going to hate. She never made these kinds of decisions
lightly, so Peter knows there’s no use trying to talk her out of it. Her face
is resigned, and stern.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” she says. “We’re just going to have to trust him. If anyone
can help you—”

“No!” Peter says, forcing himself to sit up, as much as he can. His whole body
shakes with the effort. “No, I won’t, I won’t be—ahh!” His protest is cut off
by a cry of pain when Mr. Stark lifts him from the bed, the bite of his cool
metal armor almost unbearable on Peter’s hot skin.

“Take it easy, kiddo,” Mr. Stark says, his placating tone like a knife in his
stomach. “Everything’s going to be okay.” And then they’re heading for the
door.

“No, May!” Peter calls, reaching for her. “May, don’t, don’t let him. Please,
May, I want to stay with you!”

May won’t look at him. “You take care of him,” she whispers, her gaze fixed on
the back of Iron Man’s head. She puts the gun down. “Get him some help and keep
him safe. If you don’t, Mr. Stark, I won’t have anything else to lose.”

The man turns around and looks her in the eyes. “I promise.”

And then he pulls the door open and walks through. Peter watches, helplessly,
as the door slowly swings shuts on his aunt, sobbing, falling to her knees.

“May!” He shouts, squirming in Mr. Stark’s grasp, despite the flares of pain
shooting through his body. The man’s metal gloves are holding him firmly by his
shoulders and thighs, and his muscles ache from the unyielding grip.

“Mr. Stark,” he says, putting his hand on the armor’s chest plate and trying to
push the man away. “Please, Mr. Stark, put me down, please,”
“It’s okay, Peter,” Mr. Stark says, as they cross the parking lot. “I will,
just as soon as we’re inside the helicopter.”

The helicopter?Peter thinks, quickly scanning the empty lot. “I don’t want to
go, Mr. Stark. I want to stay with Aunt May. Please…”

“You can’t, Peter. You need a doctor.”

“No!” Peter tries to shout, but he’s too exhausted, too sore, and it comes out
more like a sob. And then he realizes that it was, and he’s crying, in front of
Mr. Stark, again. “Please, don’t… I don’t wanna be—mated—I don’t wanna be…
somebody’s omega. Please… Tony…”

They come to a halt behind the motel pool, in a large, empty field. Tony
crouches and cradles Peter more fully in his arms, resting his masked face on
top of the boy’s head. “Shh, Peter,” he coddles, his arms sturdy and his hold
firm. “Don’t be scared. It won’t be as bad as you think, I promise. You’ll feel
so much better after, you’ll see.”

“No,” Peter whines, wet eyes screwed shut. “I don’t wanna be mated. I’m a boy.”

“It won’t matter,” Tony says, caressing his arms. “When it happens, you won’t
care about that. I’m going to take care of you. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Peter finds himself being gently rocked back and forth in Tony’s arms, and all
he can do is brokenly whisper, “I don’t want this.”

Tony presses the mouth of his mask to Peter’s forehead in what would be a kiss
and says, “I know,” continuing to rock him, soothingly, until the quiet thrum
of helicopter blades fills the air. Tony stands, lifting Peter with ease and
turning their backs to the chopper as it lands. Peter curls up tightly in
Tony’s arms to shield himself from the harsh torrent of air while the
helicopter touches down behind them.

When the blades slow enough that they can approach, Peter starts thrashing once
more; the reality that he is being taken away is suddenly too real and too
terrifying to push away. He has no idea where they’re going, or what will
happen to him, and so despite the agony coursing through his body, he fights.
He kicks his legs as best he can with Tony’s tight grip on his thighs, and
angles his back as far out of Tony’s arms as possible, using his hands to push
and shove the man away from him, though his armor makes it feel like he’s
pushing a cement wall.

He’s too exhausted to scream, but not to protest. His fearful and desperate let
go of me’s and put me down’s go completely ignored, and when Tony climbs the
small stairs into the helicopter, Peter’s verbal objections turn to quiet sobs.
He has no more strength to pull away or fuss, and all of his pleading has
fallen on deaf ears. Tony holds him tighter when he feels the boy’s body go lax
with fatigue and what he hopes is submission. Peter’s head is turned into
Tony’s chest to hide his grief-stricken face and muffle his weeping.

There are only two other people onboard—the pilots, who keep silently to
themselves, lifting off after Tony sets Peter down on a cot and gives them a
permissive nod.

No longer constrained, Peter turns over on his side to face the wall and curls
up in a tight ball. His body started trembling again the moment Tony set him
down, which, Peter figures, must have something to do with Tony being an alpha;
even through the metal suit, just his touch was enough to calm the hormonal
storm within Peter. Without it, his body is hotter, in more pain, but he’s
relieved to be untouched again and lets the steady stream of tears soak the
pillow beneath his face.

He might never see Aunt May again.

But she had given him away.

His teeth clench with the effort of holding back his gut-wrenching sobs, and
then an armored-clad hand is stroking through his hair, petting his head.
Though the contact helps ease the ache within his body, it’s not what he wants,
so Peter curls up tighter until his forehead presses against the cold wall of
the helicopter. Tony’s hand follows, refusing to leave him be, continuing the
unwanted ministration. He won’t even let him have this, just this one, private
thing.

As Peter lets himself slip back into an exhausted unconsciousness, his last
waking thought is that he will probably never truly have any private things
again.

Tony watches as Peter falls into an uneasy sleep with a heavy heart. He doesn’t
take his hand away, even though the boy’s asleep—even though he wants him
to—because, truthfully, he can’t. Without his suit filtering the scent of
Peter’s heat, he would be frenzied with the need to mate, but even without
smelling him, Tony’s own alpha hormones are kicked into overdrive at the sight
of an unmated omega in need. Seeing Peter cry, seeing him in pain, had awakened
a dormant part of Tony that he didn’t know he possessed. Even if he wanted to
leave Peter alone, his biological instinct to protect and comfort his—the—omega
is too powerful for him to ignore.

He knows he should feel guiltier about it than he does. He has never felt this
level of satisfaction before; it’s like he has magic, healing hands, the way he
can soothe and quiet Peter with just a simple touch, especially through three
layers of machinery. If only that worked on everyone.

The flight back to New York will only take two hours in his Stark Industries
chopper, and Tony holds his breath that Peter will sleep the whole way there.
The boy is worn out, his body completely at its limit from going Lord-knows-
how-long on heat-suppressing drugs. Tony sighs, turning his face away from
Peter as he whispers, “Friday, call Bruce.”

The doctor picks up on the second ring. “Tony?”

“Hey, Jolly Green,” Tony says, as quiet as possible. “How much do you know
about omegan biology?”

By the time the Avengers Tower comes into view, the sun is setting behind them,
painting the city in varying degrees of orange. Peter has, blessedly, slept the
entire way from Ohio and doesn’t stir even when Tony scoops him up to carry him
onto the launch pad.

Tony made sure the penthouse would be deserted, save for Bruce, wearing a
rather terrifying black gas mask that Tony had designed.

Bruce taps it when they see each other, heading down the hall to the bedrooms.
“I thought you made these for chemical-weapon attacks?” He asks.

“We’re all alphas, Bruce,” Tony replies as they enter one of the guest suites.
“It would be pretty bad if someone decided to use that against us in the form
of an omega in heat. Who even knows what you would do, never mind the rest of
us.” He sets Peter gently on the large bed, unable to resist lightly pushing
his bangs away from his eyes. “What kind of engineer would I be if I didn’t
make our gas masks impervious to our very own genetic make-up?”

“You know, you’re really the only one on the team who these things would come
in handy for if someone wanted to use an omega against us,” Bruce flicks the
back of Tony’s mask for emphasis.

“Which is why I keep saying you should all wear the suits I designed for you. I
even made yours green to stay on brand.”

“How thoughtful.”

They take advantage of the fact that Peter is still passed out to bring in the
equipment Bruce needs to examine him. It’s interesting for Tony, watching how
even Bruce, a doctor, wearing an omega-proof mask, isn’t able to resist gently
running his hands over Peter’s body, caressing him, treating him so tenderly
and affectionate and that—wow, Tony doesn’t like it. If that isn’t the
darnedest thing.

Bruce pokes and prods and takes a blood sample, all hard-faced and serious
while he pours over Peter like he’s an equation he’s trying to solve. Normally
Tony would find it funny. But he doesn’t. There’s an odd tension in the room
that screams neither man really wants the other one here at the moment. Huh.
Biology is so weird.

Finally Bruce stands up straight, beads of sweat pooling at the edge of his
mask.

“I have a theory,” he says.

“Want to discuss it over tea in the parlor?” Tony asks when Bruce doesn’t
continue.

“Actually, yeah,” says Bruce, heading for the door. “Let’s take this outside.”

Tony turns to follow, but before he leaves he looks up and says, “Friday, put
this room on lockdown. Until I figure out what to do, don’t respond to calls,
and nobody goes in or out without my say-so. Got it?”

“Yes, Sir.” Replies the AI as Tony exits, following Bruce, the door locking
behind him with a sharp click.

When they reach the living room, the doctor removes his gas mask, his tone
hesitant. “I’m out of my depth here, Tony. I’m not that familiar with regular
omegan biology to begin with. Male omegan biology is even less well-known, and
on top of that, Peter is a mutant.”

He turns and regards the cityscape outside the window. Tony can practically see
how tense his shoulders are. “I’d be willing to bet that the radiation that
gave Peter his powers has some part to play here. It’s probably the reason why
his suppressants stopped working. It’s much easier to build up a tolerance to
contaminants when you have a healing factor.”

He looks at Tony again. “You and I both know there’s only one thing that’s
going to get him through this heat, unless you can find a doctor who’s
experienced in treating male omegas, and also specializes in mutants. He should
go to a facility, Tony. This is beyond our abilities to fix.”

“Why?” Tony asks, sounding a little more hostile than he means to. “What can
they do for him that we can’t? Besides sell him when he turns sixteen.”

“I don’t know how they treat an omega in heat, Tony. That information’s
classified, you know that.”

“We do know one way,” Tony says. He doesn’t miss the way Bruce’s eyes narrow.

“You planning to mate that kid in there, Tony? Is that what you’re telling me?”
Bruce paces from side to side in agitation. “You’re actually considering that?
That fifteen-year-old kid?”

“What other choice do we have, Bruce?” He says, unwavering. “Better me than
some stranger the kid doesn’t even now. He’s my responsibility, he trusts me,
and besides that, I promised him and his aunt that I’d keep him safe. I’m not
sending him to some facility somewhere.”

Bruce’s stare is severe. “You know this is permanent Tony, right? If you do
that, you’ll be bonded. There’ll be no going back. Neither of you will ever be
the same.”

“If it helps Peter, then I don’t care. It’ll be worth it.”

Bruce sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Well,” he says, “the sooner the
better,” and he gestures down the hall to Peter’s room.

Tony doesn’t say anything else as he turns and leaves. His heart is hammering
inside his chest, and it takes him a long minute to realize why he’s nervous.
It’s not because he’s about to fuck a teenager.

It’s because he’ll have to see the look on that teenager’s face when he tells
him he’s going to.

With a deep breath to steel himself, Tony enters the room and is mostly-afraid
to see that Peter is awake. He’s curled on his side again, both hands resting
firmly on his lower stomach, nearly cupping his groin. He looks at Tony through
wet, fearful eyes and Tony has to stomp on the urge to console him.

“Where—where are we?” Peter manages, breathing labored. His whole body is
shaking like a house in an earthquake.

“We’re at the Avengers Tower,” Tony answers, approaching the bed. “The compound
is full of superhumans and this seemed like more of a private affair, so, I
chose to skip the pageantry.” He places his hand on Peter’s head and doesn’t
let him pull away when he tries. “How are you feeling, kiddo?”

“I wanna go home,” is all Peter says, eyes closed and leaking fresh tears.

“I know, baby boy.” Tony moves to the end of the bed where he has more room.
“Don’t worry, I’m going to fix everything. You’re gonna feel better in no
time.”

Peter looks like he’s been slapped when Tony opens the gloves of his suit.
“What are you doing!”

“Don’t be scared, Peter,” Tony soothes, voice tender. “It’s all right. We’re
going to mate, and everything will feel better after.”

Peter could swear his blood runs cold in his veins, like someone injected ice
into his bloodstream. No, not this. Anything but this. Not with Mr. Stark. Not
with this man, his hero.Please, God, anything but this.

The armor’s boots open and Tony steps out of them, and a panic unlike anything
Peter’s ever known overtakes him.

“No! No!” He makes to leap from the bed, but Tony is there, hand clutching his
wrist, pushing him back down onto the mattress. “You can’t! Please, Mr. Stark,
not this! I don’t want to!”

“Peter, calm down,” he says, voice still robotic-sounding from the mask. “It’s
going to be all right. I’m not going to hurt you,”

“Let go!” Peter shouts, trying to pull his wrist free. He shouldn’t be this
weak. He’s Spider-Man. He’s a hero. He shouldn’t be held down this easily. Not
by Tony Stark.

Not by Iron Man.

He fights and screams until Tony moves his hand to his throat, not quite
constricting it, but firmly holding him, pinning him. As if a switch is
flipped, Peter feels the strength leave his body, suctioned out of him like
gasoline.

“No,” he sobs. “Please, Tony, please don’t,” He holds Tony’s wrist in both his
hands and doesn’t even have the energy to squeeze it. “Please don’t touch me.”

“It won’t be scary for much longer, omega,” Tony says, his metal chest and limb
plates opening like a shell for him to step out of.

Omega.

That’s all he is now.

Peter can do nothing but watch in mute horror as Tony removes his mask,
stripped bare of all his armor, completely at the mercy of the scent of Peter’s
heat. He watches as Tony’s pupils dilate until his eyes are nearly all black.

“Friday,” he says, his voice growing deeper with every word, “Lock the door.”
***** Asunder *****
Chapter Notes
     Hey, guys. This is your final warning: this gets dark. This chapter
     and the next, as well as some chapters in the future, are going to
     contain shitty things. Proceed with caution.
Without his armor, the room is almost unbearably hot. Sweat immediately starts
to dampen Tony’s skin, soaking his clothes. He’s leaning over Peter, one hand
still pinning him by the throat to the bed, the other trailing up the boy’s
side to his face, cupping his cheek. It’s wet with his tears, but at least he’s
finally gone still.
The smell is unlike anything Tony could’ve imagined.

And, logically, he knows it’s all in his head. The chemicals rising to the
surface on Peter’s skin, the molecules permeating the air—none of it has any
actual odor.That’s simply the only way his brain can process the chemical
compounds; his biology, as an alpha, breaking down and characterizing the
information his body is receiving from Peter’s. That’s all it is, a reaction,
as basic and simple as science gets.

Tony used to scoff at the idea of him, theTony Stark, being controlled by
something so elementary. He had spent most of his adult, alpha life laughing at
the thought of anything overriding his rationality, his sense of logic—all the
things that defined him as a human being. He had been so sure any alpha who
claimed they lost control when exposed to an omega in heat had simply been
hiding behind their genetic dispositions, making excuses for their actions.
Everyone said it would happen to him, too, but all Tony could hear was a wild
superstition. He had, in the past, openly condemned his own kind for everything
he is about to do, in his own home.

To a child.

But Peter isn’t, not really. Not anymore. His body has reached the age when
it’s ready—and wanting—sex. If he’d been a female omega, he would be ready to
get pregnant. It was his body that chose to go into heat, not Tony, and despite
the boy’s protests, Tony knows this is the only way to help him. Better it be
him, someone who knows and cares for Peter, than some stranger assigned by the
government. Better this than Peter suffering any more than he already has; God,
Tony can’t stand the heartbroken look in those brown, tearful eyes.

Tony runs his thumb gently across Peter’s cheek, over the tracks of his tears.

He’ll forgive him. This is just fear; something new and scary that Peter wasn’t
taught about because he’s spent the last three years hiding from the people who
would have taught him. He’ll see it’s not as bad as he thinks, like getting a
needle at the doctor’s. Tony intends to spoil him afterward just the same.

He gently removes his hand from the boy’s throat, watching as his eyes widen
with uncertainty. Tony moves his hand slowly down Peter’s chest, over his ribs
and muscles, over the scorching skin of his exposed stomach, where his shirt
has risen up, and to his hip, resting on the hem of his sweatpants. Peter’s
small chest rises and falls with short, panicked breaths. He’s holding on to
Tony’s wrists, a futile attempt to have some control, probably.

And then he kicks. His knee makes contact with Tony’s abdomen, and really, it
doesn’t hurt, but he’s momentarily blindsided enough by it for Peter to plant
his foot against Tony’s chest—Christ, this kid is flexible—and use the leverage
to push himself out from underneath the man and to the edge of the bed. Peter
goes to angle himself off the mattress, but Tony catches his ankle, pulling him
back down to the center of the bed and grabbing him again by the neck, firmly
pressing him down.

“Settle,” He orders, his voice a deep, animalistic growl that sounds completely
alien to him. Peter’s body doesn’t stop struggling, but his fatigue is too
much, and Tony restrains him easily. “Omega, settle.”

“Don’t call me that!” Peter says, trying to shout, but lacking the energy to.
His hands claw desperately at the hand around his throat, his hips bucking to
try and throw Tony off. “I’m not an—I’m not just an omega—I’m a boy, I’m me,”
I’m Spider-Man,he thinks, heart sinking. “And I—I don’t want this!”

If Tony had sought out an omega mate years ago, he would have been trained on
how to handle a situation like this. Some expert would have shown him how to
pacify a disgruntled omega—one who was refusinghim, was that even possible?—how
to use their heat to his advantage, to make them submit like they’re supposed
to—

But no one had shown him, and no one had shown Peter, either. It’s all up to
them, nothing but their instincts to guide them. Peter’s instinct, apparently,
is to fight. Which goes against every single thing Tony has ever heard about
omegas, but that’s beside the point. The point is, Tony never learned what
you’re supposed to do when an omega, who is in heat, screams up at you that
they don’t want to mate. Nobody showed him.

So he lets instinct decide.

Grabbing both of Peter’s wrists, he pins them above the boy’s head with one
hand. With his other, he takes a handful of Peter’s hair and uses it to pull
his head to the side, exposing his throat. Peter’s whole body goes taut with
fear, as if the slightest movement would be the end of the world. He is
finally, blissfully, quiet. Even his ragged breathing seems caught in his
throat.

Tony shifts himself to lie eye-level on top of the boy, his breath ghosting
over the skin of his bare neck. This close, God, the scent is so potent, Tony
can feel the fine hairs stand up over his body. He presses his face against
Peter’s throat and breathes in; the hot, sweet smell of his heat so
overpowering that Tony swears he can taste it.

And then he does. Opening his mouth, he covers as much skin as possible and
gently sucks, tasting that honeyed feverishness, barely containing a moan.
Peter is shaking, his trembling is so strong that not even Tony’s weight on top
of him is enough to stop it.

Tony sucks until the skin is red and bruising between his lips. He does it
again and again, moving to cover every inch of Peter’s neck with his mark,
needing to taste every part of him. With each touch of his lips, Peter’s scent
becomes stronger and sweeter, the room becomes hotter. He mouths his teeth over
the side of the boy’s neck—where, soon, he’ll be biting him—and Peter lets out
the most sinfully arousing sound Tony has ever heard.

Through the hazy fog of his lust-filled mind, a hypothesis starts to form in
Tony’s head. Using the hand in Peter’s hair to press him down harder, exposing
his throat a little wider, Tony focuses solely on the spot where his mating-
bite will be, lapping at it with his tongue, sucking on it, gently at first and
then more fiercely, and threatening the spot over and over again with his
teeth, not enough pressure to break the skin, but enough to tease—a promise
from his body to Peter’s that says, You will be mine.

Peter’s trembling stops. He’s panting, though each breath is obstructed by a
moan he can’t suppress under Tony’s assault. Tony releases his wrists and
immediately Peter’s hands are fisted in the man’s shirt, pulling him down
further on top of him.

Though it physically hurts to pull away, Tony forces himself to sit up enough
that he can see Peter’s face. The boy is still crying, his eyes clenched shut,
but his face is beet-red and his lips are wet and gleaming from his tongue
swiping over them, trying to catch the saliva that’s threatening to overflow
from his mouth. Tony wants to kiss him. Instead, he leans back down, presses
his lips to the boy’s ear and whispers, “I’m going to fuck you now, omega.”

Peter’s eyes shoot open, but not even his panic is enough to break through the
cloudy, hungry look in his eyes. His hands stay fisted in Tony’s clothes, but
whether he’s trying to pull him down or push him away, Tony can’t tell anymore.
The omega has no more strength and no more fight left in him.

Sitting up, Tony grabs the bottom of Peter’s shirt and tugs it upward, pulling
the boy slightly off the bed when he yanks it over his head. The sound of
fabric tearing fills the room and then Tony is chucking the garment on the
floor. He pulls his own top off, throwing that away, too, and then he shifts
himself down slightly and grabs the hem of Peter’s sweatpants with both hands.

“No,” Peter says, hardly a whisper, one last, final protest. “Don’t…”

Tony looks at him, at his big, sad eyes, filled with tears, and knows
explicitly that he is doing the right thing. Peter is hurting, and it’s up to
him, his alpha, to make it better. He pulls down his pants and boxers without
another word, eyes glazing over when he sees how wet—how ready—his omega is for
him. His boxers are soaked, and Tony discards them with much more care than he
showed Peter’s shirt. The air itself is thick and heavy with the scent of
Peter’s slick, no longer trapped within his clothes. Tony’s mouth salivates,
and thinking becomes a distant, secondary function; the only thing resembling
thought inside Tony now is the savage, uncontrollable desire to mate.

Peter doesn’t say anything more, not even when Tony grabs his thighs and
spreads them, baring his dripping, needy hole. The sight is the final blow to
Tony’s rational mind and with a guttural snarl, he grabs Peter’s waist and
flips him over onto his stomach. With both hands clutching the boy’s hips
tightly, Tony pulls until Peter is on his knees, legs spread, open and ready
for his alpha to claim him.

Tony rocks against Peter’s ass, his aching cock still trapped inside his pants.
It’s a struggle to get undressed while also needing to be pressed as close to
his omega as possible, especially since every touch, every thrust against the
boy’s ass makes him release a symphony of high-pitched, addictive moans.

Finally Tony manages to pull himself free of his clothing and then he’s
pressing the hard, leaking tip of his erection inside of Peter.

“Ah,” Peter moans, hips convulsing. “Ah, ah—haa…”

Tony pulls out slightly, grabs on to Peter’s hips, and then thrusts himself
almost fully inside of him. Peter screams, his thighs trembling, his hands
fisting the blankets beneath him, white-knuckled.

Tony throws his head back and moans, nothing has ever felt this good. His
omega’s hole opens right up for him, sucking him in, hugging every inch of his
cock and pulling it as far as it will go inside his body. Tony’s thrusts are
shallow to start, if only because the grip Peter’s body has on him is so
powerful, Tony finds pulling out even slightly to be difficult.

But then he works up a momentum, and his thrusts become stronger, deeper, more
brutal. He’s almost collapsed entirely on top of Peter, crushing him to the
bed, plunging as deep inside of him as he can. Tony grabs and pins Peter’s
wrists to the bed, just to have that assurance to hold on to—he’s not going
anywhere.

“Omega,” Tony pants in his ear, “You’re mine. You’re gonna take my knot,” Every
word he says is more urgent, more fervent than the last. “Take it—I’m
gonna—knot inside you,”

If Peter says anything, Tony doesn’t hear it.

Then, grabbing Peter by the hair and baring his throat, Tony bites down, right
where he promised. His cock spills a ribbon of hot cum inside of Peter, his
knot swelling at the base, keeping him locked inside of his omega, keeping his
thrusts shallow. Peter is screaming and Tony can taste blood in his mouth, but
he doesn’t let go; he just stays there, as his thrusting comes to a slow stop,
his knot firmly in place. Only then does he release the abused flesh at the
side of Peter’s throat, which he adorns with kisses, pulling on the boy’s hips
to test the strength of his knot inside him, because even that feels good right
now.

Peter whimpers when Tony teases his abused hole by threatening to pull out
before the swelling of his knot goes down, so Tony stops, and simply allows
himself to lie there, collapsed on top of his new mate. The room is filled with
the sounds of both of them gasping for air, more so Tony’s than Peter’s, whose
breathing is muffled from lying face-down.

What Tony expected to happen next is not what happens. Tony expected to be
filled with a peaceful, post-mating bliss; to bask in the afterglow of bonding
to an omega, for his knot to recede, and then Peter would roll over, his heat
satisfied, all of his suffering quelled by the power of their union. That’s
what was supposed to happen, according to every mated alpha Tony had ever
spoken to, and his own genetic make-up, which is incessantly nagging at him
that something isn’t right.

Because the scent of Peter’s heat hasn’t regressed, and when Tony’s knot
diminishes, he’s still hard, his body still pulsing with need. Peter’s skin
beneath him is still scorching hot, and there’s no bliss; no overpowering
sensation of a new bond between them. There’s only more frustration, a more
possessive, fierce desire to dominate and breed. Tony retakes the spot of
Peter’s neck between his teeth and bites again, hard, his hips rocking back and
forth in shallow, distressed thrusts. Peter screams from having his mating-bite
assaulted, but his body releases another flood of pheromones that make Tony
fuck into him harder, and his back arches to press himself flush against his
alpha, forcing him in deeper.

Tony’s mind is an agitated mantra of omega in heat that leaves him with little
ability to question why. Peter’s scent is too strong and his lust is too great
to wonder why the mating hadn’t taken, so he doesn’t, instead losing himself
again in the feeling of being inside Peter, of dominating him, breeding him.

He hasn’t relaxed his teeth’s hold on Peter’s throat, and when his cock spasms
and releases his second load into the boy’s body, Tony bites harder, leaving an
impression of every single tooth in the omega’s skin. Peter’s cry is quieter
this time, his body collapsed and boneless beneath Tony’s.

The alpha pushes his length as far inside as it will go, ensuring his knot is
completely submerged inside his omega’s body. He finally releases the boy’s
throat and buries his face in his hair, breathing his scent in. A low-pitched,
pitiful groan escapes him when again his body is assaulted by Peter’s
unrelenting, inescapable pheromones. The swelling at the base of his cock goes
down, but it doesn’t stay erect like last time; despite the chemicals
permeating the air, Tony’s age catches up with him, his body needing a rest
before he can mate Peter a third time.

And really, if there’s a Hell, Tony’s in it.

Every fiber of his being is demanding that he hold his omega down and breed
him, but he physically can’t become erect—his body is filled with arousal that
has nowhere to go. He starts kissing and sucking Peter’s neck, his hands
groping and massaging over his body just to be doing something, anything to try
and bring his cock to life. He reaches between their bodies and feels where his
soft length is still buried in Peter’s ass, completely drenched in both their
fluids.

Tony sits up and rolls Peter over onto his back, causing his manhood to slip
free. Peter is completely out of it; his eyes half-lidded and his chest rising
and falling with his slow, exhausted breaths. His throat is a mural of deep red
and purple bruises, swollen and bloody from where Tony had bitten too hard.

The alpha’s mouth salivates at the sight. He knows, intrinsically, that this is
his omega—they have mated, he’s bitten him, knotted inside him, claimed him—but
the feeling is muted, blocked somehow. Peter’s body should have stopped
releasing pheromones the moment Tony bit him, but it hadn’t. They were mated
but they weren’t bonded; though Tony can feel a primal instinct to care for
Peter now, as an alpha should, he can feel it in his bones that something that
was supposed to happen didn’t. Something had failed, somewhere in the midst of
their mating. Peterisn’t his. He is his omega, but he isn’t his mate. Tony
never knew such a thing was possible.

And through all this, he hadn’t even succeeded in suppressing Peter’s heat,
which was the fucking point of mating him in the first place. Tony presses his
body down against Peter’s, rocking his hips in a futile attempt to bring
himself to hardness, and begins kissing his throat again. It's all he can do;
without his mask, Peter’s scent dictates his body’s desires, and its one and
only desire is to successfully mate the omega. It takes a few minutes of
pointless rutting for Tony to get hard enough that he can push back inside of
Peter, who lies there, completely limp, gaze unfocused.

This time, when Tony cums, he bites a different spot on Peter’s neck. The only
reason he can think of for why the mating didn’t take is that Peter’s body
didn’t receive enough chemicals through Tony’s saliva, so this time, he bites
beneath Peter’s chin, against his jugular. He’s careful not to make too large a
wound; just big enough for the enzymes in his spit to reach Peter’s
bloodstream. The boy shudders and jerks but is otherwise compliant and
submissive below him.

Tony waits, teeth sunk in Peter’s neck, for some sign that it worked this time.
Nothing happens, and when Tony can pull out of Peter’s body, he
doesn’t—instead, he collapses exhaustedly on top of the boy, and fights off his
body’s pleas for sleep. He’s thirsty, hungry, and tired to his very soul, but
all of that is secondary to the lust still circulating in his blood. He manages
to raise his head enough to look at Peter, who is completely passed out; head
lulling to the side and breathing slow.

Tony grabs Peter’s hips and pulls their bodies flush together, making sure his
un-erect cock stays buried inside him as he shifts them to the edge of the bed.
Tony can’t stop, and if Peter’s heat doesn’t recede, they’ll die like this,
either of exhaustion or dehydration or both. He moves them to the side of the
bed where he slowly, carefully, one hand on Peter’s lower back and the other
beneath his head, lifts the boy into his arms, his thighs resting on his hips,
their bodies still conjoined between Peter’s legs.

It’s an uncomfortable position to carry someone in, given that Peter is leaning
away from his body, and Tony has to move incredibly slow to keep himself inside
of Peter, but at least like this he can move; his biology allowing him to go
where he likes as long as he remains immersed in his omega.

Peter’s hardly conscious—if he is at all—but at least he brings his hands up to
Tony’s shoulders to try and give them some balance. His grip is so loose that
Tony finds it hard to believe this kid possesses super-strength of any kind; if
he hadn’t seen it for himself, time and again, he wouldn’t believe it.

He maneuvers them to the ensuite bathroom, heading straight for the shower. The
stall is big enough for him to sit inside, legs straight out, Peter in his lap,
while he fumbles with the faucet. He turns the water on as cold as it will go,
but it feels lukewarm to them, through the stifling temperature of the room and
the blistering warmth of their own skin.

Tony tilts his head back and swallows as much water as he can snare, his dry
throat soaking up every drop. Peter is slumped against him, head collapsed on
his shoulder, completely unresponsive. Tony threads his fingers through the
boy’s hair, wanting to wake him up, get him to drink some water—but his body
comes alive again under the water’s cool spray and the scent of Peter’s throat
against his face. He moves his hands to Peter’s waist and lifts him up, feeling
the length of his shaft slide almost all the way out of his body, and then
forces him back down, bucking his hips upward to bury himself in to the hilt.

A hitch of breath is the only sign that Peter even notices, but Tony isn’t
paying attention; pulling and pushing the omega’s willing body in his lap, as
if every inch of the boy’s being was made to sheath his cock, to be fucked. His
thrusting is hard and desperate and his nails leave sharp, angry punctures in
Peter’s skin. He lowers his hands to grab Peter’s ass and grinds against him,
biting him, filling him up with his cock pressed in all the way to his balls.

Drenched, drained, and out of ideas, Tony gently lays both of them on their
sides on the shower floor. His stamina is on empty and so are his genitals; his
knot this time is small enough that it almost slips out of Peter’s abused hole,
not even able to swell up to its rightful size.

They lie there, cold water pelting their hot skin, Tony fighting to catch his
breath and Peter out cold. Tony gathers the boy into his arms and cradles him,
needing as much physical contact as he can get while he waits to recover.

“Sir, Dr. Banner is requesting to speak with you,” Friday says, her voice
echoing against the tiled walls. Tony sneers and buries his face in Peter’s wet
hair, growling, “No. Leave us alone, Friday. Mute.”

Friday doesn’t, of course, say anything in response, and Tony lets his eyes
close and his arms tighten around his omega. Doctor or no, friend or no, Bruce
is an alpha, and no way in Hell is Tony going to let another alpha near Peter
now, when Tony doesn’t even have the strength to stand up, let alone defend
them. Tony mouths against the colorful, swollen marks on Peter’s throat,
worshipping them. His mating-bites—not one, but two—on his omega, a sign to the
whole world that Tony had claimed Peter as his, regardless if the mating took
or not.

When Peter’s body begins to stir, and his beautiful, brown eyes slowly blink
open in the dimly-lit bathroom, Tony watches as his mind pieces together where
he is and what’s happening. Peter looks up at him, eyes suddenly wet with
tears, mixing in with the water falling down on them. His red lips part and
tremble as he lets out a small, shaky gasp, and Tony gently grabs the back of
his head and pulls him forward, pressing their lips together in a hot kiss, his
mouth swallowing Peter’s sobs.
***** Childhood Hero *****
Bruce is pacing the length of the living room, anxiously wringing his sweaty
hands together, when the elevator pings and Steve steps out.

Steve—understandably—looks startled and confused at the sight of Dr. Banner
alone in Tony’s penthouse, wearing a gas mask. He isn’t wearing his Captain
America getup, but he still commands all attention in the room; his frowning,
serious face evaluating Bruce critically.

“Dr. Banner,” he greets, approaching. “What’s going on? You said it was an
emergency.” Surveying the room quickly, Steve’s brows knit together a little
tighter, before his gaze settles back on Bruce. “Where’s Tony?”

“That’s kind of the emergency,” Bruce says, his tone wary, taut. “He’s going to
be pissed that I involved you, but, I’m out of my depth here.”

“He’s missing?”

“No,” sighs Bruce, tension radiating from him. “He’s here. But, I think he
needs help. Him and Peter,"

“Peter?” Steve asks, the confused expression deepening on his face. “Dr.
Banner, tell me what’s going on.”

Bruce takes a deep breath. “Peter’s an omega,” he says. “That’s why he got sick
on Saturday, he’d been suppressing his heat with medication that stopped
working. Tony went to check up on him, discovered that he and his aunt skipped
town, and followed them. He promised both of them that he wouldn’t send Peter
to a facility, so he brought him here.”

Bruce adjusts the strap of the gas mask, a nervous habit. “I examined him, but
I’m not even a MD, never mind one who specializes in omegan health. I came to
the same conclusion as everyone else: Peter was going to stay sick and only get
worse unless he was mated—since getting him looked at by a professional was out
of the question.”

“Where is he?” Steve asks, his voice firm. He doesn’t miss the worried twitch
in Dr. Banner’s shoulders.

“Tony’s mating him,” He confesses, stuttering. “Or—he’s—he’s supposed to be, I
don’t know anymore—they’ve been in there for so long, and he refuses to come
out, I—God, I don’t even know if they’re both still alive in there.”

Steve steps closer to Bruce, with the intention of calming him down, but his
squared shoulders and hard expression are much more threatening than they are
comforting.

“How long?” He asks.

“It’s almost been thirty-six hours,” he replies.

Steve’s eyes widen in disbelief. “A day and a half?  That’s impossible, there’s
no way it’s taken him that long.”

Bruce shakes his hands like there’s something on them. “Yeah, that’s my point,
Steve!” His voice becomes loud, agitated, and Steve lifts his hands, palms up,
pacifying. “He went in there and it’s been radio silence. All Friday tells me
is that he doesn’t want to be disturbed, and that he muted her, so she won’t
tell me what the fuck he’s doing or what’s taking him so long. I’ve pounded on
the door, but there’s no answer, and it’s locked.”

The doctor takes a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I called
you because I’m not prepared to let the other guy handle this. Not with Peter
in there.”

The captain walks up to Bruce and puts his hands on his shoulders, steadying
him. “I’ll handle this, Doctor,” he says. “You should go, this situation could
become way too stressful way too fast. If I need back-up, I’ll call Sam or
Colonel Rhodes. Deal?”

Bruce is quiet for a moment, then nods once, heading for the elevator probably
much more eagerly than he means to show. “I’ll wait for you at the compound,”
he says, “But call me if you need me.” And then the doors slide shut, and Steve
is left alone, where he finally lets his nervousness show. He and Tony hadn’t
seen or spoken to each other since the incident in the garage, that day Happy
drove Peter home.

“Friday,” he calls, “Which room are Tony and Peter in?”

“The first guest bedroom on the left, Captain,” she answers.

Steve walks briskly down the hallway until he reaches the right door, freezing
in front of it. These doors are built to withstand excessive force of all
kinds, and honestly, he’d rather not break it down if he doesn’t have to.
“Friday, can you tell Tony I want to speak to him?”

“I cannot, Sir. As Dr. Banner said, Mr. Stark has put me on mute,” comes her
indignant reply. Steve sighs.

“Can you at least tell me what’s going on in there?”

“I’ve been ordered not to monitor the room,” Friday says. “All cameras are
disabled.”

“Okay,” Steve says, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “How about this: can you
at least tell me if they’re both alive? For their safety? You are programmed to
override Tony’s orders if his life is in danger, right? So does that mean he’s
okay?”

Oddly, the AI is silent for a long moment, and then she says, “Mr. Stark is not
in danger,” in a slow, calculating tone, “However, my scanners indicate that
Mr. Parker requires immediate medical attention.”

“Why?” Steve demands, his tone severe. “What’s wrong with him?”

Again, Friday takes longer than usual to respond. “He has been falling in and
out of consciousness since yesterday,” she says. “And the length of time for
which he stays unconscious is growing increasingly longer. The facts suggest
that, were Mr. Parker a normal human, he would be dead.”

Steve grits his teeth. Peter’s healing factor is the only thing keeping him
alive? What in God’s name is Tony doing to him in there?

He raises his fist and bangs heavily on the door, hard enough to dent the
metal. “Tony,” he says, voice loud, authoritative. “It’s me. Come out of there
right now.”

Nothing happens. Steve waits a second more and then bangs again, louder,
harder. “Unlock the door, Tony, or I will break it down.”

“Captain Rogers,” Friday says, “Mr. Stark is requesting that you leave.”

Steve looks up at the intercom. “Tell him I’m not going anywhere, and that if
he doesn’t open this door, I will.”

“I am still on mute, Sir.”

Hard way it is, then. Steve takes a half-step back, raises his leg, and kicks
the door, hard, right below the handle. The metal folds and groans in protest,
but doesn’t snap open, not yet, so Steve continues slamming his foot into the
weakened spot over and over, until the barest hint of a gap is formed between
the door and the frame. That’s when Steve steps back, turns his body sideways,
and throws all of his weight shoulder-first against the dent he made.

The door swings open with a deafening crack, splinters of the steel doorframe
covering the floor in a hailstorm. Steve rights himself, not even out of
breath, and then freezes—the scent hits him like a bat, every muscle in his
body tensing.

Peter and Tony are on the bed, both naked, Peter lying on his stomach and Tony
on top of him, pinning his arms to the mattress. They both look up at Steve,
Tony’s gaze is dark, malicious, and Peter’s is hazy, out of focus, and beneath
that, afraid.

Steve is forced to swallow because his mouth is suddenly filled with saliva,
his clothing glued to his skin. The room is so hot; Steve can feel the sweat
beading at his hairline and dripping down his face. The smell of Peter’s heat
is like a shot of liquid lust right into his bloodstream and his erection
throbs painfully in his jeans. Before he can think not to, he’s crossing the
room to where Peter and Tony are.

Tony’s hands tighten painfully on Peter’s arms, and the boy whines from the
sting, trying to pull himself free. Truthfully, if he had the energy, Tony
would be lunging for Steve’s throat right now. The incredible, addictive scent
of his omega in heat is being sullied by the scent of another alpha—an enemy, a
rival—planning to steal him. Tony bares his teeth when Steve reaches the bed;
he’s too exhausted, too sore and too drained from however-long-it’s-been of
mating, to fight. He hadn’t even been able to get hard for the last several
hours, he’d just been lying here, keeping Peter pinned down, kissing and
sucking on his mating-bites and rutting softly against him.

He’ll resort to biting if he has to, but they both know that he’s in no
condition to fight Steve off.

That doesn’t mean he won’t try, though, because Peter, for the first time in
almost longer ago than Tony can remember, has started trembling again, his
fevered skin covered in goosebumps. It’s enough to make Tony snarl out a
vicious, “Get out, Rogers,” mustering more ferocity than he’s really capable of
right now.

Steve looks like he’s struggling to hold himself back. “He’s in heat,” he says.

Tony’s glare is the only part of him that isn’t exhausted at the moment. Steve
sets one knee on the bed, reaching toward them. “You mated him, but he’s still
in heat,” he’s talking fast, words almost jumbled together as he fights to stay
coherent.

“Let me help,” he rasps, grabbing Peter’s wrist, who lets out a whimpering sob
at the contact.

“No way in Hell,” Tony growls, but he can’t do anything to stop Steve from
pushing his shoulder over, forcing Tony to roll onto his back, bringing Peter
with him. He wraps his arms around his omega to keep them pressed as close
together as possible, but his front is left open and vulnerable to another
alpha—and Steve has his shoulder pinned to the bed, keeping them like that—Tony
practically holding Peter on open display for another man.

Steve stares hungrily at the mess of purplish red bruises that circle Peter’s
throat like a collar, swollen and soft from Tony’s constant ministrations.
Steve caresses the skin above Peter’s navel and Peter, who hasn’t spoken in
what feels like a day at least, says “Stop.”

His hand stills, so Peter says, a little stronger, a little more hopeful,
“Please don’t.” And then tries to pull away from Tony’s grasp, struggling
against the arms around him, though his movements are weak and futile.

Tony, despite being exhausted to the bone himself, easily restrains the tired
omega, tightening his grip on his body. When Peter refuses to stop resisting,
Tony unwraps one of his arms and brings his hand up to the boy’s head, grabbing
his hair and pulling his head to the side, intending to mouth at his throat to
subdue him, the only way he’s figured out how.

But Steve, damn him, gets there first. He leans down the moment Tony exposes
Peter’s abused throat and sucks on his bruised flesh, tasting his heat-soaked
skin. Peter’s sobbing turns to a despair-filled moan, hot tears rolling down
his cheeks. He travails to speak through the keening whimpers that force their
way out of him with Steve’s every touch. “Let go—” He can’t help the cry of
pleasure and pain that leaves him when Steve teethes at his throbbing bite
marks. “Let go of me—please—Steve—”

“You’re in heat,” Steve whispers, voice gruff with possessiveness and lust.
“Don’t worry,” He says between kissing the bruises on Peter’s throat. “You
won’t be when I’m done with you.” And then Steve finds the spot—the spot where
his mating bite will be—and when he attaches his mouth to it and sucks, hard,
Peter’s body goes limp with submission and he tosses his head back, moaning,
more wantonly than anyone, anything, Steve has ever heard.

Tony watches with grim fascination as another alpha dominates his omega into
resignation. It’s an odd feeling; a mix of possessive hate and morbid
curiosity—half of him hoping Peter wouldn’t react to the touch of another man,
and the other half strangely excited to watch, dumbstruck, as Peter is mated
and bred the way evolution and his biology intended him to be.

Regardless, it’s not up to Tony now. Steve is bright-eyed and well rested, not
to mention a fucking super soldier. Besides, Peter isn’t really—truly—his;
their mating hadn’t worked, which means, technically, he’s still up for the
taking.

And Steve, clearly, intends to take.

He grabs Peter’s wrists and pins them down against Tony’s body as he slips
himself between Peter’s legs, thrusting his clothed pelvis against the boy’s
slick entrance. Peter is helpless, sandwiched between the two alphas, one
restraining him and the other hell-bent on mating him.

Tony can’t really see Steve remove his pants, but he hears the button come
undone, the frantic pulling of his zipper, followed by a hasty rustling of
fabric, the familiar sound of denim against skin. Then Steve is back, on top of
both of them, still holding Peter by the wrists. Tony, unsure of why, pulls
Peter’s head further to the side; presenting the omega’s neck releases an
overpowering rush of pheromones into the air, and both he and Steve instantly
go for his throat, hungrily mouthing at his skin, their lips brushing against
each other more than not.

Peter cries out loudly and tearfully, and Tony knows that Steve entered him,
one quick, ruthless thrust.

Then Steve is fucking into Peter so hard that Tony’s body aches from the
pressure of it. The bed is soft, but it only sinks so far down, and Steve,
clearly, has no qualms about misusing his super-strength to shove both Peter
and Tony into the mattress. Tony feels his lungs constrict, the air pushed out
of them, and turns to look at one of Peter’s wrists, gripped violently in
Steve’s hand, undoubtedly already bruised beneath his fingers.

Steve is mostly quiet, except for his hot, panting breath, which slides over
Peter’s skin and onto Tony’s. The warmth and moisture is surprisingly not
unpleasant, and Tony lets his eyes slip closed, absorbing the sensation of his
omega’s body being fucked against his, the power of it; a complete and
undeniable act of domination.

The thrusting reaches an even greater speed and Tony can hear the bed posts
scratching the floor below them. Steve’s breath is coming out faster and more
high-pitched, his body crushing them harder, and then he’s moaning; a long,
drawn-out shout that he muffles by sinking his teeth into Peter’s throat,
making the omega wail, the sound echoing off the walls.

The thrusting comes to a stop slowly, like an engine powering down. Tony almost
laughs when Steve shifts his hips, testing the size of his knot just as Tony
had, making Peter sob in pain and then stopping, immediately, the same as Tony
had.

Unlike Tony, Steve apologizes by releasing Peter’s throat and instead, kissing
him, letting go of one of his wrists to cup his cheek and hold his face still.
Tony waits for the realization to set in that mating Peter hadn’t worked, the
scent of his heat still stifling the air, just as potent as it was before. It
takes a minute, and then sure enough, Steve leans down and inhales the bruised
expanse of Peter’s neck, breathing in his heat-ripe scent. He mouths at his
bite mark, at the skin around it, and then even at one of Tony’s, before he
resigns and accepts the disappointing truth; the only one of the three of them
who is surprised.

Steve releases Peter and pushes himself up, both Tony and Peter sucking in a
deep gulp of air when he removes his heavy weight. He leans back, supporting
himself on his knees, and rakes his eyes up and down Peter’s body, examining
him. Tony watches, bemused, as Steve openly fights the need to surge forward
and fuck the omega below him again, his cock standing rigid and leaking against
his stomach. Steve is practically shaking from repressing his urge to mate with
Peter a second time, and then finally, realization dawns on his face, a
lightbulb that’s been switched on. He scoots backward to give them more room,
and then reaches down, grabs Peter, and yanks him out of Tony’s arms.

Tony, furious, sits up to grab hold of Peter, but Steve cuts him off; his voice
as deep and domineering as any alpha could hope for—the perfect cadence of
authoritarian. “Sit back,” he growls, tightening his grip on the omega.
“Against the headboard.”

Tony gives him a sceptical look but obliges, lacking the strength to defy Steve
even if he wanted to. He moves back until he’s sitting upright, spine pressed
to the wall, and then, to his surprise, Steve hands Peter over to him, setting
him in Tony’s lap, his back to Tony’s chest. He’s sitting as straight as he
can, given his half-conscious state.

Steve, tenderly, leans down and kisses him, a soft peck to his lips. He raises
a hand to caress the sweat-soaked hair hanging over Peter’s forehead, and then
gently pushes his head back—Tony leaning his own head out of the way—until the
back of Peter’s skull touches the headboard, and every inch of his throat is
open and bare to them.

He kisses his mating bite, and then, to Tony’s amazement, reaches down and
wraps his hand, lightly, around the boy’s flaccid cock.

Peter jumps like someone shocked him. His fatigue seemingly vanishes, his body
jerks, and a clear and heartbreaking “No!” bursts from his lips. If not for
Steve’s hand keeping his head pressed against the wall, Peter would have leapt
off the bed entirely.

“Hold him,” Steve hisses, glaring venomously at Tony, who glares back and
gathers Peter’s wrists in one hand, the other looping around his waist,
securing him in his lap. Peter twists and bucks wildly, kicking his legs to try
and shake Steve’s hand off of him. Steve, in turn, sits up and traps both Peter
and Tony’s legs underneath him, sitting on them to halt Peter’s desperate
thrashing.

“No,” Peter whines, face white with horror. “No, don’t…”

“Shh,” Steve shushes him, leaning forward to kiss his throat again. “You’ll
like it.”

If Peter was intending to protest again, it’s swallowed up by the infectious
moan that rips its way from his throat when Steve gives his cock a long, firm
stroke. The boy tries, in vain, to shake his head no, dissenting with the hands
restraining him, molesting him.

Steve tightens his grip just a little, earning another involuntary moan from
the omega. He works his hand up and down steadily, until he finally brings
Peter’s cock to hardness, his grip growing tighter as the boy’s length swells
and stiffens beneath his fingers.

Tony, finally catching on, uses Steve’s hold on Peter’s hair as an opening to
mouth at his throat, finding all the places he’s spent the last dozens of hours
mapping out and memorizing; the spots that make Peter’s breath hitch and his
knees jerk reflexively. He kisses his way up to the lobe of his ear, takes the
skin gently between his teeth, and exhales a breath of hot air, tickling the
boy’s flesh in a way that he knows, from experience, feels amazing.

“Ah—” Peter cries, unable to hold it in, between the mouth on his neck and the
hand on his cock. Steve strokes him faster, tighter—his hand jerking up and
down expertly, wringing Peter’s shaft with such intensity that Peter can’t help
the way his hips thrust, urgently, in time with the alpha’s strokes. “Ah—” he
moans, his manhood dripping clear precum all over Steve’s hand as his climax
approaches. “—Ah,”

Then, cruelly, Steve stops, removes his hand and lifts himself up, kicking
Peter and Tony’s legs out from under him. Peter gasps and whines at the loss of
contact, his erection twitching desperately against his stomach. Steve parts
both his and Tony’s legs and sets himself between them, grabbing Peter’s thighs
and hiking his legs up to rest around Steve’s waist.

He resumes his tortuous molestation on Peter’s cock at the same time as he
thrusts himself deep inside his body, Peter practically bent in half between
Steve’s body and Tony’s, his knees almost touching his chest.

Tony holds Peter, arms wrapped around him, one hand clutching his wrists,
pressing him firmly to his chest to keep him upright under the force of Steve’s
thrusts. It takes every ounce of Tony’s strength to hold Peter in place; the
omega’s small, limp body being taken along for the ride of Steve’s brutal pace.

Steve’s hand in Peter’s hair slips down past his forehead, until his palm is
covering Peter’s eyes, pressing his head punishingly against the headboard. His
other hand pulls and tugs at the boy’s cock along with his thrusts, and when he
feels his own orgasm building, his head snaps up and he makes hostile,
unflinching eye contact with the other alpha.

“Bite him,” he orders, but Tony is way ahead of him, his teeth latching on to
his bite mark, making Peter’s mouth hang open in a silent scream. As his climax
overtakes him, Steve lunges forward, to the other side of his omega’s neck from
where Tony's still attached, to his own mating bite, and sinks his teeth into
the still-raw wound.

Peter’s aware, distantly, that he’s cumming—that the hot, near-scalding liquid
splashing his stomach and chest is his—before his vision goes black, his every
muscle weakening, and his body collapses bonelessly between the two alphas.

Tony releases his hold on Peter’s wrists when he feels the boy’s body slip
unconscious. He keeps his arms wrapped protectively around him—and really, he
can’t do anything else, not with Steve still crushing both of them against the
wall.

It takes a few more minutes of Steve panting to regain his breath and for his
knot to recede before he can finally pull out of Peter, his hand falling away
from the boy’s face, allowing his head to drop, almost lifelessly, onto Tony’s
shoulder. Steve and Tony look at each other, exhausted, but pleased that the
only thing they can both smell now is sweat and sex. The unpleasantness of the
room’s odor is completely swept up by their relief that Peter’s heat is
finally, blessedly, over.

Gently, Steve cradles Peter’s body and lifts him off of Tony, setting him down
between them on the bed. Tony groans dramatically and starfishes next to Peter,
one hand resting over his eyes, prima donna-esque. “I need some fucking food,”
he says.

“You need a shower,” Steve replies, groggily, collapsed lifelessly on the other
side of Peter.

“So does the kid,” Tony says and stretches, every muscle in his body screaming.
“You wanna take him to get washed up while I have one? I don’t even know if
I’ll have enough energy to clean myself.”

“Sure,” Steve mumbles, sounding half-asleep. “You got anything for him to
wear?”

“Uhh, yeah. Let me find something.”

Tony fetches some boxers, sweatpants, and a t-shirt from his own closet to give
to Steve before they go their separate ways: Tony electing to use his own
shower in the master bathroom, while Steve takes Peter to a different guest one
down the hall, taking Tony’s word for it that the one in their current guest
room needed to be cleaned before it could be used.

Peter is out cold, so Steve is extra gentle when he sets him on the floor of
the shower, scrubbing them both down and being mindful of Peter’s severely
bruised throat, wrists and hips. He’s careful not to let shampoo drip over his
closed eyes when he washes his hair, and he doesn’t let his hand linger
anywhere it doesn’t need to; he washes him quick and thorough, giving the boy
as much modesty as he can.

Steve thought it would feel different. He’d mated with Peter, but hadn’t bonded
with him—and, from what he could gather, Tony hadn’t either—so where does that
leave them? Without a bond, Peter belongs to no one, and in a month’s time
he’ll fall victim to another heat, and have to go through all of this all over
again.

Steve shuts the water off and towels them both dry, then rummages through the
medicine cabinet until he finds a tube of antibiotic gel to apply to some of
Peter’s worst injuries. Dried and dressed, he gently carries Peter to the
clean, unused bed in the next room, tucking him in. He caresses the boy’s head
for a moment, feeling the—finally—moderate temperature of his skin, before the
delicious smell of food cooking entices him away from his omega’s side and to
the other end of the hall, where he finds Tony, surprisingly, cooking.

“Smells good,” he says, glancing over the variety of breakfast foods.

“Help yourself,” Tony replies, shutting the stovetop off and handing Steve a
plate. “Just leave some for the kid. I’m gonna bring him a plate,”

“Breakfast in bed, huh?” Steve says, but there’s no real humor in it. Both men
glance at each other, awkwardly, before turning their attention back to their
breakfasts. “It’s been a… weird couple of days.”

Tony scoffs. “You can say that again.” And that puts a sufficient end to the
conversation, not to mention how ravenously Tony devours his meal; his hunger
from the last two days finally catching up with him.

Steve, ever the gentleman, volunteers to wash the dishes while Tony brings a
plate of food to Peter. As he approaches the room, his chest suddenly feels
tight with worry. Now that Peter’s heat isn’t controlling them, how is Peter
going to feel? They were supposed to be bonded, and if they were, morning-after
conversations wouldn’t even be an issue. But they hadn’t bonded, so what the
hell was Tony supposed to say?

He should probably start with I’m sorry.

Reaching the end of the hall, Tony decides to forego knocking, considering
Peter is most likely still comatose, anyway. He lightly pushes the door open
with the ball of his foot, steps inside the room and stops dead in his tracks,
his hands nearly losing their grip on the plate.

The bed is empty. The bathroom is empty.

Peter is gone.
***** The Right Thing *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“Friday, where the Hell did he go?”

Dread bubbles in Tony’s throat like he swallowed poison. He rushes from room to
room down the hallway, carelessly flinging doors open, fighting the urge to
scream. Peter is in no condition to be out of bed, let alone to leave the
tower.

“Mr. Parker left the building just over ten minutes ago,” Friday replies.

Tony stops in the doorway of his bedroom; his closet doors are open, clothes
strewn on the floor. “And you didn’t inform me of this why, exactly?”

The AI pauses. “You didn’t request that I do so, Sir.”

Tony grits his teeth. It made sense; it’s not like Tony ever set up a protocol
to have it announced whenever a guest left the penthouse. And he hadn’t told
Friday to monitor Peter, or that he was confined to this floor of the tower. He
didn’t think Peter would be able to sit up by himself, never mind walk around.
He’d underestimated him. He has no one to blame but himself.

“Show me the footage, Friday,” Tony says, re-entering the living room and
grabbing his Stark Pad from the coffee table. Behind him, Tony hears the soft
thuds of footsteps as Steve comes in from the kitchen, who then says, “What’s
going on?”

Tony has to stomp down on the impulse to lie. “Peter ran away.”

The Stark Pad presents the live feed of the penthouse’s security cameras as a
large, holographic screen that almost fills the living room as Steve says,
“How?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” Tony bites back. “Rewind, Fri. Show me
where he went and where he’s going.”

“I’ve confirmed that he’s left the tower, Sir. I’m accessing the street-view
cameras now and preparing an algorithm to determine where he’s headed.”

“Great. In the meantime, show me how he was even able to get out of bed,” Tony
says, tapping on the screen to select the camera view of Peter’s room while
Friday rewinds the footage.

How, it turns out, is painfully.

Steve stands next to Tony and they both watch, a mix of tension and concern
pervading them, as Peter slowly regained consciousness. His eyes blinked open
but there was no look of recognition on his face; no sense of knowing where he
was or what had happened. He lied there, awake but unmoving, for several
minutes before finally attempting to pull himself out of bed.

And he really did try. He lost his balance several times while trying to stand
up straight, an agonized expression on his face every time he collapsed back on
to the bed. Every little movement made his eyes water and his teeth clench in
pain. His first few steps were shaky and treacherous, Peter clinging to the
wall the entire time.

The camera view changes to the hallway. Peter practically dragged himself out
of the room and into the hall, using his spider abilities to keep himself
upright, his palms sticking to the wall when his knees buckled and he almost
went tumbling to the floor.

He moved slowly, until he got to Tony’s bedroom, where he dipped inside, a
little faster than he’d been moving previously, more frantic. The camera
switches to view the master suite.

Peter pulled open the closet door and reached for the first pair of shoes he
saw, dropping them on the floor in front of him and then slipping them on. Then
he reached up, stopped, a silent cry of pain on his face when he stretched his
back to grab the jacket hanging above him.

He hung his head, taking in deep gulps of air, shoulders trembling with the
ache. Then he tried again, biting his lip through the pain, grabbing the first
jacket his hand could reach and ripping it off the hanger. He slipped it on,
zipping it all the way up and then popping the collar to try and hide as much
of his bruised throat as possible. Then he started limping again, pulling
himself along the wall, out of Tony’s room.

The camera follows him, Tony and Steve watching as Peter forced himself to
walk, to keep moving, to get away.

To get away from them.

That much is obvious; it’s clear in the way Peter hesitated, looking around
corners, checking to make sure the coast is clear before hobbling to the
elevator, where he slumped against the wall, and urgently pressed the call
button. The doors opened and Peter practically threw himself inside; the camera
shows him, collapsed on the floor, as the doors slid shut.

Tony taps and slides his hand against the hologram, shutting it down.

“Was I supposed to let him die?” He asks Steve, pointedly avoiding eye contact.
His jaw aches from grinding his teeth together in frustration and guilt. “He
didn’t want to go to a facility, he didn’t want to mate, what was I supposed to
do?” He can feel Steve observing him and he fidgets in agitation. “He’s an
omega. It shouldn’t have been that big of a deal. No omega I’ve ever met has
been so against being mated.”

“You’ve only met bonded omegas,” Steve says, softly. “Who knows how they felt
about mating beforehand. It could actually be completely normal to be against
it, and we would have no idea, since the only omegas we meet have already been
bonded to their alphas.”

Tony sighs and pulls out his phone, opening the maps function. “Any luck,
Friday?”

“Yes, Sir,” Friday replies, “Using public CCTV footage, the rate of speed Mr.
Parker was moving in, and the direction he was headed, I’ve narrowed his
whereabouts to a two-block radius.”

“Sounds good to me,” Tony says, copying the radius onto his phone. “You take
one block and I’ll take the other, Cap?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, peering over Tony’s shoulder to read the street names in
question. “Afterward, we should probably take him back to the compound. I don’t
think he’ll want to come back here.”

“You’re right,” Tony says, guilt filling his chest like water, drowning him.

He has Friday monitor all public and private security systems outside the
radius of where she’s projected Peter to be, just in case he keeps moving while
they’re searching. The two blocks in question are both commercial avenues,
mostly restaurants and retail stores, and Tony dresses as casually as he’s
able, baseball cap and plain sunglasses to try and fend off as much attention
as possible.

His mind races. What if someone grabbed him? Someone could have seen the
extremely obvious bites and bruises on Peter’s neck and put two and two
together; what if they snatched him, a male omega, rare and vulnerable, while
he was alone and injured? If they somehow manage to successfully mate with
Peter, that’ll be that—Peter would belong to them, legally, biologically, and
no amount of money or superpowers would be able to change it.

Tony hates himself that that’s not what he’s really afraid of.

What if Peter refuses to come with him? Is he prepared to wrestle a teenager,
in public, and drag him back home, kicking and screaming? To force himself on
the kid, again, when he was so wrong last time? If only the mating had worked;
if only Peter was truly his omega, Tony would know where he is, would know if
he’s safe or not, and Peter never would have run. He could’ve had breakfast in
bed and anything else he wanted. Tony would have been able to apologize.

He checks store after store, asking every attendant and teenage employee he
sees, until he makes it to the end of the street. He beat Steve here, but then
again—Steve is probably going overboard and checking every rooftop and nook and
cranny.

The last store on the corner is a coffee shop, a charming, old-fashioned New
York style building that’s probably twice Tony’s age. He starts jogging up to
the front steps, hoping Peter is there, hoping Steve finds Peter first, when he
sees him.

The building next to the coffee shop is conjoined to it on an angle, creating a
deep, almost-perfectly-ninety-degrees corner that’s not quite far enough off
the sidewalk to be an alleyway. There’s an old, rusty, rickety bike rack
sitting there, too worn down to be of any use anymore, except for people to tie
their dogs to.

The dog in question is a great big bullmastiff, large and muscular enough that
he could rip that bike rack out of the cement with a single tug if he wanted
to. Sitting next to him, back pressed against the brick wall, head leaning
against the junction of where both buildings meet in the corner, is Peter. The
dog is lying beside him, their bodies not quite touching, staring Tony down.

Tony’s not really in the mood to be mauled by eighty pounds of fur and teeth,
but that dog is standing—lying—between him and his omega.

He squares his shoulders as best he can and approaches.

“Peter,” he says when he gets close, mindful of the way the dog is following
him. “Peter, it’s me. Wake up.”

Peter’s eyes slowly open, his head still pressed to the wall. He’s not all
there yet; his eyes are still unfocused, unseeing. The dog sits up straighter
when Tony crouches down next to them, but doesn’t seem particularly interested
in eating Tony, thankfully.

Tony pulls out his cell phone and calls Steve, who practically sprints to their
location and then walks around the dog like it isn’t even there.

“Stay with him,” Tony says, “I’ll go grab a car.”

Steve nods, kneeling in front of the boy as Tony leaves. “Peter,” he says,
cradling Peter’s face in his hands. “We were so worried about you.”

Peter’s voice is quiet and hoarse and sounds nothing like him.

“I just want to go home.”

“We’re taking you home, Peter,” Steve says, gently. Peter’s eyes almost seem to
light up—hope, relief, a look of gratitude—almost like he might cry, his eyes
widening the slightest bit, and then Steve says, “To the compound.”

For a moment, Peter seems like he’s going to beg. But he doesn’t. His gaze
falls from Steve’s face to the pavement, his eyes darken, and then they close.
He doesn’t resist when Steve wraps an arm around his shoulders and under his
legs and lifts him from the ground. The dog whines when they start to walk
away, but Peter says nothing.

He doesn’t say anything when Steve maneuvers him into the backseat of the car
Tony pulls up in, doesn’t say anything when Steve climbs in with him and lays
Peter down, his head in Steve’s lap, and doesn’t say anything the entire way to
the compound, though he passes out halfway there.

When they get inside, the first thing Tony does is ask Friday to tell Bruce to
meet them outside Peter’s room. Steve carries Peter, out cold, all the way from
the garage to his bed and then tucks him in, with Tony’s help. They turn off
the lights and step outside the room, and Tony looks at Steve—who looks back,
his expression turning grave, and then nods to Tony. Tony sighs and says,
“Friday, let me know the second Peter wakes up. If he tries to leave his room,
tell me or Steve. If he tries to leave the compound… don’t let him.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Steve clasps a hand on his shoulder and squeezes reassuringly. “It’s for his
own good. Just until we can talk some sense into him.”

“I know,” Tony says.

They both turn to look down the hall as Bruce appears around the corner, his
anxious face relaxing somewhat when he sees them. “Oh, thank God. I was this
close to sending Natasha and Clint in after you guys.”

Tony grimaces. “Yeah, no thanks. That would have been awful.”

Even Steve looks slightly perturbed. “I’m sorry we didn’t contact you sooner,
Bruce. We’ve had our hands full.”

“Is he okay?” Bruce asks, eyeing Peter’s closed door. “His heat’s over? He’s
all right now?”

“It’s over,” Tony says. “No thanks to me.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow at him. “So you want to tell me what the Hell happened
in there?”

Tony looks at Peter’s door and then nods his head toward the end of the hall.
“Yeah, but let’s talk somewhere else.”

They head into the living room where Natasha is standing, seemingly waiting for
them, gazing sternly in their direction when they enter. Tony eyes her up and
then turns to Bruce. “You told her,” he says, accusingly.

“I told everyone,” Bruce confesses, refusing to look at Tony, who groans
dramatically and sinks down into the couch, dropping his head into his hands.
He looks up a moment later and almost jumps out of his skin when he sees
Natasha, sitting on the coffee table in front of him, their knees almost
touching, her eyes cold. “Start talking,” she says.

Tony takes a deep breath. “Mating him didn’t work. Don’t ask me why because I
have no earthly idea. I followed my instincts, but nothing happened, and then I
was stuck in a heating frenzy that wouldn’t end and it was so overpowering that
I could hardly think. In between trying to mate, I kept dragging the both of us
to the shower to try and keep us hydrated, but that just exhausted me even
more.” He nods his head to Steve. “Then Captain America saved the day.”

Natasha turns and looks at Steve, expectantly. Steve’s face goes a bit pink and
honestly, Tony would laugh if the tension in the room wasn’t so suffocating.

“Mating didn’t work for me either,” he says, uncomfortably. “I don’t think
Peter’s heat affected me as badly as it did Tony. I’m not sure why, maybe it
was the serum. I could still think, but I didn’t really have much control.
Peter wanted me to stop and… I couldn’t.”

Natasha’s serious expression ebbs away with surprise. “He wanted you to stop?
In the middle of his heat?”

There’s a moment of silence before Tony bites the bullet and says, “He wanted
us to stop all along.”

Natasha is silent, but when she turns to look at Tony, her face is furious. He
feels pinned to his seat beneath the weight of her glare, which is an
impenetrable force, holding him down. “And you didn’t.”

“He was sick,” Tony says, defensively. “I thought he was going to die. He
couldn’t eat, he was passing out, he was throwing up and had a raging fever.
The kid couldn’t even stand up and he was shaking like a Parkinson’s patient.
The only thing I’ve ever known about an omega in heat is that you can only
suppress them with two things: mating and drugs, and the drugs were out. I
didn’t know what else to do. I wasn’t about to let Peter die over it.”

Natasha continues gazing at him, her eyes hard, before she turns them on Steve
and says, “So if mating him didn’t work, how did you suppress his heat?”

Steve’s face goes red all the way to his hairline and he coughs. “I, uhh. I
touched him. While we, you know… tried to mate with him. I just sort of—I don’t
know, I noticed he wasn’t—Jesus—he wasn’t erect. It just made me think that
maybe his body needed release, too, for the pheromones to stop. And it worked.”

This time it’s Bruce who chimes in, confusion evident on his face. “He wasn’t
erect or consenting? Are you sure he was really in heat?”

“You know he was, Bruce, you examined him,” Tony says, rubbing a hand over his
eyes. “I don’t know if it’s the radioactive spider-bite or if male omegas are
just different, but, he was definitely in heat. I guess my mistake was assuming
he’d operate exactly like a female omega when it came to mating him.”

“Well of course not,” Natasha says, condescendingly. “Peter’s a boy.”

“Funny, that’s what he kept saying.”

Natasha gives him a look. “You really didn’t think about trying to pleasure him
that entire time you were in there?” Tony glares at her, offended. “Uhm, hi—I
was kind of concentrating on the whole not dying thing. And I’ve never had sex
with another guy before, so, sue me if it just sort of slipped my mind—my mind
that wasn’t fully functioning, if I may remind you—that I needed to pay extra
attention to the parts of him that weren’t spewing pheromones like a Viagra-
dispensing air freshener.”

“Let’s not argue about this,” Bruce says, more firmly than anyone in the room
expected from him. “For Peter’s sake, I think we should keep these details to a
minimum. Especially if he’s feeling violated. We owe him that much.”

Natasha nods, but Tony and Steve share a glance, both their faces creased with
worry. Steve takes the plunge before Tony can, story of their whole friendship.
“That’s the other issue,” he says.

Natasha and Bruce look at him, more than a little apprehensive.

“He ran away,” Steve says, trying to maintain eye contact with Nat, but unable
to completely stop his nervous instinct to lower his gaze. “After we suppressed
his heat. We left him alone for maybe half an hour and he practically crawled
out of the building to get away from us.”

No one says anything for a good few minutes, so Tony says what they’re all
thinking. “We’re gonna have to go through all of this again in a month, and I
don’t know if Peter will be able to handle it. I already have him basically
locked up in his room. Friday’s been ordered to watch him 24/7 because he’s
already said he’d rather fling himself from my penthouse than be mated. And
that was before he was mated for almost two straight days. We have to figure
something out.”

Bruce looks at Tony and then at Natasha, whose face says she’s thinking the
same thing he is. “This time we’re going with my plan,” Bruce says. “We’re
finding him a MD who specializes in omegas. We’ll buy one if we have to. No
more screwing with things we don’t understand.”

Steve interjects, “And what if that doctor can’t be bought?” he says. “What if
he decides he’d rather study Peter in a facility, where he doesn’t have a team
of superhuman alphas protectively hovering over him?” Steve looks directly at
Natasha. “You really think if Ross finds out, he’ll be on our side? Because I
don’t. I think he’ll say we’re better off without an omega on the team and
thanks to the Accords, we’ll either have to step aside while Peter is dragged
off to God-knows-where, or start a war with almost every government on Earth to
keep Peter away from them.”

Bruce stares at Steve, not quite a glare, but far from friendly. “So what
exactly are you suggesting we do instead, Steve? Are you telling me we’re going
to lock a fifteen-year-old kid up in our base and take turns raping him once a
month? Each of us doing shifts of suicide-watch to make sure he doesn’t get his
hands on any pointy objects?” Steve stares Bruce down hard in anger, but Bruce
doesn’t so much as blink. “I realize trying to find a doctor could go sideways.
But it could also be the best thing we ever do for that kid, not to mention
other kids like him, who are going without help the same way he is because not
enough is known about his biology yet. It’s a gamble, but it’s the only humane
option we have left.”

“No,” Natasha says, to the surprise of all three men. “This time, we’re going
to actually do the right thing. We’re going to let Peter decide.”

“Peter’s a kid,” says Tony, almost disbelievingly. “Isn’t it our
responsibility, as adults, to make the best decision for him?”

“Not anymore,” Natasha spits, harshly, turning on Tony with venom in her eyes.
“Peter is not a ten-year-old, Tony. He’s not twelve, he’s not thirteen. He is
fifteen-years-old, and on top of that, he’s a superhero, which you seem to
conveniently forget, or ignore. He’s a member of this team and we all owe it to
him to let him make his own decisions. You should know that, you’re the one who
allowed him to join.”

“I did that so I could protect him,” Tony says, and the anxious, worn-down look
on his face gives Natasha pause. “If we let him get taken away, I won’t be
there to protect him anymore.”

Natasha eyes him, glancing over his face like she’s cataloguing his expression,
then reaches out her hand and places it, gently, reassuringly, on his knee. “It
needs to be up to him, Tony. It’s the best thing we can do for him after what
he’s just been through. We might not like it, he might not like it, but even
so, he’s an omega. There will be hardships he has to go through because of
that, and it isn’t fair, but we can only do so much. We’re heroes, Tony, but
we're not gods—”

“Well, Thor is, technically—”

“Shut up, that’s not the point. The point is, we have to let Peter have this
choice, no matter how we feel about it. If what he chooses ends in disaster,
we’ll do the only thing we can: we’ll be there for him, support him, and keep
him safe, to the best of our abilities. That’s all we can do, Tony. It isn’t
fair, but that’s life, Peter’s life. This is just the hand Peter was dealt.”

The rest of them are quiet, a long moment of silence passing over them, before
Steve says, “Nat’s right.”

Bruce nods, and then they all look to Tony, who seems to have suddenly aged a
decade in five minutes, tired bags of exhaustion set deep beneath his eyes, his
lips tight in a frown.

“Okay,” he says. Natasha smiles gently, and it’s weird to Tony how well the
motherly look suits her. She pats his knee once more before getting up and
heading toward the hall. “I’ll be the one to talk to him,” and then she turns
around and gives them all a look that says what she really meant is: stay out
of this. Then she turns and is gone.

The rest of them are quiet and contemplative for another long minute before
Tony spouts, “Should I get him a dog?”
Chapter End Notes
     Hey guys, sorry this update was a little slower this time: I'm having
     an extremely busy weekend, and unfortunately I probably won't be able
     to update again until Monday. I want to say thank you to all of you
     for reading this this far, for all the kudos, and the amazing
     comments, all of which completely make my day! You guys are awesome
     and I'm very grateful. <3
***** Answers *****
Chapter Notes
     I'm so sorry for the wait you guys; I had a crazy weekend, and then
     my computer and internet were giving me all kinds of grief, and I had
     to wait until I could get someone to look at it to finish this
     chapter. But everything's fine now and updates should continue as
     usual. Enjoy. <3
Waking is awful. Not as awful as falling asleep had been, but still abrupt and
jarring and altogether intrusive, like being shoved in a direction you had no
intention of going. Peter hardly has the energy for his fingers to twitch,
never mind to open his eyes, which feel heavy and sodden with a week’s worth of
unsatisfactory sleep. His body is drained—of energy, of sustenance, and of
drive. It aches from top to bottom; his neck, in particular, throbs with deep,
vein-disrupting bruises. And there are other aches—aches in places that Peter
forces himself not to feel, just so he won’t have to think about them.

He doesn’t want to think about anything. But that’s the dark face of any real
tragedy that befalls you; afterward, not a single thing will fail to remind you
of it. It had been the same when Uncle Ben died. The true insidiousness of
grief is that it lays its traps beneath every action of day-to-day life,
waiting until you come along and trigger it, so it can rear its ugly head. No
matter where you go, no matter whom you’re with, no matter what you do—there
will always be a thought, or a memory, or an unfulfilled wish that lets the
grief swell in your throat; a thick, undefeatable substance, like a pill you
can’t swallow.

Trauma, Peter realizes, is the same. Not quite the sharp, poisoned sting of
loss, but the same inescapability, the same ruthlessness. He can feel it draped
over his body like a layer of concrete, encasing him, restricting him—the
heaviness is in-part from the sheer exhaustion in his bones, but there’s
more—scents, sensations, sounds—voices—saying—God, no, don’t say it—he can’t
move, his wrists are caught, and his neck, pinned—

Friday, lock the door.

Peter’s eyes snap open like a blade of lightning ran through him, his chest
heaving in deep gulps of air and his skin moist with sweat. He recognizes the
layout of the room as is own, all the little personal changes he made, the
framed photo on the bedside table of Uncle Ben and his six-year-old self,
building a model train at the kitchen table, neither of them even noticing Aunt
May holding a camera.

They still had that camera. Aunt May had given it to him.

“Peter?” Comes a soft, familiar voice. A gentle hand wraps around his own, and
Peter turns his head, meeting Black Widow’s gaze with exhausted, unfocused
eyes.

She smiles at him, warm, comforting. “You’ve been asleep for quite a while. Are
you feeling any better?” She asks, holding his hand a little tighter.

Peter opens his mouth to speak, but the flood of air over his aching throat
muscles choke him up and make him cough. Natasha is there in an instant, gently
lifting his head and pressing a large glass of water to his lips, which he
sucks down desperately, gratefully.

“A little slower,” she says, levelling the cup a bit to stem the flow of water.
“You’ll make yourself choke.”

Peter takes a deep breath through his nose and obliges, drinking large, slow
mouthfuls until the cup is empty. Natasha gingerly lowers his head back down to
the pillow and returns to her chair next to his bed, her hand finding and
holding his once more.

“Peter, were you able to eat anything after you went home to your aunt’s on
Saturday?” She asks, her free hand smoothing out the creases in his blanket.
Peter tiredly shakes his head, letting his eyes slip closed again though the
room isn’t very bright—the light heavily filtered through the mostly-closed
blinds.

Natasha hums in acknowledgement, though Peter suspects she knew that already.
“I want you to try and eat, okay? You’re going on about four days without food,
so your stomach might disagree with trying to eat now, but if you go slowly it
should hopefully whet your appetite so we can get some real food into you,” she
says while reaching over and grabbing a plate, topped with thin, peanut butter-
coated crackers.

The idea of eating really does sound profoundly unappealing to Peter right now,
especially the thought of how much energy it would take—or worse, Natasha
feedinghim. But she sits him up anyway, propping his back against the wall
cushioned with pillows, and sets the plate evenly in his lap. He takes a
cracker, but it’s mostly for the sake of being agreeable—because, really, Peter
just doesn’t have the strength to fight another alpha on one more single thing.

He doesn’t really taste it, and his head throbs with every chew. It’s a manual
action, moving his jaw up and down, aggravating the tiredness in his muscles.
She told him to take it slow and he certainly does; it takes him three attempts
to swallow the mere morsel of food. Natasha offers him another glass of water
when he manages to finish eating the single cracker, and it’s a miracle that
he’s only vaguely humiliated by how badly his arm is shaking from the effort of
lifting the glass to his lips.

He waits a good few minutes before taking another, his head leaning back,
against the wall, his eyes closed. But this—his throat’s bare, his head’s
trapped against the wall—and there’s a—the hand, on his forehead, and breath,
on the back of his neck—teeth…!

Shh. You’ll like it.

His knee jerks so forcefully that the plate of crackers almost flips, but
Natasha is there, catching it and swiping the glass of water from his hand
before he can dump it all over himself, suddenly wracked with panicky
convulsions. He wraps his arms tightly around his chest and tries to breathe
through the pain-stricken sobs that are caught in his throat, like his lungs
are filled with heavy, barbed stones.

“Peter,” Natasha says, her hand falling gently on his shoulder, though he
flinches violently away from her, hissing at the contact—her hand, too close to
his neck—and curls in on himself, hardly stifling the sobs spilling from his
mouth.

“Don’t, don’t, please don’t touch me, please, I’m begging you,don’t…”

She doesn’t, but he can feel her presence all around him, her hands hovering
above his shoulders, only inches away from grabbing him, pinning him.

But nothing happens. Natasha sits back down, quietly murmuring soothing words,
“It’s okay, Peter, no one’s going to hurt you.”

It’s going to be all right. I’m not going to hurt you.

“I hate this,” Peter sobs, holding his head in both hands, his palms pressed
tightly against his closed eyes. “Why did they—God,” He doesn’t finish, because
he knows—there is no answer. The same way there was no answer to why Ben had to
die. Sometimes, in life, you just have to lose. Things are taken from you;
people, and parts of yourself.

Natasha waits until his sobbing evens out to somewhat-controlled, steady, deep
breaths, his head still hanging in his hands, knees drawn up to his chest
protectively. Then she says, “Peter,” in a soft but even tone; tender, but
firm. “I know how much you’re hurting right now. I’m sorry you had to go
through what you did,” She rests her hand near his legs, but doesn’t grab him,
getting as close as she can without disregarding his request.

“I know it’s unbearably hard to think past how much you’re suffering right now,
but please—try to understand. Steve and Tony never meant to hurt you. Steve
especially. They would never have done those things to you if their biology
hadn’t made them.”

“Then maybe alphas are the ones who should be locked away in facilities,” Peter
says, though there’s no bite to it; his voice quiet and rough and defeated.

“If the population was reversed, I’m sure they would be,” Natasha replies. “And
if evolution wasn’t so prone to screw-ups, I wouldn’t be an alpha, and you
wouldn’t be an omega. We both lost the reproductive lottery. As much as my
biology may want me to, as a female alpha, I’ll never truly be able to bond
with an omega,” she says, and Peter looks up at her, red-rimmed eyes through
the tresses of his bangs. She gives him a small, sad smile, and for the first
time Peter feels a tug of belief at her words—she does understand, maybe not
everything, but the betrayal of her own body—that she does get.

“I’m as powerless against an omega in heat as any other alpha,” she continues.
“But even if I slept with them, I could never claim them the way a male alpha
could. I can put a mating bite on them, but even if I mated with a male omega,
males can’t knot, and neither can I. The mating would never truly take, no
matter how many times I suppressed their heat.”

She reaches, tentatively, for his hand, and when he shows no sign of pulling
away, she lays her palm on his, lacing their fingers together. “Peter, you were
born the way you are, and illogical or not, it’s something you have to live
with. I know it isn’t fair, and I’m so incredibly sorry that it was forced on
you, and by those two, of all people. I know they must have been the very last
alphas you ever wanted to be in that situation with. You’ve looked up to them
so much, all this time.”

Peter doesn’t try to stop or hide the tears that flood down his cheeks.
Natasha’s thumb runs gently over the back of his hand, lovingly.

“They care about you, Peter, more than you can even understand, especially
right now. I know it sounds cruel, but Tony honestly, truly believed he was
doing right by you. And, as messed up as it is, if mating you had worked, he
would have been right. The power of bonding to him would have eased your
reservations about having him as an alpha, if the mating hadn’t failed.”

“I knew it would,” Peter says, hardly above a whisper. “I mean—I didn’t know,
but, I was pretty sure it—but he wouldn’t listen.”

“How did you know, Peter?”

“Because I’m straight.” And the words feel a little silly as soon as they leave
his mouth, especially with the way Natasha blinks at him, observing him, but
it’s the truth; he can remember it, clearly, despite being mid-heat, not
wanting to be touched by another man, feeling a little appalled, a bit
disgusted by the very idea.

The look Natasha gives him is so damn pitying that Peter’s almost sick.

“From what I know about mating, it really isn’t supposed to matter, which I
know sounds backwards. If two people are going to be bonded for the rest of
their lives, they really should be attracted to each other, but, from what I’ve
heard, it isn’t typically all that relevant.” Natasha says.

Peter shrugs, his gaze falling to their still-linked hands. “All I know is,
even though I was in heat, I didn’t feel… good. My body wanted things that I
didn’t. I didn’t want them touching me. They weren’t just alphas, they were—”
But the rest dies in his throat, caught on the coattails of a scream. Iron Man
and Captain America. Even in the throes of his heat, where his every nerve-
ending was on fire with the literal need to be touched, they were still Mr.
Stark and Cap to him.

And he was just the omega.

I’m going to fuck you now, omega.

Peter slips his hand out of Natasha’s and cradles his forehead again, a slow,
shaky breath exhaling from him. He curls up until his head can rest on his
knees and just breathes, trying to stomp down on the hysterical scream he has
bubbling in his stomach; on the rage and despair that are spiralling within him
like a hurricane.

“What am I gonna do?” He says more than asks, his hopelessness consuming the
part that was meant to be a question. Natasha lays her hand on his upper back,
almost feather-light, and says, “We need to talk about that, Peter. There are a
couple of options and… they need to be very carefully considered. We’re here to
help, but ultimately, we’re leaving the choice up to you. None of us are here
to control your life. We’re a team. Whatever you decide, we’ll support you. All
of us.”

We’re a team.

“I still get to be Spider-Man?” He says, looking up at her again. “I
mean—you’re still letting me be on the team? Like before?”

She smiles, but there’s an edge to it that sets off worrying alarms inside him.
“If you choose to, Peter, then we will. It’s one of the options to think
about.”

“What are the other options?”

She looks at him severely for a moment, and then claps her hand gently on his
back and says, “Before that, you haven’t had enough food. Think you can try
something a little more substantial now? Like a sandwich?”

Peter still isn’t particularly hungry, but if he has to eat before he can learn
what the disadvantage of staying Spider-Man is, he’ll gladly eat whatever
Natasha gives him.

The sandwich turns out to be really good. The conversation that follows it is
not.

Peter’s half-glad Natasha made him eat the whole thing before they delved into
this discussion. If she hadn’t, he never would have been able to—he’s not sure
he’ll ever be able to eat again, not with this insurmountable death sentence
hanging over him, like he’s an umbrella on a beach, caught in the shade of a
looming tidal wave, blocking out the sun.

Neither choice is really a choice. It feels more like an ultimatum. Risk being
carted off by strangers to a government facility, possibly experimented on, and
then mated off, or… or—

Or stay an Avenger-in-training, stay Spider-Man, stay here… and be helpless
once a month to any—if not every—alpha in the compound while his body goes into
heat.

Natasha says she’s giving him a choice, but it feels more like she’s asking him
to pick which rope he’d rather hang himself with.

There’s a chance a doctor could be bought off, but even if they could—what
then? There’s no guarantee they could help Peter—and really, the prestige of
bringing in a male omega for examination would probably be worth more than
whatever Tony could pay them. After all, only 4% of the entire human population
is omegan, and of that 4%, only 1% are male. That’s less than 27,000 people
worldwide. There are probably only a few thousand on the entire continent, and
Peter is one of them. If a doctor decided he’d get more from Peter in his own
lab, that would be that. Thanks to the Accords, there would be nothing any of
them could do. It’s a gamble.

But the alternative is a thought worse than death.

But the alternative is the only way he can continue being Spider-Man.

“Nothing has to be decided right this minute, Peter,” Natasha says, rubbing his
back again. “There’s a good chance this is one of the toughest choices you’ll
ever make, so take some time. Just remember, whatever you decide, all of us are
on your side. Okay?”

“Okay,” Peter says, but doesn’t really hear the word come out of his mouth.
Natasha squeezes his shoulder reassuringly and stands, heading for the door.
“I’ll give you some time alone, but I’ll be in my room if you need me,” and
leaves.

Peter swings his legs over the side of the bed like he’s going to stand, but he
doesn’t. He sits there, on the edge of his bed, looking down into his lap, too
much of everything to even cry. His hands rest limply beside his thighs and he
stays like that, head down, until the day is gone and the compound is silent.
Even that scream he had to stomp down on earlier is gone. The room is pitch
black, and Peter sits, on the edge of giving up, immobile, unthinking.

And then a familiar, buzzing-like noise fills the room as Vision phases through
the wall, standing momentarily silent before he calls, “Friday, turn the lights
on, please.”

“Yes, Sir,” Friday replies, and brightly illuminates the room.

“Peter,” Vision says, moving to stand in front of the boy. “It has come to my
attention that a certain list of activities is necessary here. Would you care
to join me in the theater room for movies and high-sodium foods?”

Vision waits, but Peter says nothing, head still lowered. There’s not a single
twitch of his muscles to indicate that he even heard him. The rise and fall of
his chest is almost too insignificant to be seen.

Peter doesn’t notice when Vision leaves, and doesn’t notice when Vision
returns, but doesnotice when a heavy, thick blanket is draped over his
shoulders, and when Vision kneels down in front of him, pulling the blanket
around him, wrapping him in its soft, grounding weight. He looks up and into
Vision’s eyes, and is struck by the intensity of the compassion he finds there.

“Don’t go inside, Peter,” Vision says, every word coated with confidence.
“Don’t run, no matter how tempting the escape might be. Your destiny is in your
hands, and not even evolution can take that away from you. Biology is not the
only thing that shapes the course of a life. The choices you make will always
have a greater impact, and you are not alone. Everyone here is right beside
you, supporting you. Whatever you may decide, you have every one of us in your
corner. Do not give up now.”

Peter doesn’t realize he’s crying until his voice trips over the sob he’d been
unknowingly holding back. “I’m scared.”

Vision closes his eyes and presses his forehead against Peter’s, the infinity
stone warm and dimly humming between them. “You don’t have to be scared by
yourself.”

Peter’s eyes close and he lets the tears continue dripping down his face until
they stop. Vision waits until Peter’s breathing is even and relaxed before he
pulls away, helping the boy to his feet, blanket still tucked tightly around
him, and leads him out of the room and to the home theater.

Clint shows up first, and in typical Hawkeye fashion, makes a huge scene that
Vision and Peter decided to have a Lord of the Ringsmarathon without him.
“Thank God Stark isn’t here, if I have to hear one more damn Legolas joke…” he
grumbles, stealing a handful of popcorn from the bowl in Peter’s lap. “Where is
he, anyway?”

“In his lab, I believe,” Vision says, on Peter’s other side, toying with a
particularly difficultly-wrapped juice box straw, to Clint’s delight.

“What are we watching?” Says Wanda as she and Natasha enter, each holding their
own snacks, Clint sniggering at Wanda’s cartoonish slippers as the girls sit.

“Now I know you guys aren’t watching The Fellowship without me,” Sam calls from
the hallway, appearing a moment later with a beer in one hand and a microwaved
burrito in the other. “You backstabbing sons of bitches. My invite better have
been lost in the mail.”

“You live here,” Natasha says, eyeing Sam with mock-annoyance as he plops down
in the chair next to her. “Steve not with you?” She asks.

“Nah, Grandpa’s in bed. 10 P.M. is practically the witching hour to the
elderly,” Sam says, earning a laugh from Clint, who cheers him with his own can
of soda.

By the time the second movie starts, Peter is fast asleep, head leaning fully
against Vision’s shoulder, who slouches a little to make sure the boy’s a bit
more comfortable.

“You want me to put him to bed?” Clint whispers, nodding to Peter. Vision
shakes his head.

“Let him sleep here,” he says, and settles in, determined to stay right where
he is until Peter wakes.

The next two weeks pass by unbearably slow and unreasonably fast all at once.

Peter spends every waking second of alone time thinking about the choice he has
to make, but honestly, his times alone seem to be few and far between. If it’s
not Vision or Natasha, it’s Clint, or Sam, or Wanda or Bruce, or sometimes all
of them, interrupting his thoughts whenever they stray too deep, and pulling
him out. Whether it’s Wanda’s psychic abilities or Peter really being that much
of an open book, he has no idea, but whenever a dark, corrupt thought comes,
slithering its way to the front of his mind, one—if not all—of them are there,
ready with distractions, the natural, laidback atmosphere of the compound
enveloping them.

Happy shows up mid-week with two bags full of homework from Peter’s school,
which he gratefully accepts, even if… even if he doesn’t ever go back, it’s one
more welcomed distraction, one more normal, safe thing.

Late-night movies and junkfood become a nightly routine, all of the Avengers
piling into the home theater with a mountain of unhealthy food, Peter in his
usual spot, between Natasha and Vision, wrapped in the same fluffy white
blanket Vision had draped him in that first night. On the second movie night,
Sam drags Steve in, intercepting the man on his way to bed. Peter and Steve
make brief, petrified eye contact before Steve takes an aisle seat, trying to
ignore the tense, rigid ball Peter curls into, and the splattering of deep
purple bruises circling his neck. Vision and Natasha lean in closer together,
fractionally, until Peter’s shaking dies down.

On the fourth movie night, Rhodey joins in, and on the fifth, he brings Tony,
grumbling under his breath, dirt and oil smudging his clothes from the
workshop. Clint dramatically shushes him, which starts a heated exchange of
quips, and ends with a wasteful and disruptive impromptu food fight, popcorn
and chips raining down on the innocent and unsuspecting Avengers in the front
row. Peter, eyes closed, ignoring the chaos, settles in resignedly in his usual
spot, the sounds of Tony’s indignant voice and Steve’s fed-up scolding rushing
over him like gasoline, to be ignited at any moment. He waits, still and
apprehensive, for the hand to grab him, the mouth to press to his ear, against
his neck—but it never comes, and soon everyone settles back down, focusing
again on the movie, quiet and content in each other’s presence. It takes longer
for Peter to fall asleep that night, but eventually he does, his feet
practically in Vision’s lap and his head almost landing on Natasha’s thighs.

And that turns into a sort-of routine for two full weeks; homework and bonding
with Avengers one-on-one during the day, and movie-watching group shenanigans
at night. Things are starting to feel—not normal, exactly—Peter knows there
will never be normal again, never be a way for things to feel like before,
because there is only after now—but they feel… good. Calm. Not quite safe, not
yet, but… for the moment, things feel contained.

And then the eye passes over and the storm hits.

It happens over breakfast. Vision and Wanda are away on a mission, and Natasha
and Bruce are meeting with Ross—in Tony’s stead, who refused to go—Clint
standing over the stove, cooking pancakes for the rest of the Avengers, Sam and
Peter sitting at the island counter, Sam stirring a warm pot of berries to make
drizzle, Peter nursing a steaming cup of hot chocolate, when he feels it.

A short tug, like a cramp, in his lower stomach. Then dizziness; the room
teetering ever-so-slightly at the edges, making Peter groan and collapse his
head onto the counter. And then the heat. The goddamned fucking heat. His skin
glistens with sweat almost immediately, growing achy and scorching to the touch
in a flash. But it still doesn’t sink in; not until Peter feels the wet run
down the inside of his thighs.

He jumps to his feet, leaning heavily on the counter, knocking the island stool
to the ground in his rush. No. It can’t be. It’s only been two weeks!His legs
tremble with the effort of holding himself up, and he can smell them—Clint,
Sam, Rhodey—alphas—and not far away, Steve, and Tony. His mouth waters and his
vision blurs and he cries out, stumbling away from the island and to the wall,
intending to book it for his room when a hand reaches in front of him and
blocks the doorway.

“Peter,” Clint says, his voice deep, too deep, and his eyes, wide with shock,
but blown-black with lust, his nostrils flared. “Are you in heat?”
***** Surrender *****
Peter can’t say anything. He feels the panic running rampant under his skin,
pumped through his veins by his frantic heartbeat, but he’s frozen. His legs
are trembling so hard that his knees are almost knocking together, completely
caught up in the enrapt, conflicted expression on Clint’s face—confusion slowly
melting into turmoil and desire, the face of a man fighting an inner war.

He opens his mouth to speak, his lips quivering. “Peter, I…” His hand slowly
reaching out, for Peter’s neck, his fingers barely brushing his skin when Clint
is harshly punched in the face, sending him staggering backward against the
wall.

“Back off, Clint,” Sam snarls, spitting each word like another blow of his
fist. He grabs Peter by the nape of the neck, not gently, but not unkindly,
either. His grip is firm and authoritative, and he uses it to pull Peter closer
and a little behind him, glaring vehemently at Clint.

“You back off,” Clint retorts, wiping at his split lip. Peter feels Sam brace
himself next to him. “This ain’t a fight you want to start, Wilson.”

“Try me,” Sam says. Peter has to grit his teeth to stop himself from
whimpering. The room is so hot, filled with the pheromones of his heat, but
also with the defensive and angry scent of two alphas about to rip each other
apart. Both Sam and Clint’s bodies are practically radiating a threatening
aura, and it overpowers Peter, playing on his already hormone-filled body and
feeding a latent instinct to cower and hide at the very thought of an enraged
alpha. Sam drops his hand from Peter’s neck, stepping forward to ready himself
against an attack, and Peter uses that moment to turn and scramble for the
other exit just as Clint lunges with a terrifying growl.

Maybe if he gets far enough away, they’ll snap out of it and realize they need
to leave before they succumb to his scent again. He’s almost reached the
doorway when Rhodey appears, his gaze fixating on Peter the moment he sees him.

“What’s going on?” He asks, but he’s already figured it out; realization
dawning on his face. Peter roots himself to the ground, trapped in the kitchen,
two fighting alphas at his back and another in front of him, surrounding him.
He can hear Sam and Clint scrapping at each other but his sight is fixed on
Rhodey, who approaches him, his eyes dark. “Hey, Pete. It’s okay. Come here,”
His tone coaxing and placating, just like Tony’s had been.

“Stay back!” Peter demands, recoiling away. But there’s nowhere to go, and he
can’t fight, not like this. He can feel the slick running down between his
legs, his muscles in a spasm with the effort of staying upright, when his
entire body is screaming at him to lie down, to let it happen. But he can’t.
Not again.

But what else can he do? He can’t leave like this. He’s helpless. Even if he
managed to escape, to run, it would only delay the inevitable. There’s no way
out.

Even killing himself would be difficult in this condition, with his healing
factor.

He’s not fast enough to leap out of the way when Rhodey surges forward,
grabbing his arms in a tight grip. Peter cries out, the burn and bliss of an
alpha’s touch against his fevered skin both painful and pleasant. He almost
goes completely limp in the firm hold, his knees begging to give out, to let
his weight drop the burden of keeping himself standing.

“Hey!” Comes a vicious snarl from behind them, and then Clint plows into
Rhodey, fisting the front of his shirt with bloody, white-knuckled hands.
“Hands off,” he growls, slamming Rhodey into the wall, clearing the exit to the
hallway.

Peter, having stumbled when Rhodey’s hold on him was forcibly removed, rights
himself and speeds through the door without a second thought. He just has to
get away, where he can think, where the scent of angry alphas isn’t suffocating
him, overriding his mental compass. He runs faster when someone shouts “Peter!”
behind him, and faster still when the sound of heavy, hurried footsteps follows
him, gaining on him. He just has to get away. He can make it—

But a hand clamps onto his shoulder and spins him around with a startled cry,
toppling him over, crushing him to the floor. Rhodey’s face is bruising and
bloody, his eyes clouded over with burning-hot aggression.

“Let me go!” Peter flails, shoving at the hands on his shoulders that have him
pressed to the floor. His nails scrape against Rhodey’s bare arms, but the man
hardly seems to notice; his fingers twitch and flex as they trail up to Peter’s
throat.

And then someone caresses their hands over his thighs, pressing the legs of his
sweatpants against the river of slick that’s been running down Peter’s skin.
“Don’t let him up,” Clint says, his tone cold and dangerous. His hands grab the
waistband of Peter’s pants and begin pulling them down.

“No!” He kicks, though Rhodey is blocking his sight, and he’s so weak, his
whole body failing him, every traitorous inch. “Don’t! Clint!”

“Who said you get to go first?” Sam says from somewhere behind Rhodey, and then
Peter feels another hand on his right calf, stilling his struggling, and then
pulling it to the side, spreading his legs.

“I did,” Clint replies, hitting Rhodey on the shoulder. “Move. I can’t bite him
with you in the way.”

Rhodey bares his teeth in a sneer but complies, lifting his weight off Peter’s
chest to kneel next to him instead. Clint’s hard expression softens a shade as
he rakes his eyes over Peter, his gaze sticking to the mess of purple and blue
coiled around the boy’s throat. He adjusts himself more comfortably between
Peter’s legs and Peter knows it’s his last chance to escape.

Taking Clint off guard, Peter pulls his left leg tight against his chest and
kicks, the heel of his foot landing squarely on Clint’s jaw. It’s not hard
enough to break anything, not in this state, but Clint does stumble backward
enough for Peter to flip over before Sam and Rhodey really figure out what’s
happening.

He’s on his feet immediately, yanking his sweatpants back up as he bolts for
the elevator. He doesn’t really, truly, expect to make it, but the despair
still crushes him when two strong arms circle around his chest, wrenching him
into the air. He’s spun back around and the sight of Clint and Rhodey’s icy,
furious glares is enough to turn his violent struggle into terrified trembling.

“I caught him,” Sam says, his hot breath ghosting over the top of Peter’s head.
“I get him first.”

“You lost,” Clint hisses, squaring his shoulders. “And unless you want to lose
again, you’ll put him the fuck down and wait your damn turn.”

Sam reluctantly lets Clint grab Peter from him when he tries. Peter’s legs
almost give out when his feet touch the floor again, but it doesn’t matter;
Clint manhandles him to the ground before he even has the chance to keep
himself standing.

There’s no point in begging, but he can’t stop the words from flooding out.

“Stop, stop—Clint, get off of me—No!” Peter shouts as Clint flips him over onto
his stomach, then pulls him to his knees. “Please don’t! I don’t want—want to—”
But the words die in his throat when he feels the other man press against his
back, his groin rocking against Peter’s ass, Clint’s hands sliding his
sweatpants back down over his hips. “I don’t want to—No, please, please…!”

Clint chuckles, his hot breath tickling over Peter’s ear. “You don’t want to
what,omega? You feel pretty ready to me,” and he trails his hand up between
Peter’s legs, coating his fingers in the runny lubricant that’s leaking from
the boy’s body.

“It’s not my fault,” Peter sobs, pressing his forehead to the floor, letting
the carpet soak up his tears. Clint mouths at his back, nipping and sucking his
way up to the nape of Peter’s neck, and then he retreats, grabs a fistful of
Peter’s hair and lifts his head, forcing his upper body off the floor until
he’s resting on his hands, his head pulled back between his shoulders, baring
his throat.

Being on his hands and knees is so utterly and unmistakably worse than having
his chest and face pressed to the floor. Like this, it feels like
participation, like he’s holding himself up willingly, giving permission to the
alpha—alphas—to do whatever they want to with his lower body. Being on his
hands and knees feels like asking for it, and that’s the worst thing, worse
than feeling Clint’s cock slide between his legs and press against his
entrance, before it slams inside him, Clint’s chest glued to his back, the
man’s teeth sinking into the side of his exposed throat.

The sudden intrusion rips a scream from Peter’s lungs and his eyes shoot open
in surprise and pain, though the feeling is dull, more of an unwelcomed
discomfort than anything; his wet, willing cavity opening itself up the moment
it felt the head of an alpha’s cock against it, sucking it in. Peter’s face is
soaked in sweat and tears, and Rhodey and Sam, both kneeling in front of him,
caress his cheeks and chest with hungry, eager hands. He desperately wants to
lower his face but can’t, Clint’s mouth still suctioned to his throat, his hand
still in his hair, forcing his head up. Peter closes his eyes but can’t do
anything to impede the flow of tears or his miserable, pleasure-tainted sobs.
His knees burn from the carpet scraping beneath them with the force of Clint’s
thrusts.

“Shh, Peter,” Rhodey hushes, rubbing his thumb across his cheekbone. “You’re
all right. It’s not so bad,” Peter keeps his eyes screwed shut, tries to block
it out, but Clint starts licking and sucking in just the right spot and a wave
of hot pleasure courses through him, pulling an involuntary moan from his
mouth. He hears one of the alphas above him catch their breath at the sound and
tries to close his lips, be he can’t—Clint assaults that damn spot over and
over again and though he tries, Peter can’t keep the moans in.

A thumb swipes over his bottom lip, but Peter keeps his eyes shut. “You like
that, don’t you, omega?” Sam asks, his voice quiet and deep. “You like being
mated? It’s gonna feel so good when he knots in you.” Peter tries to shake his
head, but he can’t. Clint hums in approval into his throat, fucking into him a
little harder. “I’m gonna knot you soon,” he says, hot and heavy into his ear.
“Gonna fill you all the way up when I do.”

Peter tries to say no but it’s silent; his voice vanishing beneath another
onslaught of keening as Clint sucks at his throat again, over the sensitive
bruises, both old and new.

By the time Peter can sense Clint’s climax building, his arms and thighs are
shaking from the exertion of holding himself up under the force of the man’s
thrusts. Clint’s grunts and groans of pleasure become louder and come faster,
and he tightens his hold in Peter’s hair, gripping the boy’s hip unbearably
hard with his other hand. Peter can’t help the way his legs are forced open,
spread wider from the sheer violence of the alpha plunging into his body. The
intensity of just how deeply the man’s cock is reaching inside of him pulls
another scream from Peter’s throat, at the same time as the man presses into
him as hard as he can, and his teeth find that spot on Peter’s neck, sinking in
ruthlessly to the already-abused skin as his body shudders and jerks under the
power of his orgasm.

Peter trembles and cries at the sensation of the alpha’s knot swelling within
him. Clint rocks against him a couple more times, but his knot keeps him lodged
nearly all the way in the omega’s body. He finally releases his mouth on the
boy’s neck and lets go of the handful of hair he was using to keep Peter’s head
up, and Peter sags gratefully, letting his elbows buckle beneath his weight and
his upper body collapse onto the carpet, barely bothering to brace himself with
his arms.

Clint stays where he is, hands gently holding Peter’s hips, panting with post-
intercourse bliss, until his knot recedes and he can pull out, his cock still
erect. He scoots back far enough that he can nudge Peter to the ground, rolling
him over onto his back and then spreading his legs again. Sam’s hand shoots out
and grabs the collar of his shirt.

“You had your turn,” he says, furiously. “Now it’s mine.”

Clint returns his glare, though a little less heatedly, and halfheartedly
acquiesces, moving aside so Sam can settle between Peter’s spread, shuddering
thighs. Peter stares up at the high ceiling, eyes half-lidded, silently gasping
for breath. If he even notices Sam press his body between his legs, he doesn’t
show it.

Then a white blast hits Sam square in the chest, sending him careening back
several feet with a shout of pain. Rhodey leans over Peter’s body protectively,
on instinct, but is grabbed and thrown by the back of his shirt, hitting the
back of the sofa and knocking it over.

Even turning his head to look feels like a monumental task to Peter, but he
does, and Iron Man is standing there—Tony, in his full suit—blocking a punch
that Clint swings at him, countering with an elbow to the agent’s stomach and
then lifting and tossing him across the length of the room. Peter watches,
dazed, as Tony bends down and scoops him up, grabbing his pants and boxers too,
and then bee-lines for the elevator, the doors closing just in time to thwart
Sam lunging after them.

“Friday,” Tony says, “Take us down to my workshop and lock it. Nobody gets in
unless I say so. And begin ventilation of the main floor. Get some fresh air in
there as fast as possible.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Peter rests his forehead against the cool metal of Tony’s armor, letting
himself, just for a moment, be carried without protest. He hisses when Tony
lays his burning body on top of a cold worktable, a shiver going down his
spine.

“Peter,” Tony says, setting his clothes on the counter beside them. “Listen,
I’m—I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do,” his hand reaches to
stroke the boy’s hair, but pauses, hesitant to touch him. “But if you want me
to suppress your heat, I will. Y’know, since we actually know how to suppress
it now.”

Peter blinks up at him through hazy, exhausted eyes. His whole body is burning
with a desperate need to be touched, but even still, it’s not something he
wants. The incessant sensation rolling over his skin that’s practically begging
for Tony to touch him is a secondary feeling to his rampant aversion to the
idea.

But even so.

He’s too tired to speak, so he steels himself and looks directly into the eyes
of Tony’s mask.

“Peter,” Tony says again, hand moving a little closer to the boy’s head. “Do
you want me to?”

Even so. He can’t suppress his heat on his own.

He lets the feeling of surrender wash over him and nods.

“Okay,” Tony says with a sigh, looking almost-comically unsure of what to do.
“Listen, I’m not going to do, uh, anything unnecessary, so don’t worry, okay?”
His head swivels left and right like he’s looking for something, then he says,
“Here, let’s try this,” and picks Peter up again, moving him to the counter
beside his wet clothes, propping Peter’s back against the wall and holding him
there so he doesn’t collapse in his exhaustion.

“I’m going to remove my mask, but don’t be scared. I’m just going to, err, take
care of you.”

Peter’s confusion turns to shock when the smooth, frigid metal of Tony’s gloved
hand slides over his soft cock, gently caressing it. His hips buck and his legs
jerk, and he leans forward, resting his hands on Tony’s shoulders to steady
himself against the odd-but-not-unwelcome sensation of the glove against his
manhood, stroking it, coaxing it to hardness—not that that’s exactly difficult,
given his heat.

“Ah, ahh…” He moans, forehead pressed against Tony’s chest, hands tightening on
his shoulders. He rocks into Tony’s hand as he’s brought to full arousal; the
pleasure is almost unbearable, his cock spasms beneath the man’s fingers.

And then the hand is gone, and Peter outright sobs at the loss of contact,
jerking his head up to look at Tony pleadingly, only to watch, dumbstruck, as
he removes his mask, a sly grin plastered on his face, which only turns more
conniving when the effect of Peter’s heat fully hits him.

Almost urgently, Tony drops to one knee, a loud tang resonating throughout the
room as the armor strikes the floor. Before Peter can even question what he’s
doing, Tony takes the head of his erection into his mouth and sucks.

Peter screams, tossing his head back and not even caring that he’s baring his
throat—the feeling is indescribable—a wondrously-vicious stab of pleasure that
shoots through his entire body, up his spine and down his legs, making his toes
curl and his lips tremble at the same time. Tony doesn’t rush, tasting the tip
of his cock painfully slowly, running his tongue over the slit and down his
shaft, then back up where he sucks almost the entire length of him into his
mouth, half-swallowing him. The sheer intensity of it has tears streaming down
Peter’s cheeks; the feeling is so wildly enjoyable that it’s excruciating.

He doesn’t last long, and Tony, cruelly, grabs his hips in his hands and holds
him firmly against the counter, stilling him, enforcing his own agonizingly
slow pace, like he has all the time in the world to be sucking Peter off. The
heated thought that Tony might be content to stay like this forever,
worshipping Peter’s cock with his mouth and never letting him finish is so
strangely, sinfully hot that Peter cums, intense and unexpected, with a hoarse,
lust-filled cry. He curls forward, fisting Tony’s hair in his hands,
ejaculating almost violently against the back of the man’s throat.

His whole body feels boneless and limp, and honestly, Peter has no idea how
he’s still sitting upright, leaning over Tony who’s still kneeling between his
legs. He fights hard to catch his breath, and yelps with pain and surprise when
Tony nips at his inner thigh.

Tony looks up at him, his eyes still dark with desire, and slowly stands until
they’re face to face, Tony bending down to nestle his face against Peter’s
throat.

“It doesn’t work unless you’re being mated at the same time, huh?” He grunts,
inhaling the honey-soaked scent of the omega’s neck, his mouth watering from
the sweetness, the feverish aroma. “Sorry, kid. I tried.”

He pulls Peter forward by his hips until he’s barely resting on the counter at
all, and with one hand on the boy’s side, he drops the other to the armor plate
covering his groin, finding the tucked-away release switch and flipping it so
he can peel the casing away, freeing his crotch. He finds the healing mating
bite on the side of Peter’s throat and latches on to it, sucking it liberally
as he positions himself between the omega’s legs.

Peter leans forward, wrapping his arms around Tony’s neck, letting his eyes
shut at the tender sensation of having his bite mark stimulated. He moans
helplessly when the head of Tony’s erection presses into him, waiting for only
a second before Tony thrusts up inside of him, burying himself halfway in
Peter’s body. Peter cries out, tightening his hold on the alpha, his body
jarred and jostled as the man shoves up repeatedly against him, powerless to do
anything but be taken along for the ride.

Tony bites him, not very hard, but in all the spots he remembers Peter likes as
his hand seeks out and finds the boy’s cock again, stirring it to life almost
instantly with the first few strokes of his gloved hand. Peter whines, resting
his forehead on Tony’s shoulder. The position is difficult to access the
omega’s throat while fucking him, so Tony pulls back, just enough to firmly
push the boy until he’s almost lying flat, his upper back hitting the wall,
propped up on his elbows. He maneuvers Peter until the boy’s ass is almost
entirely off the countertop and fucks him harder, no longer restrained by the
awkward position, his cock sinking all the way inside of Peter with abandon.

The boy whines, eyes tightly shut with overstimulation, his hard-on still
gripped tightly in the man’s hand, being tugged and stroked with agenda. His
hips start bucking up into the embrace, impaling himself deeper on Tony’s cock,
who growls out a moan and lunges forward to assault Peter’s neck again with his
mouth. He speeds up, fucking violently into his omega, his hand gripping the
boy’s erection almost too tightly as he works a second orgasm out of him. Peter
cries out, baring his throat, and Tony bites his mark ferociously, thrusting as
hard as he can into Peter’s ass as his own climax crashes over him.

He releases Peter’s spent cock and grabs his hips with both hands instead,
slamming him down against his own, lodging his length all the way in, his cum
jetting inside the omega’s warm, willing body. He collapses on top of Peter,
feeling his knot swell pleasantly against the inner walls of his hole, and
places a series of wet, affectionate kisses to the abused flesh of his throat.

The scent of Peter’s heat is gone, like it had never been there at all. Tony
breathes deeply into Peter’s shoulder, who’s gone completely still and lax,
save for the rampant rise and fall of his gasping chest.

They stay like that, panting and exhausted for a few long, quiet minutes before
Tony can finally pull out of Peter. He reaches for a clean roll of paper towel
first, tearing a piece off and gently running it between Peter’s legs to catch
as much of the mess as he can. Peter hardly moves, half-conscious, his eyes
closed and his lips parted in total sexed-out fatigue.

Tony rights himself, tucking his cock back into his pants as he detangles from
his armor, picking up Peter’s clothes off the counter at the same time. The
boxers are soaked, too wet to wear, so Tony dismissively tosses them into the
wastebasket. Peter can go commando, at least until they make it upstairs to his
room. As gently as he can, Tony manhandles and shifts the practically-catatonic
boy to dress him, cradling Peter’s head against his shoulder as he pulls the
sweatpants up over his ass.

“Tony,” Peter says, whisper-quiet, not lifting his head, but brushing his hand
against Tony’s bicep to get his attention. Tony runs his hand over the back of
the boy’s head, comfortingly, before hooking his arm beneath Peter’s knees and
lifting him bridal-style.

“I’m sorry, kiddo. I’m going to take you up to your room, okay? It’s over,” He
says, tightening his hold on Peter’s shoulders as he makes his way to the
elevator. He’s drained and sore, and his muscles protest the idea of going
anywhere except to bed, but the reassuring weight of Peter’s warm body in his
arms makes it easy to ignore.

“Tony,” Peter says again, lifting his head as much as he can. He presses his
palm flat against the man’s chest, right where the arc reactor used to be. His
fingers are trembling. “Wait.”

Tony looks down. Peter’s eyes are tired, half-shut in his fatigue, but his face
is still determined; willful. He takes a deep breath, his voice quiet—brokenly
quiet—the resignation within him audible. “I want to see a doctor.”
***** Discussions And Lies *****
There’s a suffocating hush that falls over the compound, like the rooms and
halls are filled with a poisonous smoke that no one will survive if they dare
to open their mouths. Natasha and Bruce notice it as soon as they set foot in
the living room; Vision and Wanda notice it the moment they set foot on the
premise’s grounds.

There’s a trail of destruction leading from the kitchen to the living room.
Plates of food knocked over and broken, chairs toppled over, the couch flipped
onto its back and flecks of blood painting the walls and floors. One of the
glass partitions that separates the two rooms has a large crack curving up the
middle, looking as though one light tap would shatter it.

But the oddest of these things is Tony, standing with his back to the four of
them, clumsily sweeping up the almost-breakfast with clear agitation. The
tenseness of his shoulders is practically visible; the deep crease of a frown
on his face evident by the near-shaking tightness of his jaw.

“Tony,” Bruce says, stepping over a strand of broken glass and glancing around
for a sign of the cleaning bots Tony had built. When he finds none, he turns
back around and stares at the back of Tony’s head, more worried than confused.
“What happened? What’s wrong with you?”

Tony, in his usual, overdramatic way, pretends he didn’t hear Bruce for just
long enough to make the man question whether or not he actually did—and then he
says, “Peter went into heat again.”

Wanda is the only one who isn’t too shocked to say, “How is that possible?”
Which seems to wake Natasha up, who rushes forward to spin Tony around by the
shoulder, fixing him with a heated glare. “What happened,” she says, without
asking.

“I don’t know how it’s possible, and I just told you,” Tony says, knocking
Natasha’s hand away. “Peter went into heat. I stepped in the moment I heard
what was happening.” He looks into Natasha’s eyes, repentantly. “I got here as
fast as I could.”

“Where were you?” Natasha asks at the same time as Vision, who asks, “Where was
Peter?”

Tony’s throat constricts in a half-swallow; either a nervous gulp or a sigh
that he refused to let escape. “I was out. Flying. Patrolling, I guess. I just
needed some—space. Needed to be off the ground for a while.” He wraps one arm
around himself and shifts, anxiously, a fine veil of sweat glossing over his
forehead and moving all the way down to the collar of his shirt. “Peter
was—here. Alone. I mean, not alone. Unprotected. With Clint, and Sam. And—and
Rhodey, Christ.” He turns away from them, crushing the heels of his hands
against his closed eyes. “I wasn’t—” He sighs shakily and scratches his nails
across his hairline. “I wasn’t here fast enough. I was too far away when Friday
told me what was going on.”

Bruce comes up behind him and rests his hand, firm but comforting, on his
shoulder. “And then you fought them? Three heat-aggressive alphas all by
yourself?” He can’t keep the disbelief out of his voice, and Tony lowers one
hand to side-eye him, ever the opportune-bragger. “Uhm, yes? I was wearing my
suit, and Sam and Clint combined have maybe four more IQ points than butter.
Plus, it wasn’t a real fight. I just grabbed Peter and bolted.”

“And then you suppressed his heat,” Vision says, earning a short nod from Tony.
“Where is Peter now?”

“In his room, probably passed out. Friday’s watching him. And before you go
marching in there, we need to talk. All of us, we need to sit down and talk
about this. But I sort of feel like I might cave Clint’s skull in the next time
I see him, and I don’t even know what the Hell I’m gonna say to Rhodey. And
Steve left, so. It’s just been me here waiting for you guys to show up.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Steve left? Where?” To which Tony shrugs. “Dunno.
He took his bike and rode off mid-commotion, apparently. I don’t even think he
had any idea what was going on.”

Natasha pulls a phone from her pocket and turns to leave the room. “I’ll call
him. Wanda, Vis, you want to grab the others?”

Wanda looks at Vision, fascinated by the subtle hint of protest marking the
details of his face. She can see how badly he wants to run to Peter’s side
instead, how demanding his instinct to comfort the boy must be in this moment.
But he returns her look and the refusal softens in his face, giving way to a
tempered resignation, for now, anyway.

“Yes. Shall we, Wanda?” He says, making his way to the elevator. Bruce pipes in
before any of them have a chance to leave. “Guys, let’s meet upstairs in the
conference room while this place gets cleaned up.” And then he turns back to
Tony, swatting his hand away from reaching for the broom again. “Seriously,
Tony, let the bots handle it. You have no idea what you’re doing. You’ve just
been smearing pancake batter and mushed berries all over the floor.” Tony holds
his hands up to surrender, and lets Bruce lead him out of the kitchen by his
shoulders, and to the elevator.

It takes a while for the rest of the group to show up, and Tony,
uncharacteristically, keeps his head down and stays silent when Sam, Clint and
Rhodey are escorted in. Bruce sits next to him, cataloguing the bumps and
bruises marking up the men’s faces, especially Sam’s, who is slightly hunched
over, favoring some kind of wound to the chest. Rhodes has a limp on the left
side, but he’s hiding it almost flawlessly; all that military training shining
through even if it’s not necessary here.

Clint sits down across from Tony and winces when he does, hovering his hand
above his stomach area, wanting to soothe the pain with his touch, but knowing
it would only worsen the agony. “You got me good, Stark,” He says, voice tight.
There’s no anger on his face; only ache, the foggy eyes of a man in pain and
filled with regret. “Think you gave me a hernia.”

“You deserved a lot worse,” Tony says, not looking up, not even when Sam takes
his seat and lets out an audible gasp of pain when he does, face paling. Bruce
observes the flecks of red poking through Sam’s shirt in small, circular
patches—drops of blood rising to the surface one at a time, blotting through
the bandages. A burn.

Clint looks at Sam, watches him grind his teeth in agony. “Yeah,” he says,
agreeing. “It should’ve been me who got shot.”

Natasha and Steve are the last to arrive, entering the tensely silent room and
almost freezing at the hostility weaving through the air. Tony can feel Steve’s
eyes land on him and settle, but he doesn’t look up, just keeps staring at his
hands clasped together on the tabletop, thumbs twiddling anxiously. He can’t
look at Steve because Steve will know, and Tony would rather die than have
Steve know. Steve, at least, had the decency to get on his bike and leave.

Finally Natasha and Steve take their seats, and then Natasha says, voice stern
and matter-of-fact, “Well, Tony, we’re all here. You have the floor.”

Tony knows they’re expecting him to get up, walk around the table, fiddle and
make hand gestures while he talks—all his quirks, the usual business man,
boardroom routine—but he doesn’t. He stays seated perfectly still and doesn’t
look up, keeps all of his pizzazz buried underneath the anxiety that’s coiling
in his stomach. “Peter wants to see a doctor,” He says. “He says he can’t stay
here anymore. Not with us. Says he’d rather be in a facility if that’s the only
way out of this.” He brings a hand up to hang his head into, half to nurse his
budding headache, and half to hide his team’s expressions from his peripheral
vision.

“He’s upset, Tony,” Rhodey says, and quickly adds, “And that’s—that’s
completely to be expected, I mean, we—” Rhodes tightens his hands into fists,
watches as his knuckles tremble with the effort. “I don’t even want to think
about it. It’s going to give me nightmares, never mind that poor kid. Just give
him time, man. We’ll figure something out and he’ll come around,”

Everyone looks at Tony, waiting on a response that he doesn’t give, eyes still
to the table, not meeting their gazes, and flinching harshly when Wanda asks,
“Why do you look so guilty?”

A general look of impatience settles over the rest of the group while they
wait, observing the rippling tightness of Tony’s jaw, the nervous twitch at the
corner of his mouth. He seems to be fighting a war within himself; a back-and-
forth of guilt and blame that appears as an understated change of expressions
on his face. Finally, he inhales a large breath of air through his nose, and
says, “I tried to talk Peter out of his decision, and I almost did, but then I
fucked it up.”

He can feel Natasha’s hot glare burning the side of his face. “We agreed we
were going to support the choice Peter made regardless of how we felt about
it,” she says, and her eyes skip briefly over to Rhodey, too, who nods
apologetically.

“How did you fuck it up?” Bruce asks, in spite of the fact that Tony very
clearly doesn’t want to say. Bruce doesn’t miss the way Steve is leaning
forward slightly in his chair, staring hard at Tony across the table, trying to
meet his eyes.

Tony sighs again. “After I took him back to his room, I reminded him of all the
reasons he didn’t want to go to a facility in the first place. Told him that,
at least if he stayed here, he would be able to keep being himself, he would
still be Peter Parker, and not just an omega with a serial number who would
probably be auctioned off to a stranger in a few months. He wasn’t having it.”

He leans back in his seat, tapping his fingers nervously on the glass tabletop.
“But finally I made the point that, even if he was surrounded by doctors,
there’s a chance that none of them would be able to figure out why mating him
never works. They would probably just experiment on him, endlessly, messing
with his heat and putting him through God-knows-what in the process. He’d be a
lab rat, and nothing else. That seemed to scare some sense into him, or at
least make him think twice about it.”

Tony’s silent for a long minute, and doesn’t start speaking, even when Steve
impatiently urges, “And then?” It takes Bruce nudging him in the side with his
elbow and uttering a soft, “Come on, Tony,” before he finally swallows his fear
and says, “I promised him I’d figure something out, even if it meant that we’d
all have to wear gas masks in the interim. I promised him I’d never let it
happen again. He was gonna reconsider, I could see it. So I pushed a little
further. Told him to think about everything he’d be giving up, forever. And he
sighed and said I was right, that even if it meant risking what he’d just gone
through, it wasn’t just about him. He said he has responsibilities too, and
obligations that he can’t run away from. He said that was the price of having
the ability to help people.”

Finally, Tony looks up, scans his eyes across everyone at the table. His
anxiety is so much more apparent when they look at him directly; the glossy,
reddened hue of his eyes, bright and pronounced against the dark circles and
creases around them. This is it—whatever terrible, evil thing he’s hiding—it’s
on the precipice of his resolve; the oncoming train he’s finally ready to face.
All it takes is Vision, who, in a voice that shows he already knows what awful
thing Tony is hiding, says, “And what did you say?”

“I told him he can’t be Spider-Man anymore.”

To his surprise, no one else seems shocked by Tony’s admission. Vision,
especially, is completely underwhelmed, as if he knew the whole plot already.
But mostly, the Avengers all seem unhappily resigned—the face of a parent who
has to put the wellbeing of their child above that child’s happiness, a rock
and a hard place. The relief floods into Tony, chased by guilt. At the very
least, his team understands his position. They all would have said the same.
Even Vision.

Bruce claps his hand on the back of Tony’s shoulder, but doesn’t look at him.
“If we can’t predict when he’ll go into heat, there’s no way we could let him
patrol, Tony. You did the right thing. It’s for his own good.”

Natasha clears her throat and says, “I’m guessing he didn’t take it well,” and
is taken aback by the way Tony’s eyes begin to shine at the corners, just a
touch, an influx of liquid along the bottom rim. Tony lowers his gaze back to
his hands, swallows and says, “He said if he’s going to be in a prison either
way, he might as well risk being a lab rat, on the off-chance some good comes
of it.” No one misses the way Tony blinks back the gathering wetness in his
eyes, though they all pretend to. “Said it can’t be worse than here.”

“That’s just the grief talking,” Sam says, lounging awkwardly in his seat,
cradling his chest. “Don’t—you, especially, Tony—don’t take it personally. I
don’t think he really meant it.”

Wanda throws him an irritated look. “We should not disregard how he feels. It
is so easy for us to overlook his emotional state because he is an omega, and
we all believe we know best,” she says. “But the truth is, we have no right to
treat Peter any differently than we did when we thought he was a beta. That
includes allowing him the validity of his emotions.”

“Peter’s not a beta, Wanda,” Steve says, softly at first, but firming when she
turns to him. “He’s an omega. That means he’s different, whether or not any of
us like it. We can’t just ignore that and pretend he’s not built differently
than the rest of us. Omegas require the special treatment we give them for a
reason.”

“Tell me,” She says, gaze hardening. “If his suppressants didn’t stop working,
would you have ever realized he is an omega?”

Steve lets his gaze drop from her livid face. “Probably not.”

“Exactly.” She says. “We treated him like a beta for months, and it was not the
end of the world. If he hadn’t gone into heat, we never would have known, and
it wouldn’t have made a damn difference. If he says he hates being here, we
have no right to force him. It should be up to him.”

“Not according to the law,” Rhodey adds. “It used to be that an omega had to
defer to the demands of any alpha, since we’re genetically equipped to protect
them better than they can protect themselves. We used to have total authority,
until the government took over and started rounding them up.”

“And how many alphas had to abuse their power for that to happen?” Wanda asks.

“Wanda’s right,” Natasha says, glancing at Steve and then back to Tony. “Like
we discussed before, this decision is up to Peter. It’s no one’s fault that his
heat isn’t on a set cycle like it should be. The only thing we can do for him
is let him decide what he wants.”

“Even if he’s only making that decision because he’s angry?” Clint asks, though
his face washes over with a thin veil of shame. “He could be putting himself in
serious danger just because he’s emotional. And, I—don’t look at me like that,
Nat. I get it. I wouldn’t want to stay here either if I were him. But just like
we can’t let him run around being a superhero, we can’t let him make stupid,
rash decisions, either. They’re the same thing.”

“It’s not like we’re calling him an Uber and sending him off to the nearest
clinic,” Bruce says. “It’ll take a few days to hunt down the right—or
hopefully, anyway—the right doctor to take a look at him. If he changes his
mind during that time, then sure, great, we’ll figure something else out. If
not, well, at least we’ll know he’s serious about this.”

“You and Tony should be the ones to look into finding the right doctor, Bruce,”
Natasha says. “You’re the best hope we have of finding someone we can hopefully
trust.”

“And who’s qualified enough to actually help Peter, more importantly,” says
Bruce.

“Well,” Tony announces, blasé, rising from his seat. “We’d better get started.”

“I would like to check on Peter,” Vision says, out of his chair before Tony
even finishes standing up. “If you all wouldn’t mind please letting me have a
while with him alone, I would appreciate it.”

“Go for it, buddy.” Clint says, tiredly dropping his head on to the table. “I’m
going to go pass the Hell out.” Which earns an agreeable murmur from Sam, who
stays right where he is, dreading the idea of getting up with his injury.

“Okay, class dismissed.” Tony says and exits the room, Bruce in tow. Vision
leaves without another word, choosing to fly up through the levels of the
ceiling and floors rather than use the elevator. He stops outside of Peter’s
bedroom, reverting back to his corporeal state, and knocks on the door.

“Peter,” he calls when a moment of silence goes by. “May I come in?”

Still there’s no answer, so Vision waits, just a minute longer before he says,
“I just want to check on you, Peter. I’m coming in, all right?” And opens the
door.

Peter’s sitting on his bed, which he’s shoved into the corner, his back against
the wall. His knees are pressed to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, the
familiar white blanket Vision had lent to him draped over his shoulders. His
eyes are open, but he doesn’t seem awake; his gaze is fixed on seemingly
nothing and there’s no trace of awareness to it at all—it’s blank, unfocused.

Traumatized, Vision sees. It’s the look of someone who has lost everything, and
indeed, that must be how Peter feels; all that’s been taken from him in his
short life, only to be reduced to this—a prisoner of his own body, of
evolution. Of them.

“Peter, can you hear me?” Vision says as he approaches, coming to sit beside
the boy on the bed, a comfortable distance away. Peter blinks back into
consciousness when the bed dips beneath Vision’s weight, but he doesn’t look at
him, his eyes fixed on nowhere. His fingers curl tighter into the material of
his sweatpants, white knuckles matching the rest of him, his complexion pale,
ghostlike.

“He said I can’t be Spider-Man anymore,” he says, almost a whisper. His voice
is disconnectedly quiet, like he can’t discern how loud he’s speaking over the
rush of white noise in his ears.

“I know,” Vision says, which at last earns him a look from the boy, who glances
at him questioningly, eyebrows drawn together. “He told me.”

“Of course he did,” Peter says, and at least there’s a tinge of anger to his
voice, any emotion being a good sign at this point. “Did he tell you
everything?” He asks.

“Not in detail,” Vision answers, delicately. “Only what happened.”

“Did he tell you he watched?”

Vision blinks. And then he frowns, the words not quite sinking in. He opens his
mouth to speak, then closes it again, the questions all confused in his mind, a
jumbled mess that finally escapes as, “Watched what?”

Peter hugs himself tighter and looks down at the bed, the anger gone, leaving
only the shell that held it. “He watched it. He watched it happen. He didn’t
step in until after—” The words catch in his throat, derailing in his mouth.
“Until after.”

“Tony said he wasn’t here,” Vision says, slowly. Peter scoffs, digging his
nails into the flesh of his calf.

“He was here. I could smell him the whole time.”

“Maybe he didn’t know what was happening,” Vision objects. “He could have been
focused on something else, and not realized until—”

“I asked Friday.”

Vision pauses, recounting the guilty way Tony had conducted himself earlier;
the fidgeting, the tense jaw, refusing to look at anyone—he’d made them think
it was all from telling Peter he couldn’t be Spider-Man anymore, but now, it
makes more sense—stripping Peter of his mantle was necessary, for his safety.
But this—

He doesn’t know what this is.

“Peter—” He begins, but the boy cuts him off.

“I have to get out of here, Vision,” Peter says, meeting his worried gaze. “I
can’t live like this. I know it’s biology’s fault, but I can’t trust any of
you. I’m not any safer here than I would be with the government.”

“It’s all right, Peter,” Vision says, placating. “I’m not here to talk you out
of anything. If you want to seek professional help, that is your decision, and
I support it.”

Peter looks at him a moment more, then lowers his gaze once again. The frigid
hostility ebbs away from his shoulders, and he deflates, looking younger than
he has in all the time Vision’s known him.

“My uncle used to tell me that if you can help people, you’re obligated to do
so. He used to say that doing good things is your responsibility if you’re able
to do them.” His face stays blank, almost shell-shocked, and doesn’t change
even as his eyes fill with tears, spilling down the sides of his cheeks in fat
streams.

“I’ve always felt that, if I didn’t use my powers to help people, I’d be
dishonoring him. I wanted to make him proud. And I used to think that if I
proved myself, it wouldn’t matter that I’m an omega. People would care more
about my accomplishments than my gender.”

“They should,” Vision says, gently. “You aren’t wrong for wanting that, Peter.
You’ve helped people, and if we can find a doctor who can help you, you’ll be
able to keep helping people. We all want that.”

Peter still doesn’t look at him. “And if we can’t?” He whispers. “Find a
doctor?”

Vision maneuvers himself down the bed slightly, until he’s sitting in front of
Peter, looking at him face to face, if the boy were to look up. “Then you did
all you could, and that’s all anyone can do, Peter. If your uncle was the sort
of man who considered maintaining the wellbeing of others to be his own
personal responsibility, then I know this with absolute certainty: he would be
unspeakably proud of you.”

Cautiously, he raises one hand and places it on Peter’s shoulder, hyperaware
for any hint or sign of distress. “An omega in heat is a force to be reckoned
with, and if we can’t predict your cycle, we can’t risk unleashing that force
onto the public. It’s not safe for you or anyone else involved, Peter. I’m
sorry. I wish I could change that.”

Peter says nothing else, letting the grief and turmoil be swallowed up by the
façade of indifference he wore earlier, letting his mind retreat back into the
safe haven of unconscious thought. Vision watches him, heart heavy, and finds
himself wishing he could change a great many things.
***** Emrys Killebrew *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Fatigue spreads its way through Bruce’s muscles like spilt coffee over a
countertop. He slouches over in his desk, eyelids heavy with lack of sleep,
scrolling through endless amounts of research data from every notable doctor he
can find. Tony had taunted him for choosing to use an “old school” computer and
monitor hookup instead of the holographic ones he designed, but Bruce is sure
his brain would be soup if he had to stare at something that bright for so
long—this monitor is bad enough, and the brightness on it is set as low as it
can go.

When a migraine starts creeping in at the corners of his skull, Bruce relents
and swivels around in his chair, looking to Tony who’s huddled behind him,
facing away, hastily swiping through screen after holographic screen. “Tony,
let’s call it a night,” he suggests, suppressing the urge to yawn.

“You go ahead,” Tony mumbles, eyes darting frantically over every tidbit of
information. “I’m too wired to stop.”

“Tony,” Bruce admonishes, standing from his chair and sidling up next to the
other man. “You’re gonna burn out. We’ve been at it nonstop for three straight
days. Seriously, give it a rest, grab some food, take a shower,” he observes
the oiliness of his friend’s hair, his nose wrinkling. “A nice, long shower.”

“I’m so close,”Tony protests, his hands moving faster over the floating pages.
“I’ve almost narrowed down the best possible people to help Peter. I can’t stop
now, Bruce. I have to see this through.”

Bruce observes him quietly for a moment more, then sighs in defeat and turns
for the door. “Fine, have it your way. I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“A grilled cheese would be great,” Tony says, not looking up, but the corner of
his mouth curls ever-so-slightly. “Thanks, dear. You’re the best.” Bruce simply
rolls his eyes in response, heading for the kitchen in mildly-annoyed steps.

When he gets there, he’s surprised to find Natasha, chopping tomatoes amongst a
pile of other ingredients, bacon frying on a pan behind her. There’s a gas mask
resting beside the cutting board. “Making a late-night snack?” He asks, opening
the fridge to fetch a block of cheese.

“Just trying to get some food into that boy,” she says, compiling her sliced
tomatoes and lettuce into a heap on the countertop. “You’re doing the same, I
presume?”

“Yep,” says Bruce, stealing the cutting board from her and rinsing it off in
the sink. “His Highness wanted a grilled cheese. I figured that, as long as
he’s still working away, I can at least keep him alive.”

“Honestly, I have no idea how he made it this far without you.”

“Me, neither.”

Natasha grins, filling a plate with two handcrafted BLT sandwiches. She gives
Bruce one last amused smile, before donning the gas mask and scooping the plate
off the counter. “Well, good luck tending to his majesty,” she says, voice
muffled.

“Yeah, how is it exactly that, out of the two of us, I’m the one who’s
technically babysitting here?” Bruce mutters, slicing the block of cheese into
slices with more force than necessary.

“Peter’s a mature kid and Tony’s an immature adult,” Natasha answers,
sauntering out of the room, carrying the plate like a waitress. Bruce sighs
after her, watching as she disappears around the corner, his sore muscles
burning with exhaustion, especially in his back. It had been three days of
endless searching, pouring over journals and essays and theories from all over
the world, trying to find someone, anyone, who would have a hint of the
credentials required to help Peter.

Bruce wants it as much as Tony does, as much as they all do, but it’d been a
long time since he’d spent consecutive days obsessively slouched over a
computer like that. His back is killing him.

He’s halfway through cooking two grilled cheese sandwiches when Tony bursts
through the door, a look of panicked excitement stuck on his face. “Bruce!”

Bruce curses, fumbling the spatula in his surprise, then fixing Tony with a
heated glare. “Tony, Jesus, don’t startle me like that.”

“I found the perfect guy,” Tony says, rushing over with a Stark Pad clutched
tightly in his hands. “I found a doctor who can help Peter.” Bruce eyes him,
then wipes his hands off on a dishtowel and takes the pad from Tony’s offering
hands. He squints down at the bright screen, his migraine flaring up, the words
all blurring together for a moment before they smooth out.

“Dr. Emrys Killebrew?” He asks, sceptically. Tony nods. “Read his credentials.
He’s primarily a geneticist, but he’s studied the X gene, the mutant-biology
phenomenon, and he used to teach evolutionary studies at Oxford in the 80’s.
He’s published some incredible theories about omegan biology. Just skim this
article here, you’ll see what I mean.”

Bruce concedes, glancing over the open page critically. It’s open to a web
thesis from 2011 entitled, The Omega Conspiracy.Tony watches him take it in,
the paragraphs of information, stuffing his face with the sandwiches Bruce made
while he reads.

For a country like the United States of America,the article begins, military
strength is, and has always been, of the utmost importance. America is a
country that prides itself—and indeed, retains its independence—by possessing a
considerable army that no other country has been able to match to date. The
backbone of this considerable army is, indisputably, the population of alphas
that is present in their military.

An uncomfortable switch is flipped in the pit of Bruce’s stomach.

In order to maintain this primarily-alpha army,it continues, it would make
sense that the American government would deem it necessary to intervene on the
behalf of its citizens to ensure that the number of alphas born each year is on
a steady incline. Alphas are, by their beast-like nature, drawn to such
careers—they crave competition, physical exertion, challenging tasks—

“This is insulting,” Bruce says, glancing up at Tony. “This beta is sure making
a lot of generalizations.”

“Just wait,” Tony says, leaning over him. His mouth is half-full. “You’re not
at the good part, yet.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow at him, and then continues reading.

More importantly, alphas are inherently aggressive to such an intensity that
only other alphas can match it. This makes them ideal soldiers. While some may
prefer positions that offer indirect means of power and control, such as
politics, the average alpha is, by their very genetic make-up, inarguably
suited to the level of mindless grunt-work that is wholly necessary to keep a
nation like America standing. They are, in the eyes of their government, merely
beasts of burden to be harnessed. This is evident in the way their biological
counterparts are treated in their society.

In the United States, omegas are rounded up the moment they present, imprisoned
in hospital-like facilities far from civilization, and kept until they reach a
more emotionally-stable and mature age, which is when they are mated off to the
strongest alpha. The government oversees all of this, interfering in the lives
of its citizens and overriding the freewill of every omega, in order to ensure
that no omega is left unmated, and that as many alphas are born as possible.

The back of Bruce’s neck is hot, itchy—slicked with sweat. The hairs on the
back of his arms stand up, rigid, sensitive.

The child of an alpha and an omega is guaranteed to be an alpha itself, and it
is for this reason that the government of the United States of America
essentially abducts, confines, and sells thousands of children each year within
its borders. It is true that we do not yet know the long-lasting effects of
giving heat-suppressants to young omegas—and for the sake of scientific
progress, research must be done—but it is interesting, at the very least, that
in the Land of the Free, you can have your very humanity stripped away from you
if you are not born the correct way.

There’s a moment of silence between the two men, Tony giving Bruce a
respectable amount of time to process the conclusion of the article. Finally,
the doctor sets the pad on the table, rubbing his temple with a tired, weary
hand. “It’s just a theory, Tony,” he says. “I have a hard time believing the
government isn’t acting in the omegas’ best interests.”

“Maybe it’s both,” Tony says, shrugging. “Maybe they lock them up for their own
safety, and ensure a new little soldier is made in the process. A win-win for
them.”

“You really think that?” Bruce asks, disbelievingly. “I get the feeling this
guy has been reading too many dystopia-themed novels, personally.”

Tony chuckles. “Yeah, it could be that,” he says. “But I think we should meet
him.”

Bruce hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“Don’t you think this is our best shot?” Replies Tony, licking grilled cheese
residue from his fingertips. “You said it yourself, Bruce—it will be a miracle
if we can find a MD who specializes in male omegas, mutants, and isn’t likely
to sell us out to Uncle Sam. This guy, he’s a true-blooded Canadian omega-
sympathizer, he’s studied omegan biology, mutations, genetics, evolution—and
sure, maybe all he has is theories, but you have to admit, he’s intelligent. I
think he can really figure out a way to help Peter if we give him a chance.”

“Well,” Bruce says, after a long, tense moment of contemplative silence, “Let’s
ask Peter what he thinks.” Which makes Tony freeze, a split-second of
interrupted movement. “You go ahead,” he says at last. “I’m gonna head back to
the workshop and see what personal info I can dig up on Dr. KB.”

Bruce gives him an incredulous stare, then shakes his head and turns for the
door. “Suit yourself. I’ll meet you down there.”

“It’s a date,” Tony says, then calls after him as he enters the hallway,
“Thanks for the sandwich!”

Rolling his eyes, Bruce ignores him and continues down the hall, to the
elevator. His mind wanders on the way up to Peter’s room. This doctor, he
obviously finds society’s treatment of omegas distasteful, but would that be
enough? Would he be willing to risk incarceration just for a lump of cash and
the chance to study a male omega? And if so—would he be willing to work with
the Avengers on this, for Peter’s sake?

There are so many ways it could all go wrong, so many ways it could fail. The
uncertainty makes a mild panic bubble within him, but Bruce smothers it with
deep breaths, fighting to maintain his cool. First things first: talking to
Peter.

He knocks on the boy’s door, and is answered with a tentative, “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Peter,” Bruce says. “I have some news. May I come in?”

“Do you have a mask on?” Peter asks, closer now, just the other side of the
door.

“Uhm, no, I don’t. I can stay out here if you’d like, though. I don’t mind.”

A beat of tense silence. Then, “It’s okay,” and the door creaks open, shyly.
“Hi,” Peter says.

“Hi,” Bruce smiles. “Is Natasha any good at making BLTs?”

Peter smiles back. “Yeah, she really is.” He opens the door wider and ushers
Bruce inside. “It’s okay, come in.”

“Thanks.”

Peter shuts the door and locks it, then heads back over to his bed, picking up
his familiar white blanket and draping it over his shoulders. “What’s up?” He
asks, sitting crossed-legged on the mattress, his back to the wall.

He takes a seat on the chair by the bedside, feeling a little too formal, but
not wanting to overstep a boundary by sitting next to Peter in his own bed.
“We’ve found someone we think might be a good fit. A doctor, I mean.”

“Good,” Peter says, immediately. “I wanna meet them.”

Bruce frowns. “You should give it some more thought, Peter,” he says, not
liking the way the boy’s eyes have slightly darkened. “He sounds like the kind
of doctor we’re looking for, but still, we’re probably not going to get more
than one shot at bringing a third-party in here without you ending up in a
facility.”

Peter’s eyes are large and dark and downcast. “I don’t care about ending up in
a facility anymore.”

The frown on Bruce’s face deepens, his eyebrows drawn together in concern.
Truly, in the past three days, he and Tony had gone through literally thousands
of potential doctors from over 92 different countries, and so far, only Dr.
Killebrew had come close to fitting the profile, but…

Something doesn’t feel right, he realizes.

But it’s not up to him.

Alpha or not.

“Okay, Peter, if you’re sure. I’ll get in touch with him and see if we can make
it happen. We’ll meet with him first, to vet him, and then we’ll go from there,
okay?” Bruce says, relieved when Peter nods, his expression lightening, a
little. “You are sure?” He asks.

“I’m sure,” Peter says, and that’s that.

The first meeting between them and Dr. Killebrew is taking place in the
underground garage of an insurance broker in Manhattan. It’s the lunchtime
rush, all the little company representatives filing into their cars to take
their breaks, filling the parking lot with a small but easy-to-hide-behind
crowd, should the doctor break their agreement and not come alone. Down here,
he won’t be able to smuggle any back-up through the one, and only, entrance.
Honestly, Bruce wouldn’t blame him if he did try and bring some protection—they
had barely disclosed any information to him at all, and putting such blind
trust in strangers could be fatal. But they have a deal.

Tony’s hiding it well, but Bruce can make out the miniscule signs of stress and
nervousness the man is showing. Though other people might see him as relaxed,
maybe even inappropriately so—with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his
suit’s pants, eyes hidden beneath a pair of jet-black sunglasses, his leaning-
on-one-side posture—Bruce can see his fingers fidgeting anxiously beneath the
fabric, and the tautness of the skin around his eyes, and the way his weight-
free foot is tapping without rhythm. He can tell his friend is worried about
the meeting going well, but why, Bruce isn’t sure. This whole thing had been
Tony’s idea in the first place.

Natasha and Vision are with them, though the latter is staying in the car until
they confirm Killebrew’s identity, since he tends to stand out. Natasha and
Bruce are disguised as average customers, waiting with eyes on the door, Tony
lagging behind them, mostly out of sight.

Finally, a modest, silver car pulls into the garage and circles the parking
stalls. Emrys Killebrew is unmistakable in the driver’s seat, perfectly
matching his most recent photo, from the patch of balding scalp amidst his
thin, gray hair, to his large, chubby cube of a face, to the small, round
glasses perched scholarly atop his nose, and finally the striking, thick,
winter-white mustache that covers his upper lip. He finds an empty stall and
parks, pulling his short, round, stout body from the seat with some difficulty.
There’s a stiff manila folder tucked under his arm, which he fumbles as he
wrestles with his keys to lock the door.

“He doesn’t look very threatening,” Bruce remarks, observing the stubby man
with some mild amusement.

“And it looks like he came alone,” Natasha replies, sticking her hand into her
purse, no doubt to get a comfortable grip on her gun. “Let’s go.”

The four of them circle around the man’s car before he’s even finished locking
the door, and when he straightens himself back up, he comes face-to-face with
Vision’s blood-red skin tone and almost howls with surprise. “My goodness!” He
cries, bringing his hands up defensively. “You must be the gentleman who wanted
to meet with me,” his voice is deep, but rippling with unchecked fear.

“Actually, that would be all of us,” Tony says from behind him, causing the
doctor to spin around and go limp-jawed when their eyes meet. “My God,” he
exclaims. “Tony Stark?”

“Well thank you, always happy to meet a fan,” Tony grins.

Killebrew’s eyes dart over Bruce and Natasha briefly before settling back on
Tony. He takes a quick breath, regaining his composure, and says, “I can see
now what you meant when you said that paying for me to fly down from Buffalo
was no trouble.” He pulls the folder out from under his arm and goes to hand it
to Tony, though Natasha swipes it from him before the billionaire can make any
snide, bitchy comments. “I, uhh,” Killebrew stutters, gesturing to the folder.
“I brought my credentials and ID, as you requested.”

“We appreciate you doing this, Doctor,” Bruce says, reaching his hand out.
Killebrew smiles and accepts the handshake. “My name is Doctor Bruce Banner.
Given the position we’re in, I hope you can understand our need for discretion
with this.”

“Dr. Banner!” Killebrew says, downright jolly. “And yes, of course, I
completely understand. It all makes perfect sense now, really, I was wondering
why someone would want to enlist me specifically for a covert project, but,
given my background with the mutation phenomenon, it really does make more
sense.”

“That is part of it,” Bruce says. “But not everything. Would you mind if we
take this conversation back to our compound? We need the utmost privacy. We
have a helicopter waiting, if you’re ready.”

“Splendid! Let me just grab my bag—oh, dear, this car’s a rental, I do need to
have it returned before the garage closes—”

“We’ll take care of that for you,” Natasha says, in her falsely-coercing voice.
“If you wouldn’t mind following us, Dr. Killebrew.”

The flight back to the compound goes by quickly, and Natasha uses the time to
leaf through the documents the doctor brought with him. Confirming his
identity, she tucks the folder away within her own briefcase to store the
information. Dr. Killebrew is silent and attentive the whole way there,
casually enjoying the view of New York City from the window.

When they land, they take their new guest immediately to the conference room,
where Steve, Clint, and Rhodey join them.

“Doctor,” Rhodey greets, shaking the man’s hand. Clint does the same, offering
a casual, “It’s good to meet you.”

“So very excited to join this little project,” Killebrew says, his smile all
mustache. “Whatever it is,” he jokes, his eyes lighting up when he sees Steve.
“The Captain America! I am honored to meet you, Sir.”

Steve regards him a moment, his face a cocktail of examination and distrust,
before he relents and offers his hand to shake, as well. “Thank you for coming,
Doctor,” he says.

They all take their seats, and with no degree of enthusiasm, Bruce explains to
Dr. Killebrew why he’s here. Natasha chimes in when she feels there’s something
necessary to add, but otherwise, everyone is silent—even Tony, especiallyTony,
who doesn’t seem to really be listening, the polar opposite of Steve, who’s
eyes are practically burning holes in Killebrew’s face from how hard he’s
watching his expressions.

The doctor, for the most part, is surprised but holds it together, obviously
absorbing the severity of the situation. He doesn’t bother suppressing the
looks of intrigue and curiosity that cross his face when Bruce explains the
method they discovered of quelling Peter’s heat, though Steve’s glare turns
almost murderous. Killebrew stays quiet and focused through the whole ordeal,
saving his questions for the end, the first of which is, “Can I see him?”

Bruce frowns. “First, Dr. Killebrew, we need to be assured that you’re on board
with what we’re asking for, here.” He leans forward on the table, his hands
folded in front of him, professional. “I realize this is a huge risk. We’re
asking you to break the law, and while we are willing to pay you substantially
for it, it’s still a gamble that we understand you might not be willing to
make.”

“I’m on board,” the man says, eyes bright. “Absolutely. I won’t lie and say
that my own quest for knowledge isn’t my main motivation here, but truly—if I
can do anything to help that boy, you have my word that I will do everything I
can.”

“And it never leaves this compound,” Tony says, almost questioningly, the first
thing he’s contributed since they sat down. His voice is uncertain, but his
eyes are hard. “You get it? You never breathe a word of this to anyone.”

Killebrew smiles. “Undoubtedly.”

“Then we have a deal,” Bruce says, a look of relief washing over him. “Doctor,
would you like to see the lab before you meet Peter?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

Bruce leads the man out of the conference room and to the elevator, leaving the
rest of the Avengers behind to mull the event over. Steve stays rooted where he
is, eyes on Tony, pointedly waiting until the rest of them filter out of the
room before he vents, “I don’t trust him, Tony. I got a bad feeling.”

Tony doesn’t look up; keeps his doe-eyes on the tabletop, face blank. “Too late
now, Cap,” he says, coolly. “It’s what Peter wants.”

“The only thing Peter wants is to be safe,” Steve hisses, expression contorting
with anger. “If he’s choosing to put himself in danger, it’s our responsibility
to dosomething about it.”

“In worse danger, you mean,” Tony says, looking up at Steve, meeting his eyes
with an almost defiant air.

Steve, to his credit, doesn’t let his face change. “What do you mean.”

“You know exactlywhat I mean,” Tony says, abruptly pushing himself up out of
his chair. “I’m not having this conversation with you, Rogers. We’re winging it
with Dr. Killebrew—it’s final now whether we like it or not. You know he could
call the authorities on us in a heartbeat if we fired him. Ross would have a
field day.”

“This is a mistake, Tony,” Steve calls, but Tony’s already disappeared down the
hall.

Despite Steve’s cryptic warnings, things proceed without incident for the next
week. Dr. Killebrew and Peter get along well enough; and though the boy is
generally wary of him—the way he is with most people, nowadays—he follows the
doctor’s orders, letting him poke and prod at him, take samples of his blood
(and other fluids, which had been horrifying), and lets himself be tested on
with concoctions the doctor made in the lab.

Because, if all goes well, he’ll be able to develop a whole new heat-
suppressant; a Peter-proof one.

To Peter, that’s worth all the invasive medical examinations he can think of.

But still, designing a new medication is a lengthy and error-ridden process,
and the days start to drag on faster than Peter is comfortable with. With each
day, the chance of him going into heat increases—with each day, he finds
himself filled with more and more dread, until he’s lost his appetite
completely, and sleep rarely comes, if at all.

Killebrew chastises him when he notices. “We need to get you feeling better if
we want any of this medication to be successful, Peter,” he says. “You know we
have a full-proof plan for when you go into heat. When you do, everyone will
retire to their respective quarters, Mr. Stark’s AI will lock them in, and if I
can’t suppress it artificially with any of these chemical compounds, well, at
least you will have the benefit of choosing which alpha helps you suppress it,
this time around.”

“That’s the part I’m dreading,” Peter says, quietly. “Not that I’m doubting
your medication, but—if it doesn’t work, I’ll…” Peter pauses, fists clenching
hard on his thighs, his legs dangling off the side of the examination table. “I
don’t want to go through it again.”

“I know,” the doctor says, an attempt at soothing. “I’m confident I can figure
this out, but you have to work with me, Peter. Make sure you eat something
today, even if you have to force yourself, all right?”

Peter grimaces at the mere thought of food, but nods all the same. “Okay.”

The next day, sitting in the same spot, going over his daily examinations with
Dr. Killebrew, Peter goes into heat.

The horrid sensation is familiar to him now, the way his insides clench and
cramp, painful and oddly pleasurable all at once. Peter feels sick from the
swiftness and intensity of the fever that sets in, and curls up helplessly on
the table, while the doctor scrambles around the lab, grabbing various bottles
and vials of chemicals.

“Friday,” the man says, “Protocol Heat. Alert every alpha to head straight for
their rooms, and make sure they are firmly locked inside. None of those doors
open unless Peter chooses an alpha to mate with, or his heat passes, whichever
comes first. Is that clear?”

“It is done, Doctor.” Friday says.

“Very good,” says the man, pulling Peter up from his side, sitting him upright
again on the table, though the boy gives a pained moan in protest. “Up we go,
Peter—there’s a good boy—we’re going to see if this works,” he says, firmly
holding his wrist, pressing a syringe to the skin.

Through the lust-filled fog of his mind, a siren wails within Peter, angry and
red. The hairs on the back of his neck and arms stand firm, but before he can
say anything, Dr. Killebrew is injecting a clear liquid into his bloodstream
with a pleased smile.

“What,” Peter gasps, feeling the ground rush up to meet him, the ceiling
fluctuates, his head spins. He doesn’t know how he keeps himself sitting up.
“What did you give me?”

“Just a little tranquilizer,” says the doctor, gathering an assortment of
concoctions he’d been working on and packing them all into a black bag. “You
won’t be able to put up much of a fight like this, but I’m still not as young
as I used to be.”

Peter reels, lurching off the table and narrowly avoiding crashing to the
floor. He forces himself up on weak, trembling legs, trying to find the exit,
though the whole room is spinning round.

“Easy, omega,” Dr. Killebrew says, hoisting him over his shoulder just before
his legs give out. “Just relax and go to sleep. I’ll need you well rested for
the things to come.”

Out of spite, Peter stays half-conscious all the way to the garage, only
allowing himself to pass out when Dr. Killebrew pulls the hood of the trunk
down, trapping him in, the darkness swallowing him up.
Chapter End Notes
     And so begins the truly dark side of this story. Thank you everyone
     for reading along so far—for all the kudos and bookmarks and your
     amazing, supportive comments—I love you guys. Stay tuned for the next
     update... everyone's favorite psychotic mercenary might just be
     making his debut soon. ;)
***** Consent, And All It Carries *****
“Now move out of the way so I can drive this kid home,” Happy said, before
firmly shutting the driver-side door and pulling the car out of the garage. A
tense silence settled in between Steve and Tony, the latter of whom was staring
at the large overhanging bay door as it slid closed, his face grim, lips pulled
tight with displeasure. Steve regarded him thoughtfully, the way Tony’s large
brown eyes seemed almost impossibly dark, his hands stuffed deep in his
pockets.

“He’ll be all right,” Steve offered, then surprised himself by brushing his
thumb against the skin of his hand, feeling the dampness of it and realizing
his whole body was sweating, uncomfortably hot even in the coolness of the
underground garage.

Tony didn’t say anything for a moment, then let out an honest, “Something
doesn’t feel right,” in perhaps the most sincere tone Steve had ever heard him
use. Tony shifted from one foot to the other and the overhead lights caught in
the dampness of his skin, a shimmer on his forehead. Looking closer, Steve
noticed the other man was actually a bit flushed; a pinkish tone covering his
cheeks, prominent against the pale white of his neck.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay? You don’t look so good,” Steve said, nodding
toward Tony’s sweat-damp complexion. “Maybe that’s what doesn’t feel right.”

Tony scoffed. “I don’t look so good? What about you?” He taunted, gesturing to
Steve up and down. “You and Peter had that fight, what, three hours ago? How
are you still all red and sweaty? I think I’min better shape than you are, and
I had toaster strudels for breakfast.”

“I am feeling kind of warm,” Steve admitted, understating. “Maybe I caught
whatever bug Peter has.”

“Maybe we both did,” Tony said, uncomfortable, like there was more he didn’t
want to mention. “Do you feel, uhh—kind of hungry? But not really?” He glanced
at Steve and then away; embarrassed by the man’s quizzical expression. “Like…
thirsty, but not in your throat. If that makes any sense.”

“It doesn’t,” said Steve, rubbing the back of his neck tensely, then having to
wipe the dampness off his hand on his sweatpants. “But—yes? I think. I kind of
get it. I feel more agitated than anything. Like I’m forgetting something, or
there’s something I’m supposed to be doing.”

“Right,” Tony said, “But you can feel it, right, in your—stomach.”

And the way he tripped and hesitated on the word stomach gave Steve pause. He
took a mental step backward and sought out that nagging feeling; the strange
urge, not quite a hunger like Tony said—more of an incessant desire, but for
what, Steve couldn’t tell. Either way, the other man was right; there was some
kind of unknown pull resonating low in his body. It felt like the physical
embodiment of anticipation, not fearful in nature like anxiety, but compelling
and disturbing all the same.

“I feel mad,” Steve said, the honesty in his voice surprising him. It didn’t
sound right until the moment it left his mouth, and then it seemed to make
perfect sense. His body thrummed with an urgent aggravation that was slowly
coming to a head, like a wave, breaking the surface.

“Yeah,” Tony said, staring off at the closed door again. His tone was quiet and
half-hearted, unlike him. “Don’t know what at, though. Or who.”

“Should we have made him stay?” Steve asked, unnerved by the disbelieving look
Tony had on his face when he turned to look at him. Tony’s dark eyes were wide
and unsure; eyebrows sloping upward above the bridge of his nose.

Tony said, “He wanted to go.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know why.”

“Neither do I.” Replied Steve.

“It’s driving me crazy,” Tony pulled out his phone and began typing something
into it, thumb swiping rapidly over the screen. “I hate not knowing things.”

Steve smirked. “You? Really?” He said, sarcastically. “The man who’s entire
personality is based on knowing things?”

Tony pursed his lips, giving his phone a bitchy, irritated look. “Bite me,
Rogers.”

The breath caught in Steve’s throat. Bite me. Even scathing as they were, the
words sent a shiver down Steve’s legs. He knew Tony didn’t mean it like that,
but still. He felt flustered and hormonal all of a sudden; impatient.

“Careful,” he said, a decibel too quiet. “There are some things you just
shouldn’t say to alphas.”

“There are a lot of things I shouldn’t say to a lot of people,” Tony
deadpanned, still not looking up from his phone. “Never stopped me.”

“I might really do it,” said Steve.

Tony laughed and sent Steve a sideways glance, playing for flirty and
unaffected, but Steve could see the glimmer of aggravation in his eyes; that
underlying tenseness that was coursing through both of them. Steve couldn’t
help but wonder if Tony would be the first one to issue whatever challenge they
were skirting around here—or if he wanted him to.

Tony kept his gaze, tongue dampening his lower lip. Steve watched it slide over
the surface with an almost morbid curiosity, before snapping his gaze back up
to Tony’s, whose face cracked into that familiar smarmy grin.

“Maybe next time, Cap,” Tony said, silkily, waving his phone at him. “I’ve got
things to learn.” And with that, Steve watched him turn and saunter out of the
garage, the hostility calming within him with every step further the other
alpha took, Peter’s mysterious illness forgotten.

That had been the last time Steve and Tony were alone in this garage together,
until now, and the memory of it plays defiantly in the background of Steve’s
mind. So many things have happened since that day, all those weeks ago, and not
just between him and Tony. Everything, Steve thinks with a grimace, is
different now.

Tony’s whole body is practically vibrating with barely-suppressed rage. He has
multiple holographic screens pulled up in front of him, running his hands over
each, sorting through data and information faster than Steve can even identify.
Steve knows it’s useless to tell him to calm down; this surpasses the bruised
ego of having Killebrew betray them. Bond or no, Tony considers himself to be
Peter’s alpha, just as Steve does, and there’s no quelling that protective
urge.

The garage is silent—save for Tony’s vicious little curses beneath his
breath—until that silence is broken by Steve’s cell phone in his hand blaring
urgently.

“Hello?” He answers, without looking.

“We’ve lost him,” Natasha says, voice cold, a tone he recognizes. A soldier’s
voice. “Killebrew obviously had this planned to a fault. He switched cars off
the interstate. We found the one he stole from Tony parked halfway up a
deserted logging road. It was empty.”

“Where did he switch cars?” Steve asks, forcing the words to come out calm and
slow.

“Clint is texting the location to Tony now, so he can try and see if there’s
any CCTV cams nearby we can access,” she says. “And Vision, Sam and Rhodes flew
ahead, to spread out and survey the traffic, looking for anything suspicious.
They’re our best shot now.”

Normally Steve would say, Thanks, Nat,or Good job, team,to try and be
reassuring, but the words won’t come out, Steve’s jaw shut stubbornly tight
around them. As much as he knows he should be the leader this team needs, to
keep morale up for their sake, his own insidious hopelessness strangles the
compulsion inside of him; his own overprotective instinct overriding everything
else.

So he says, “Better turn around and come back to the compound, then.”

Natasha’s silence on the other end is eerie and palpable—only an assassin could
ever be so quiet, Steve thinks. Then, in a surprisingly gentle tone, Natasha
says, “We’ll find him, Steve.”

Steve swallows, hoping Natasha didn’t hear it, but knowing she did. “See you
when you get back,” he says, and hangs up.

Tony is immediately talking. “Killebrew had zero known experience with tech.”
He pulls up the doctor’s file, all of the information digitized. “Yet somehow,
he disabled tracking devices, cameras, intruder protocols—myintruder protocols,
don’t forget—and schemed an elaborate getaway plan in one week.”

“So he has help,” Steve says, stepping closer to skim the holographic pages.
“Someone who’s proficient with technology and has a vested interest in omegas.”

“Or mutants,” Tony says, gravely. “And they’re probably rich. Killebrew threw
away a lotof money pulling this stunt. Maybe he was paid off.”

Steve frowns. “So we’re looking for a wealthy computer-literate genius with a
medical background or passing interest,” he says. “How many of those can there
be?”

“Too many.” Tony quips. “We need to find Peter now.”

“Why don’t you start with searching the public cam footage nearby the
coordinates Clint sent you? Maybe we’ll get lucky and narrow our search to a
list of licence plates we can track.”

“I had Friday start the algorithm the moment I got that text,” Tony says. “Why
don’t you actually make yourself usefuland go help Bruce search the lab?”

Steve bristles. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t need you hovering over me,” Tony dismisses, not looking away from his
screens. “You’re in the way. So why are you still here, brooding like a
gargoyle, instead of helping the rest of the team find Peter?”

“You are unbelievable,” Steve says, enunciating. “None of this would have even
happenedif you had listened to me about Killebrew in the first place.”

“And there it is!” Tony turns around, facing Steve, hands thrown up in the air
dramatically. “Tony Stark, at fault once again. I’m surprised it took the blame
train this long to reach the station.”

He steps closer to Steve, his brown eyes burning maliciously in the ugly yellow
light. Tony is wearing his desire to punch Steve like a billboard. “Should have
listened to the all-knowing and all-wise Captain America, who’s psychic
abilities put even Scarlet Witch’s to shame. Must be a nice view up there on
your high horse, huh Steve? I sure am jealous of you, sitting around and
sucking your own dick, instead of being the bigger man and putting Peter
first.”

“You want to talk about being the bigger man,Stark?” Steve hisses, leaning
forward until their chests almost touch. “You’re the one around here who can’t
accept any damn responsibility. You were so desperate to make it up to Peter,
you jumped on the first doctor you thought looked good, letting Peter have the
final say in it, so that if it went bad, it was hischoice, not yours. You’ve
been more concerned about Peter forgiving you than actually doing right by him
since day one, and you know it.”

“Whereas you’ve only ever done right by him,” Tony says, viciously, lip curling
back in a snarl. “Isn’t that right, Steve? You’ve only ever done the right
thing. Like the time Friday told you Peter went into heat, surrounded by three
alphas, completely unprotected, and you got on your bike and left, without a
word. Whatever you were concerned with then, it sure as fuck wasn’t Peter.”

Steve’s fists clench, bruising painfully against his palm. “Word through the
grapevine is, you didn’t immediately step in, either. Had to enjoy the show
first, right, Tony?”

He expects a punch, Tony’s entire body swelling with the desire to do so, but
instead, all the fury and loathing come out of his mouth, coating his words
like oil. “You have no idea what that moment was like for me.”

“Yeah, I do,” Steve says, just a hint less venomous. “I mated with him too,
Tony. I know exactly what you were feeling, hearing that. Peter isn’t the only
one who had his consent ripped away from him.”

Consent. Tony falters at the word. It sounds too small; a little word not big
enough to contain all the things that had been lost when Peter went into heat.
Peter, who kept insisting on his heterosexuality, like he was the only one
there who’d never had sex with another man until that day, an act that Tony
never would have imagined would happen like that, if it ever happened at all.
Consent doesn’t seem strong enough to house the complexities of being exposed
to an omega in heat; what Tony had felt, at war with himself, knowing that the
only reason it wasn’t rape is because Peter is an omega, which means it was, if
society could look past gender.

Consent can’t possibly shoulder all the sleepless nights that came afterward,
days of Tony struggling to keep away from Peter, battling against everything
he’d been taught his entire life about his rights as an alpha, because Peter
didn’t want to be near him. It can’t define or explain the way Tony’s logic was
stripped away from him, his ability to rationalize, to see the causality
between his actions and the traumaPeter suffered from, all because of biology,
something he didn’t ask for any more than Peter did.

Tony knows Peter didn’t just have his consenttaken away. But he isn’t the only
one. They’d all lost things, helpless under the compulsion of their genetic
dispositions. Tony didn’t mate with Peter because of supressed attraction or a
sick desire to overpower and dominate him like with other sexual assaults. His
ability to choose was taken away, too, just like Peter’s had been. It was taken
away the moment Peter went into heat, sparring with Steve—his body releasing
pheromones that corrupted their free will, even then.

And that day, with Clint and Rhodey and Sam. Maybe Steve didn’t watch, but at
least Tony didn’t run. Which was a much bigger deal than anyone had given him
credit for, because Tony had matedwith Peter. Even without bonding, that mating
bite had affected Tony—and with all that time he spent, trying over and over
again to quell Peter’s heat, the effect had been substantial. It left its mark
on him, like a layer of grime he can’t wash off. Even without being in heat,
Peter’s body affects him, gives him thoughts and desires he never would have
otherwise, makes his own body and mind an unfamiliar, unpredictable thing; an
exhausting cage.

That day, watching Clint pin Peter to the floor through his monitors. Tony had
been ready to kill him, his armor on, his heart pounding, but he couldn’t move,
his feet riveted to the floor of his workshop. His brain was screaming at
him—Peter needs help, move, move, you son of a bitch, MOVE—but it was a distant
and unfamiliar voice, echoing off the great chasms of his mind, cascading over
the hills and pools of a black, gasping quagmire; an entitled swamp of lust.
The whimpers and gasps, Peter moaning in spite of himself whenever his throat
was assaulted, they all stuck to Tony’s skin like magnets, weighing him down,
an invisible pull toward the floor. The sounds Peter made were like stepping
back into that bedroom at the Avengers Tower; he could practically feel the
boy’s skin on his fingertips, the taste of his throat in his mouth. It rooted
him in place, as his treacherous mind played the scene over and over, watching
Peter being raped by another man on screen and by himself in his mind’s eye.

It wasn’t until, finally, blessedly, Clint finished and moved off the boy, that
Tony’s strength returned and he practically leapt toward the elevator, rushing
to make it upstairs as fast as he could, before Sam or Rhodey could take their
turn, inciting Peter to freeze Tony in place with his sounds of mating again.

And Steve had left, left it all up to him, like always. Maybe he was right;
maybe Tony should have been able to overcome those biological urges, figure out
a way around them, if he was such a genius. Maybe he should have gotten in his
car and driven away, left everything up to Clint and Rhodey and Sam, let them
figure this shit out, this bizarre culmination of tragic events where there
just isn’t a right answer.

Steve, pulling Tony from his thoughts, says, “I wanted to go upstairs when
Friday told me.” The anger in his face shifts and changes, becomes blatant,
irreproachable despair. “But not to help.”

“I know,” says Tony.

“And that’s not me,” Steve continues, voice shaking just a little, a crack at
the edges. “That was the very first time, in my entire life—even before I was a
super soldier—that I let someone get hurt, on my watch, and did nothing. I was
fighting bullies on the streets of Brooklyn when I weighed a hundred pounds
when wet, never winning, because it was the right thing to do. That’s who I am,
Tony, my identity. I don’t have that anymore.”

“I know what you mean,” Tony insists, “I get it.”

“And it was Peter, and I don’t know how to deal with that,” his jaw clenches
and he looks away from Tony, brows furrowed, his lip quivering. “I wanted to
protect him when I heard, but it was like—like I knew that he wouldn’t get
hurt—because it was Sam and Clint and Rhodes, our teammates, and they’d never
hurt him—so it was like my brain rerouted, and made me feel like it was all
okay, and natural, just something that happens. But I knew that wasn’t true,
that it was Peter, who isn’t just an omega, he’s Peter, he’s fifteen, he’s a
brilliant kid with the biggest heart I’ve ever seen, the last person in the
world who deserves this, and if I stayed even one more minute I was going to
hurt him again, and—” His eyes brim with tears, looking past Tony like he can’t
see him, Tony sees the wetness in his eyes and nearly panics at the sight. “And
so I left.” He sighs, closing his eyes, and when he opens them again, the tears
are gone.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” he says, almost a whisper. “I shouldn’t have done that. I
hate myself for it.” He looks him in the eyes when he says it, all that anger
gone, taking Tony’s with it. “When it comes to this situation, I just can’t
seem to do the right thing.”

“None of us can,” Tony offers, gently. “It’s all right, Steve. You’re not—it’s
the same for me, I keep fucking up because I’m trying to do the right thing,
but no matter what I do, I get that kid hurt. And I’m just so tired of all the
guilt I’m carrying that I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Steve says, and for a second, Tony feels like maybe it is.

And then he remembers, Peter, stuffed in the trunk of that madman’s car, God
knows where. He clears his throat noncommittally and takes a step back, creates
distance, and playfully says, “So is this the part where we hug it out, or…?”

Steve snorts, rolling his eyes, not giving the other man the satisfaction of a
reply. “If you’re so sure you can handle this, maybe I will go help Bruce go
through the lab after all.”

Tony pauses. “Or you could stay,” he suggests, light, vague. “Might be useful
to bounce ideas off of.”

A small smile spreads across Steve’s face, which he gracefully keeps to
himself, God forbid Tony’s ego take another hit. “Sounds good to me.”

Tony hums affirmative in his throat, eyes glued to his holographs again, when
the scorching light of day floods into the garage through the rising door,
Natasha’s car rolling down the slope, Clint at the wheel. He parks and gives
Tony and Steve a grim look, mirroring Natasha’s, who watches Wanda help Sam out
of the backseat of the car, the man clutching his chest over the wound he’s
still nursing from Tony’s blast.

Steve is there in an instant, taking Sam from Wanda under his arm. “Are you all
right?”

“Just overdid it,” Sam says, through clenched teeth. “Shouldn’t have tried to
fly that much, I think I ripped open some of the skin.”

Natasha elbows Steve out of the way, wrapping Sam’s arm around her shoulder.
“I’ll take him to Bruce, Steve. You guys stay here and try to come up with a
plan. Vision and Rhodes should be back any minute.”

“Okay,” Steve relents, giving them room for Natasha to haul Sam to the
elevator. “Rest up quickly Sam, we need everyone for this. Peter needs us.”

He can hear Sam snort derisively, even through his pain. “You better believe
I’ll be ready to party when we find that slimy doctor, Cap. No matter what.”

The rest of the team shares Sam’s sentiments, and three whole days go by of
endless, relentless searching. Natasha left on the morning of the first day,
tracking down Killebrew’s old colleagues and coworkers to gather intel and find
a way to contact him. Vision is hardly at the compound; he takes determinedly
to the skies, an overemotional display that vexes and concerns the rest of his
team. They have no idea what kind of car Killebrew switched to, what direction
he went, or even if he’s still in the country—he could have smuggled Peter off
to Canada by now for all they know, but that doesn’t stop Vision from
restlessly searching up and down the interstate, over every back road he can
find.

Bruce and Tony set to work on reviewing camera footage, lining up licence
plates, dates and times of cars that drove by within a reasonable radius from
where the switch happened, but they end up with several hundred possible
vehicles, none of them revealing anything suspicious when Rhodey cross-checks
them with the DMV records he pulls.

On the evening of the third day, a storm hits, unwillingly grounding Vision at
the compound as lightning streaks across the sky. The compound is dark and
quiet, the Avengers all seated together in the communal living room, silent
except for Tony, who furiously taps away at the information on his Stark Pad,
the way he’d been doing relentlessly for days on end. They keep the lights low,
giving themselves a moment of reprieve, the constant patter of rain pelting the
building, smothering their anxieties.

Wanda had almost dozed off when she suddenly bolts upright and says, “Someone’s
here.”

Clint glances at the balcony through the glass doors and says, “Oh, that’s
Thor,” then closes his eyes again and settles back into the couch. “Stark, let
Thor in.”

“Friday, let Thor in.”

“Yes, Sir,” the AI says, sliding the balcony doors open for the wet, frowning
Asgardian.

“Why do you all sit in the dark?” Thor questions, his deep, booming voice an
unwelcomed guest at their pity party. “This is how you spend your evenings on
Midgard? Not a wonder your world is rife with war.”

“We’re sitting in the dark because we all have headaches,” Rhodey says, half-
mumbling where the side of his face is smushed against a pillow. “So seriously,
take it down a decibel, big guy.”

“What has happened?” Thor says, more seriously now, scanning the faces in the
room with a worried expression.

“You want to field this one, Cap?” Says Tony, still not looking up from his
device, the bags beneath his eyes startlingly dark in its blue light. Steve
sighs, and gestures for Thor to take a seat on the ottoman in front of him.

“Our newest teammate’s been kidnapped. You haven’t met him yet, but his name is
Peter Parker. He’s got some pretty impressive skills thanks to a radiation-
induced mutation, and he’s just a kid, only fifteen years old. We met last year
when the team was fighting over the Sokovia Accords.”

Thor regards Steve quizzically. “Those who are already fifteen years of age are
still considered to be children here?”

“Not the point, Thor,” Clint pipes up from behind them.

“Apologies,” Thor says. “Do you know who has taken him?”

Steve nods. “A doctor named Emrys Killebrew. We hired him to help treat some…
medical issues that Peter was having. But he turned on us and took Peter when
our backs were turned.”

Frowning, Thor asks, “He could not defend himself?”

“The doctor drugged him,” Steve says. “He was probably drugging him since day
one, weakening him bit by bit.”

Bruce’s eyes blink open at the comment. He remembers Peter’s attitude in the
days leading up to his kidnapping; his weariness, his loss of appetite, his
lack of sleep. The pale and vacant coloring of his skin, his tired expression,
his defeated compliance. They’d all assumed it was the trauma, but what if
Steve is right, what if Killebrew had been poisoning Peter all along, with
their permission.

He startles when Wanda’s gentle hand takes his own clenched fist, tightening
reassuringly. “It’s all right, Dr. Banner,” she says, “None of us could have
known. We will find him.” She smiles, and Bruce does his best to return her
smile, loosening his fist.

“This doctor. He took the boy because of his abilities?” Thor asks. “The
radiation ones you speak of?”

“No,” says Steve. “He took him because he’s an omega.”

Thor blinks. “Omegas are women.”

“Maybe on Asgard,” Tony says, still not looking up. “But we have a population
of over seven billion on this planet, and anomalies happen. They’re rare, but
they happen. Peter is one of them.”

Thor looks from Steve to Tony, then back to Steve, uncomprehending. “I do not
understand. This boy… can he bear children?”

“No,” Steve says, “He doesn’t have any extra, uhh—parts, or anything. He’s a
complete male. Completely male, I mean. He doesn’t have a—Tony, shut up.”

Tony doesn’t stop sniggering, and Clint adds, “It is pretty funny watching you
try to give an ancient God The Talk, Cap.”

Steve sighs. “My point is—you jackasses—Peter can’t get pregnant. He can go
into heat and attract an alpha, but it’s all vestigial. It’s just a genetic
fluke. And because it’s so rare, there are a lot of people who would do
anything to get their hands on Peter to try and learn what they can from him.
We thought we were careful enough selecting a doctor, but clearly we weren’t.”

Thor is speechless enough without them having to divulge the events that led up
to finding a doctor for Peter, so Steve doesn’t bother telling him all that’s
happened—Peter wouldn’t want him to, anyway.

“But we’ve reached a stalemate,” Steve says, tiredly. “We don’t have any new
leads. We haven’t heard from Natasha since she left, and she’s our last hope.
Killebrew could be anywhere by now.”

“I have come at an inconvenient time,” Thor says, quietly for him. “Though it
is good that I chose to check on you when I did. We are still a team, and if
one of our members is missing, honor demands that I stay and help you find
him.”

“That’s great, buddy,” says Tony, condescendingly. “Does that magic hammer of
yours have any tracking capabilities, by any chance? Maybe some kind of planet-
wide, telepathic superhuman locator? Mutant GPS? Anything like that?”

“Half the words you say are without sense,” Thor says, defensively. “Though in
one thing, you are right. What we require is a hunter.”

“Great, you know any?”

“Silence your jokes, Stark. One of you must know a person with the ability to
hunt. Hawkeye, do you not?”

“Natasha is the closest thing to a hunter that I know of, and she’s already on
it,” Clint says. “She won’t quit, either. All that Russian hard-headedness
gives her tunnel vision sometimes. She was by far the best in the agency.”

“And there is no one else?” Thor asks.

The room is silent, and then Steve says, “There is.” Everyone turns to look at
him, curiously, waiting for him to elaborate, though he doesn’t. The silence
drags on uncomfortably long, until Thor impatiently leans forward and barks,
“Well?”

“It’ll be tough getting him here,” Steve says. “But if anyone can track
Killebrew down, he can.”

“Don’t,” Tony half says, half shouts, staring at Steve openly now, eyes black
with suspicion, knuckles white against the silver of his Stark Pad. He wants to
scream, don’t even think about it, but the words won’t come; his tongue tied by
the resolute look on Steve’s face.

“Speak plainly,” Thor demands, the only one among the group not sizing Tony up
for an assault on Steve. “Who do you speak of?”

“An old friend,” Steve says, apologetically, tearing his gaze away from Tony’s
icy, heartbroken face. “His name is Bucky Barnes.”
***** It's Raining Somewhere *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Ottawa, Ontario is about twice as warm as Natasha expected for this time of
year, and at least four times as rainy. Saint Arlo’s Medical Facility and
Research Centre for Gender Anomalies stands tall and proud against the
downpour; its smooth, grey and white concrete exterior darkening beneath the
onslaught of rain.

Procuring a false identity to blend in amongst the staff hadn’t been easy to
pull off in only one day, but Natasha has had harder missions. Tracking down
Killebrew’s acquaintances has been frustratingly tedious, and the amount of
time she’s dedicated to this mission hangs over her head more stubbornly than
the rain clouds darkening the sky.

Pulling her umbrella from her purse, Natasha crosses the street in brisk,
confident steps, her heels clicking starkly against the wet sidewalk. She
gestures to the badge clipped onto her jacket’s lapel when she passes by the
security guard at the front desk, and he nods to her, unsuspicious. She waits
until the elevator doors shut and she’s completely alone to press the button
for the fourth floor, but it beeps at her, a sharp, accusatory sound.
Unclipping the badge from her jacket, Natasha locates the strip on the back and
tries swiping the card through the slot next to the keypad, and then presses
the button again. The keypad dings appreciatively, and the elevator starts
ascending.

Keeping their research under lock and key, she thinks to herself.

The doors open onto a wide, open floor, the whole room packed with people,
doctors and lab assistants and technicians milling about their own tasks. She
knows who she’s looking for—Dr. William McTavish, fifty-eight, PhD in A/B/
O Gender Studies, biology and evolution researcher at this facility. His face
is plain and nondescript, but Natasha has it memorized. Walking along the rows
of desks and work tables, she scans the crowd, most people not paying her any
mind. She investigates the entire room until she gets to a large table in the
corner; the only one on the entire floor with nobody standing by it.

Her eyes barely glance over the contents of the tabletop before a young woman
sidles up to her. “Did you need any help finding something?”

Natasha looks her over. Young, eager, not a threat. Her tone and body language
give away her genuine desire to help. McTavish’s intern, maybe, or assistant.
Her nametag brands her Amy Hallowitz.

“Actually,” Natasha says, smiling warmly, “I’m looking for Dr. McTavish. I need
to get in contact with one of his old colleagues, and was hoping he could point
me in the right direction.”

Amy’s smile falls, grief washing over her face. She doesn’t even attempt to
keep the sadness out of her voice. “Oh, I’m so sorry, you must not have heard,”
she says, “Dr. McTavish is dead. He died three days ago.”

“Dead?” Natasha repeats, letting her surprise show. She hadn’t heard anything
about it, but then again, that’s one of the drawbacks of working a mission
completely solo. Things can blindside you. “What happened?”

The girl’s forehead creases with a deep worry-wrinkle. She tightens her lips,
as if to stop herself from speaking, and then relinquishes. She takes a moment,
and when she replies, her voice is much quieter, subdued. “The RCMP asked us to
keep it to ourselves, until the medical examiner can say for certain,” she
says, “but they think it was murder. They found him in his apartment, he was
all cut up. Mutilated, apparently. They told us to be on the lookout for
suspicious people, just in case.”

Amy glances around them quickly, to make sure no one’s listening, and then
says, a breath above a whisper, “But to tell you the truth, I really do think
it was murder.”

Natasha leans in, opening her body language to appear as inviting as possible,
lowering the volume of her voice until it matches Amy’s, her tone gentle and
coaxing. “Why do you think that?” She asks, just the right hint of gossipy.

The other woman mirrors her posture almost exactly, and then says, “My fiancé
is part of the ERT. He said he got to see Dr. McTavish up close and that—get
this—his wounds didn’t even look like normal stab wounds. He said it looked
like somebody cut him up with a sword.”

Natasha gapes, pretending to stifle a gasp, knowing that shocked is the
reaction Amy was hoping for. The woman nods, as if she can read Natasha’s
disbelieving thoughts, and whisper-shouts, “I know, right? Here in Ottawa? I
can’t believe it. But my boyfriend wouldn’t lie.”

“That’s crazy,” Natasha agrees. “You’d have to be super strong to kill someone
with a sword these days. And wouldn’t someone have noticed a guy walking around
the building with a sword?”

“I know!” Amy says, “But apparently no one saw anything! And that makes it even
scarier—what if this guy, like, crawled through his window or something?”

“It’s super scary,” says Natasha. “And what a horrible way to die. Poor
William,”

“He was a good man,” Amy averts her eyes, the rims starting to glisten. “I
didn’t know him that well, but he mentored me on occasion. He was a bit of an
alpha-elitist, but he was never unkind. I’m just sad he’ll never get to finish
his research.”

“I’m looking for an old research partner of his. I’m sure he must be sad, too,
if he’s heard the news already.”

Amy blinks, and looks back up at Natasha again. “Oh, right!” She says. “Sorry,
I forgot you mentioned you were trying to find someone. Who is it? Dr. McTavish
asked me to run correspondence for him on occasion, maybe I’ll be able to
help?”

Natasha smiles at her. “His name is Dr. Emrys Killebrew. He and Dr. McTavish
worked together for a while at Oxford.”

“Oh, Dr. Killebrew!” Amy says. “I know him! Well—I don’t know him, but I know
who he is, I’ve read his scientific essay about the evolution of mating and
behavior so many times, I’ve probably memorized the whole thing. Dr. McTavish
really looked up to him.”

“I don’t suppose you’d know how to contact him?” Natasha asks. “He wasn’t at
his home in Buffalo, and his business number’s been disconnected. I really need
to find him as soon as I can—his research could be at stake.”

“I’m sorry,” Amy frowns, “I don’t know how, but I know someone else who might.”
She turns around, and begins rummaging through the large filing cabinet
adjacent to the table, taking apart folders of heavily-stapled documents until
she finds the one she’s looking for, which she hands to Natasha, smiling.

“This is a dissertation that Dr. McTavish wrote while at Oxford,” she explains.
“It was co-written by his friend and colleague, Ian Crass.” She points to the
name, written on the page. “Dr. McTavish used to talk about Dr. Crass a
lot—they were good friends, but supposedly, Dr. Crass was a lot closer with Dr.
Killebrew. I think they’re still really close. I can get you his number, if
you’d like.”

“If you have an address, that would be even better,” Natasha smiles, “and thank
you so much for all your help. I’m really sorry for your loss, Amy.”

“Thank you,” Amy says. “Dr. Crass lives all the way in Montreal, though—are you
sure you don’t just want his phone number?”

“Could I trouble you for both?”

“Anything for a friend of William,” she says. “Just hang tight, and I’ll be
right back…” she glances down at Natasha’s chest, stopping at the badge pinned
to her jacket. “…Scarlett.”

Natasha smiles.

Montreal address and phone number in hand, Natasha leaves Saint Arlo’s and
steps back into the pouring rain, back the way she came, toward the train
station. She grabs her bugout bag from the lockers inside the depot, and boards
the earliest train heading out of town, to the warehouse where her jet is
parked. It’s a little under an hour flight to Montreal in her small, two-
seater, Stark Industries plane, so she doesn’t bother to text Clint or
Steve—time is of the essence, and if Killebrew is behind the bizarre murder of
his colleague, then every second counts.

Luckily, according to her info, Ian Crass lives just outside of Montreal city,
on the border of rural Quebec. It’s the perfect place to stash the jet, so she
unloads her motorcycle from the cargo bay and speeds toward the Trans-Canada
Highway. She’s only twenty-five minutes from the Crass Estate, if she drives
fast.

It is blissfully dry here, compared to Ottawa, though noticeably cooler. Not
that she minds—Russia was colder all over, and her thick riding jacket cuts the
wind pressure by a mile.

Crass Estate is an old, single-story compound in the middle of a forested,
abandoned-looking acreage that smells like a farm. The front yard has been
landscaped, at least somewhat recently, with hedges and a cobblestone pathway,
circling a large brick-colored fountain. That isn’t the first thing that
catches Natasha’s eye, though—no, the first thing she sees is an out-of-place,
smoking, banged-up SUV in the driveway—the driver’s side door flung open, dents
littering both sides, bullet holes in the windows. The engine is off, yet the
metal inside is creaking, dripping generous amounts of radiator fluid and God-
knows-what else on the driveway.

There’s blood pooling on the dashboard, coating the inside of the windshield,
the seats.

The second thing Natasha notices is that the statue in the middle of the
fountain has been, for lack of a better word, vandalized. What she assumes was
originally a likeness of Ian Crass himself, crouching studiously to survey the
water, the way a scientist would, is now a crude and frankly gross version of
its former self; the statue, decapitated, the head placed between the legs to
make it look like Ian is defecating his own face, and the fingers of both hands
cut off, except for the middle ones, to make it look like the statue is
flipping itself off, in the reflection of the water.

There’s something outlandishly immature and almost barbaric about it, and
Natasha can’t help the frown that stretches across her face—this, in of itself,
is an attack on the man. If he’s even still alive—

Her thought is disrupted by a shrill and agonized scream, which echoes off the
surrounding forest. Natasha turns and bolts for the front door, following the
desperate sounds that seem to fill the hallways like smoke. The screaming
doesn’t stop, even as she bursts into the lounge at the back of the house,
finding Ian Crass collapsed in the corner of the room. The fingers on his right
hand, severed off, all except the middle.

“Ah, shit,” says the man towering over him. “I mean—hello!”

“Deadpool,” Natasha says, not so much a greeting as an observation. She glares,
surveying his ripped and bloodied costume, his blood-dripping katana.

“Uhh,” Deadpool pauses, looking her up and down. “Have we met?”

“Black Widow, former agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., current member of the—”

“The Avengers!” Deadpool gushes, excitedly, before his voice thickens with
dread. “That’s not good.”

“I’m not here for you,” Natasha says, nodding her head toward Ian. “I’m here
for him. Get out of here.”

“Well now, see, that’s gonna be problem,” Deadpool says, holding up one of
Ian’s dismembered fingers—the index finger—and then using it to point to the
man. “Because this stinking pile of feces knows where my target is, and I’m not
leaving until he tells me.”

Seamlessly, without missing a beat, Natasha reaches into her side-holster and
whips out her handgun, flipping it effortlessly in one hand before aiming it at
the mercenary. She cocks the gun and says, voice like ice, “I won’t tell you
again.”

Petulantly, Deadpool flings the finger at Ian, pelting him in the side of the
face with it, and then raises his katana toward Natasha, challengingly. “You
sound like a robot. ‘I won’t tell you again,’”he mocks, in a terrible, fake-
Russian accent. “Way to breathe life into that ‘soulless ginger’ stereotype,
Little Red Riding—ow! FUCK!” He screams, clutching his hand over two fresh,
spurting bullet wounds in his right shoulder, blood spilling between his gloved
fingers.

“Leave,” Natasha hisses.

“I thought you weren’t gonna tell me aga—” he starts, but is cut off by a third
shot, the bullet going right through his forehead. His body collapses, heavy as
a bag of bricks, and just as blissfully silent.

“Oh, my God,” Ian wheezes, sobbing, holding his profusely bleeding hand against
his chest. “Oh, my God, you killedhim!”

“He’ll be fine,” Natasha says, crouching next to the man.

“He will?”

“Don’t worry about him,” She urges, taking his injured hand and holding it up,
to stem the flow of blood while she wraps it. “Dr. Crass, I need you to tell me
where Dr. Emrys Killebrew is.”

“You want to know, too?” The man demands, disbelievingly. “Why? And why should
I tell you?”

“None of your business,” Natasha grits, tightening her hold on the man’s wrist,
unforgivingly. “And because I saved your life.”

“Emrys is my friend,” Ian whimpers, trying to pry her harsh grip off of him,
but failing, his skin soaked and slippery from all the blood. “He’s my friend,
I won’t sell him out to—to—the likes of you!” But his gaze is drawn behind
Natasha, focusing on Deadpool’s lifeless body, warily.

Natasha sighs. “He has my omega,” she says. Ian looks at her, startled,
perplexed. “I’m not going to hurt him. I’m not like him,”she nods her head
back, toward Deadpool. “I just want my omega back. Please, tell me where he
is.”

“Your omega?” The man asks, incredulous. “You can’t have a bondmate. You may be
an alpha, but you’re a woman.You don’t fool me.”

Natasha’s grip becomes crushingly painful before she can stop herself. Ian
cries out, agonized, gasping through his sobs. He claws desperately at her
hand, but she doesn’t let go. “You alphas!” The man shouts, “You alphas are all
the same! Violent, controlling brutes—you want an omega so badly? I can make
some calls, I can get you as many as you want—nice girls, too, especially when
they’re in heat—just leave me be!”

“Where is Killebrew?” Natasha demands, almost a snarl. She releases the man’s
wrist and instead grabs the collar of his shirt, using it to pin him
threateningly against the wall, pressure tight against his windpipe. “Where is
he!”

Ian sputters, choking on his spit. He flails, desperately, slapping the one-
fingered stump of his right hand against Natasha’s grip on his neck. His stout
legs kick out, feebly knocking against her shins, but Natasha doesn’t react,
just pushes him harder into the wall, cutting off his air supply more, his face
going purple.

He wheezes, drools, and as his eyes start to roll back, he gurgles, “Buffalo.”

“I checked Buffalo first,” Natasha says, grip tightening. “His home was empty.”

“No,” Ian begs, voice high as a chipmunk’s. “Not…”

Natasha releases her hold, just a fraction, just enough to let the man pull in
three large gulps of air. “You were saying?”

“Delta Strip,” the man chokes, coughing on his saliva. “Delta Strip, on
Arrowstone Avenue. It’s—it’s a bar,” he gasps, face soaked with sweat, tears
and spit. “Emrys has a—an office, underneath it. He keeps his—his under-the-
table business there.”

Natasha lowers the man to his feet, giving him a moment to quell his coughing
fit before she says, “I’m taking you back to the Avengers headquarters, so we
can keep an eye on you in case Killebrew tries to get a hold of you. You’ll be
free to go after we find him.”

“This is kidnapping—”

“And I can’t wait to hear more about this surplus of heat-stricken omegas you
have access to, while we wait.”

Ian snaps his mouth shut, and Natasha moves to grab his shoulder and lead him
out of the building. The moment she touches him, though, she hears the loud,
tell-tale cocking of a gun. On instinct, she dodges, hitting the floor just in
time as a bullet whips past her, hitting Ian between the eyes, cracking his
skull against the wall behind him.

“Aww, I was going for the two-for one,” Deadpool whines, pouting through his
mask. “Maybe it’s for the best. The last thing I need is the Justice League
breathing down my neck.”

“He might still have been useful,” Natasha says. “If he was lying, you just
killed our only lead on finding Killebrew.”

“Doubt he was lying,” Deadpool says, “you were squeezing his neck like an old
bottle of ketchup. Do you have a name for that? ‘The Russian Handjob,’ maybe?”

Natasha only glares at him, so Deadpool shrugs, sheathing his katana and re-
holstering his gun. “Okay, I admit it, I can get carried away! Maybe if I had
cut his fingers off one at a time, he would have told me where Killebrew is.”
He looks at the floor, at the pile of fingers he arranged earlier, the thumb
and pinky laying like eyes, while the ring finger sits curled underneath them
like a smiling mouth, in a crude =) shape. “I guess I have a bit of a temper.”

“You’re the one who killed William McTavish, aren’t you?” Natasha says.

Deadpool dramatically groans, his sneer unmistakable. “Ugh. Don’t even get me
started on that sweaty ballbag. You think stumpy here was bad? McMuffins tried
to bargain with his ‘test subjects.’ I played along, pretended I was
interested, because why not? Turns out, his ‘test subjects’ are twelve and
thirteen years old. Can you believe that? ‘I’ll let you have a go at them if
you let me live,’ he said. ‘I’ll even induce them into heat for you, how about
it, chap?’ Blegh.”

Deadpool kicks the finger smiley-face, resentfully. “I wasn’t even going to
kill him, but he left me no choice.” Natasha raises an eyebrow at him. “Okay, I
was, but not that bad!”

“Why are you after Killebrew?” She asks, not as hostile as she was before. Her
tone is genuine, curious.

“Payback,” Deadpool says, menacingly. “Plus—and I don’t think I need to tell
you this—he’s kind of a dick.”

“So you’re going to kill him,” Natasha says.

“Yepperoni.”

“You can’t—” She starts, but Deadpool shushes her, dramatically, holding his
index finger up to his mask. “Shh shh shh! Do you hear that?”

Natasha frowns. “Hear what?”

“Flash grenade.”

He tosses the round device at Natasha’s feet, and she has only half a second to
react, to fling herself behind the sofa and cover her head before it goes off,
exploding in a blast of light and piercing sound, shattering the windows. The
room fills with smoke, thick and dense, the smell of wood burning. Natasha
lifts her head and glances around the room, half of it blown up, a pile of
burning floorboards where she and Deadpool used to be standing.

Deadpool is gone.

With a groan and a cough, Natasha pulls herself up and makes her way to the
front door, covering her mouth and nose to avoid breathing in the fumes from
the grenade. She limps, gingerly, her leg injured from a large splinter of the
floor that pierced her thigh. She steps outside, into the crisp, clean air of
the Canadian wilderness.

Her bike is also gone.

Fuck.

She pulls out her phone, opens the app that Tony designed to allow her to
control her jet remotely, and then sets its coordinates to her location,
beckoning it to come pick her up. With nothing to do but wait, she sits down
gently by the defaced fountain, and calls Steve.

The fact that he doesn’t answer right away is the first sign that something’s
wrong.

“Natasha?” He says, surprised, relieved, but also strained, and the tense,
uncomfortable lilt of his voice is the second sign that something’s wrong.

But her news takes priority. “Good news and bad news,” she says.

“You got a lead?”

“Yes,” says Natasha, “but we have company. Delta Strip, Arrowstone Avenue,
Buffalo. Killebrew’s evil lair is underneath a bar. Deadpool was here though,
and he knows that location, too, but he’s planning to kill Killebrew on sight.
We have to get there first.”

She can practically hear Steve blink through the phone. “Who’s Deadpool?”

“Mercenary, outside the law, not quite villain status, but still incredibly
dangerous. Also, pretty much immortal. I shot him in the head, he stole my
bike.”

“You need an extraction?” Steve asks.

“I got it,” she replies, looking down at the piece of wood imbedded in her leg,
at the blood soaking into her pants. “But I have a minor injury, and Deadpool’s
already on his way there. We have to get there first, Steve. If he finds
Killebrew and takes him out, and Peter isn’t with him, we’ll never find him.”

“There’s a good chance Killebrew is there?”

“At the very least, there has to be some clues as to where he’s hiding, but I
wouldn’t put it past Deadpool to destroy it if he finds any. My lead called it
an office. It’s most likely just valuable information.”

“I’ll send someone right away,” Steve says. “Good work, Nat. You sure you’re
okay?”

“Yeah. Are you?”

Steve is silent for a moment. “Yeah. All good. You get patched up, I’ll have
someone meet you in Buffalo.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

“Don’t mention it,” Steve says, and hangs up, resisting the urge to look
at—Tony—his other teammates in the room, instead focusing solely on Clint.
“Natasha needs you to meet her in Buffalo, Arrowstone Avenue, a bar called
Delta Strip. Killebrew has some kind of secret base beneath it. Suit up, you’re
gonna have company. A mercenary named Deadpool.”

“Aww, crap, really?” Clint says, visibly surprised. Steve frowns. “You know
him?”

“Sure do. Guy’s nuttier than a pecan pie. And also immortal.”

“Really?” Thor asks, clearly intrigued. “He sounds like an interesting man.”

“He’s a criminal,” Steve says, brow quirking dubiously at the Asgardian.

“Criminally annoying,” says Clint.

Steve turns his attention back to the archer. “He’s also apparently after
Killebrew as well, and he intends to kill him when he finds him. This is time
sensitive—Deadpool’s on his way, and we have to get there first. Natasha says
she has a minor injury, so expect a fight.”

“Nat’s hurt?” Clint asks, sitting up a little straighter. “Shit. Can I have
back-up?”

“You think you’ll need it?” Asks Sam, eyeing Clint a little skeptically. Clint
gives him a dirty look. “This guy can walk off a bullet in the brain, and
Natasha is injured. What do you want from me?”

“You can have back-up, Clint.” Steve says. “The more leads we try and follow,
the better. Any volunteers?”

“Why don’t you go with him, Captain?” Rhodey asks, shooting him a slightly
cold, slightly haughty look.

Steve sets his face as hard as stone. “I’m going to Wakanda.”

The look on Tony’s face is cold enough to freeze Hell over. “If you do, don’t
come back.”

“Tony—” Bruce tries, but Steve cuts him off.

“Even if we find Peter?” He asks, standing up, back straight, defensive. “If
Bucky helps me find Peter, that would be less important to you than this stupid
grudge?”

“Stupid?” Tony repeats, outraged. His lips pull back in a snarl, teeth bared,
voice as venomous as a viper. He steps right up to Steve, in his space, without
a shred of self-preservation. “He murdered my parents.You expect me and
everyone else and the whole fucking world to forgive him like you do—to treat
him like he’s our best friend, too, like he hasn’t killed hundreds if not
thousands of innocent fucking people—”

“Hydra!” Steve says, almost a shout, voice deep and angry. “Hydra has killed
hundreds-if-not-thousands of innocent people, notBucky. He’s just as much their
victim as your parents were!”

He grabs Tony’s shoulders, and Vision and Rhodey both jump to their feet,
prepared to intervene if Tony throws the first punch.

“Both of you—” Wanda says, but Steve continues, talking over her.

“I don’t expect anyone to forgive or care about Bucky like I do. No one even
could.But I do expect people to at least be reasonable enough to put the blame
where it belongs. That includes you and him. Bucky’s innocent. He’s innocent.”

“I watched him kill my mom,” Tony says, a whisper, hot and hateful and
bordering on the edge of tears. “You can’t ask me to forgive that.”

“I’m not,” Steve says, looking at Tony—really looking at him—at his eyes,
blazing that angry caramel color, his glare burning hot. “You don’t have to
forgive, Tony. I know you can’t make yourself do that, even if you wanted to.”

“Don’t have to forgive him, just have to let him hunt down my—” Tony stops,
clenching his jaw shut, then tries again. “Let him hunt down Peter? Welcome him
into the family with open arms if he does? Is that all you’re asking?”

Steve is quiet for a long, tense moment. Then he says, “No, Tony. I’m not
asking you to do that.”

He glances at his hands, grip tight on both of Tony’s shoulders, and then he
softens them, moving them down his arms slightly, a more friendly posture, less
hostile. His thumbs press against the firm muscle of Tony’s biceps, just a
touch, hopefully reassuring.

Steve looks back into his eyes, and wants to say, don’t hate me for going.
Instead, he takes a breath and says, “What I want is for Bucky to stay in
Wakanda until he’s safe for the world. I want to show him New York—Brooklyn—I
want to show him everything he’s missed, everything that’s different and all
the things that have changed, without having to live in fear that he’ll lose
control of himself and hurt someone. I’ll say it as many times as you need to
hear it, Tony—I’m sorry about last year. I’m sorry I let my feelings get in the
way of everything, especiallyour friendship. But I promise you—this isn’t that.
This isn’t me leaving to run away with him. I want to find Peter. I have to
find Peter. And I know Bucky can do it. Please, Tony.”

Tony’s expression tightens, his lips deepening their frown, eyebrows drawn
together. The war within himself is played across his face like a TV screen. He
finally looks Steve in the eyes, and asks, “And after we find Peter?”

Steve meets his gaze, unflinching, though his heart sinks. “Bucky goes back to
Wakanda.”

Tony holds his stare a moment longer, and then sighs, letting his broiling fury
diminish to a glowing ember. He steps out of Steve’s hold, running a hand
through his hair, and says, “He doesn’t set a foot here, you got that? You keep
him away from me. For his sake.”

Steve nods, though he can’t shake the displeased frown from his face. “Deal.”

“Uhh, guys?” Clint says, grabbing everyone’s attention. “Glad we got that
sorted, ‘cause, remember—race against time, psycho mercenary on the loose,
y’know, the urgent plot? Can we get back to that?”

“I’ll go with you, Clint,” Wanda says, standing up. “If this guy is immortal,
maybe I’ll be able to slow him down psychically, instead.”

“Thanks, Wanda,” Clint smiles at her, then turns back to Steve. “You going to
Africa alone, Cap?”

"I’ll go—” Sam starts, but Steve interrupts him with, “No, Sam, no way. You
still need to heal. You stay here and get that wound taken care of. You can
join in when it’s totally sealed up.”

“I’ll accompany you,” Thor says, clasping Steve’s shoulder with a heavy hand.
“It will be fun! And the more I get to see of Midgard, the better.”

“I’ll go, too,” Vision says, to everyone’s surprise. “I believe Captain Rogers
is not wrong in his assumption that the Winter Soldier has the best skillset to
locate Peter, and I want to be there when he does.”

“You’re welcome to come along, Vision,” says Steve, nodding to him, “but his
name is Bucky.”

“Of course,” Vision nods.

“So, to recap—” Rhodey says, looking around the room, “Natasha, Clint, and
Wanda go after Deadpool, Steve, Thor, and Vision go to Wakanda, and Tony,
Bruce, Sam and I stay here, and hold down the fort. That sound about right?”

“Seems to be the plan,” Steve says. “Let’s get a move on.”

“Way ahead of you. Come on, Wanda,” says Clint, heading for the door.

“I’ll meet you guys by the jet,” Steve says to Thor and Vision, then leans
closer to Tony and says, more quietly, “Tony, can I have a word?”

Tony eyes him, but doesn’t say anything, not even a mouthy quip, and follows
him out of the room. Steve keeps walking, past the gym, the home
theater—walking and walking, until Tony starts to think he’s completely
forgotten that he asked Tony to follow him.

And then Steve stops, and turns around, expression uncomfortably grim. “I owe
you an apology,” he says.

Tony bites down on the urge to groan. “Can we please not start this again? You
won, just take it and leave.”

“It’s not about winning,” Steve says, more forcefully, but still with an
emotional tilt to his voice. “I know you don’t want to fight about it anymore.
I don’t, either. But I need to say this before I leave: I’m sorry for
disregarding your feelings about Bucky. Honestly, I have no idea how you feel.
I can’t even imagine. And it’s not fair for me to even want you to set those
feelings aside for my friend, no matter how much he means to me. You’re my
friend, too, and I have no right to want to control how you feel. I’m not your
alpha.”

Tony doesn’t say anything for a long moment, letting the apology hang in the
air between them, soft and afloat. Then he says the only honest thing he can:
“I think I might really die if we don’t find Peter soon. I’m not okay, Steve. I
don’t even know if my emotions are mine anymore, you know? My omega is out
there, he’s in trouble, and he needs me, but I don’t know where he is, and I
can’t help him, and—”

He sighs, lowering his head, letting a curl of his unkempt hair flop onto his
forehead. “And I know how I feel about Barnes, and I won’t lie to you, I feel
threatened, for myself, for you, but especiallyfor Peter. And I know you won’t
let anything happen, and I trust you, but God, Steve, I feel like I could kill
someone right now.”

Tony chances a glance at Steve, and is surprised by the lack of animosity, of
judgement, on the other man’s face. Steve gazes back at him, understanding,
tolerant. The Steve he knows. So Tony keeps going. “But do I feel this way
because I’m an alpha, and because I mated with Peter? Is that all this
is—hormones? Or are these really my emotions, and this much anxiety is actually
normal? I can’t tell anymore. I want to solve this problem, I want it go away,
but it won’t until we find Peter, and I can’t find him—” Tony stops, startled,
overcome by the catching in his throat, the burning behind his eyes that sears
its way down his cheeks, a frustrated sob that erupts from his throat, before
he can stop it, and then he can’t stop it. “I can’t find him,” he says, “he’s
been taken and he needs me and I can’t find him.”

He clenches his teeth together, trying to bite down on the sobs as they leave
his throat, but he can’t, and his tears are hot on his cheeks, so hot that they
burn, but he can’t stop them, either.

He closes his eyes, lets the emotions come, though he hates every second of it,
and Steve’s hand finds its way to his hair, fingers running gently over his
scalp, and then coaxing him forward, against the other man’s chest. Steve holds
him there, against his body, one hand cupping the back of Tony’s head, the
other hugging him over his back. He holds him there until Tony is silent and
exhausted, and then he says, quiet but firm, “I’m going to find him, Tony. I
promise you, I’ll find him, and I’ll bring him home.”

Tony pulls away, just a few inches, and Steve moves his hands to cup Tony’s
cheeks, keeping his head still so he can press their foreheads together, their
eyes closed. “I’ll be back. With our boy. I’ll find him and I’ll bring our boy
back. I promise.”

“Please,” Tony says.

Steve sighs, lifts his head and presses a chaste kiss over the lock of curly
hair laying across the man’s forehead. “I promise,” he says again, and lets
Tony go.

Tony watches him leave, watches the jet take off into the downpour of storming
rain—wonders if it’s raining wherever Peter is, too.
Chapter End Notes
     And thus, all the contestants join the race—but who will get to Peter
     first?
     Sorry for the ridiculously long wait, you guys. Won't bore you with
     the reasons, just know that I'm not abandoning this story; this is
     just a bit of a rough patch for my free time, at the moment.
     Since I actually got a day to myself to write, I did some reading in
     between, whenever I needed a break, so I'd like to make some
     recommendations for you while you're waiting for my slow ass to
     update.
     First is the wonderfully adorable ”Will_You_Be_There_(When_The_Sun
     Goes_Down)” by Salitice—a wonderful, sweet, funny, Steve/Tony/Bucky
     superfamily ca:cw fix-it, featuring adorable smol Peter and his life
     with three overprotective superhero dads. Bucky is the best thing
     about this fic and I love him to death, and the author is awesome
     (and updates regularly OTL), and it's great, please go read it.
     Second fic rec is ”Hunger_of_the_Pine” by Chrominance. This is the
     slow-burn, post-Homecoming Tony/Peter fic that me and all the other
     perverts who watched that movie sorely craved. Tony is angsty and
     wonderful, and even though he and Peter haven't so much as been alone
     together yet, the author is dropping some excellent hints and
     foreshadowing and I'm super excited to see where it goes—if you're
     interested, please check it out!
     I'm hoping Chapter 14 will be up much more quickly, but I want to
     warn you guys, some of those nastier tags are going to be making
     their appearance as we jump back to Peter, so keep that in mind.
     Thanks for reading and for your patience. <3
***** Restrained *****
Chapter Notes
     Warning for this chapter, everybody. In my opinion, this is the
     heaviest chapter so far, and it deals with a lot of shitty things. If
     you're poorly affected by some of the darker themes of this story,
     you may have to steel yourself for this one. Use your discretion.
Moments go by before Peter realizes he’s awake. At first, with his eyes closed
and his body lying still, all he can feel is the nauseas, cramped feeling in
his stomach; the sticky, damp feeling of his skin. He’s on fire, burning up,
and aware, distantly, that it’s too bright around him. Light pours in even
though his eyes are shut, and it’s too much, too strong. Peter curls up
tighter, lying on his stomach, and buries his face into his folded arms, trying
to block the offending brightness out.
His stomach protests, empty and roiling like the ocean in a storm. The room is
mostly quiet, though he can hear a rhythmic, distant rattling somewhere else in
the building, far above him. He tries to open his eyes, but the lids are heavy
and plastered shut with sweat and sleep-crust. It takes a few tries and some
gentle rubbing against his arm before he can blink his eyes open, slowly, and a
few more tries before he can actually see anything at all. Though he’s facing
down, toward the surface he’s lying on, it’s still far, far too bright, and
Peter groans and presses his face hard into the crook of his elbow. The light
feels like someone’s pouring acid directly into his brain through his eyes, and
it’s overpowering and agonizing.
He opens his eyes in the shade provided by his arms, but all he can see is a
confusing, beige blur; the brightness of the room overriding his senses. Peter
shuts his eyes again and takes a deep breath, but it turns into a sob—his head,
his stomach, his skin—it hurts. Everything hurts.
His voice sounds scratchy and too deep, nothing like he’s used to, as he lets
the sobs and cries erupt from his throat. The horrid sensation of wetness
between his legs makes itself known, dripping and pooling over his genitals,
his half-hard cock. He is so tired. It feels as though he’s been asleep for
days, and also been awake for weeks, all at the same time.
He goes to move his hand, to cup his aching head, but it only moves so far. His
other hand, too, won’t reach his face when he tries. Forcing himself, Peter
raises his head a fraction, and blinks rapidly through the unbearable
brightness, to look at his hands. He can scarcely make out the cuffs, wide and
skin-tight, the chain, shackling him to the cot. Peter groans again, loud and
hoarse. The sound pierces his sensitive ears and makes his muscles ache.
“Is it too bright in here for you?” Says a man, and then the lights are dimmed.
The relief is instantaneous, and Peter moans, gratefully, able to keep his eyes
open for at least a few seconds before he has to close them again. He can hear
the man moving around the room, interacting with whatever environment is
surrounding him. Peter lifts his head again and looks at the straps around his
wrists, thick like leather. He can feel his sweat irritating the skin beneath
them.
Giving himself another moment of reprieve and taking a few deep breaths, Peter
raises his head again and glances around the room. It’s some kind of lab—he can
smell the chemicals and concoctions in their vials and beakers. It reminds him
of the chemistry lab at school, but bigger, and cleaner—more sterile, medical.
The cot he’s lying on is tall and placed in the center of the room, like an
operating table. Various pieces of equipment and machinery around the room make
Peter fear that it is.
Finally, he hazards a glance at the man, standing a few feet away with his back
to Peter. He’s fiddling with a variety of bottles and tubes of liquid, and
Peter recognizes his scent, his white hair, balding at the top.
“Dr. Killebrew,” he says, a whine, though he didn’t mean for it to be.

“Hello, Peter,” the doctor greets, turning around and giving the boy a friendly
smile. “I’m so happy you’re awake. I have a confession to make, I really
overdid it with the tranquilizer. Well, in my defense, you are a mutant. I
couldn’t afford to use too little.”
Peter blinks. Maybe that’s why it feels like I’ve been asleep for days, he
thinks. “Shouldn’t I be hooked up to an IV?”

Killebrew doesn’t turn back to face him when he replies, but Peter can clearly
hear the smile in the man’s voice. “You were showing signs of waking earlier
this morning, so I took the liberty of removing your IV and catheter for you. I
also flipped you over. Hope you don’t mind—you seemed pretty dead-set on trying
to sleep on your stomach. Very common, for an omega in heat. It was quite
adorable.”
Peter’s too tired to comment on the man’s condescending remarks, so instead he
clears his throat and asks, a little fearfully, “Where are we?”

The doctor hums, as though considering his answer. “An omega facility,” he
says. “This is most likely where you would have ended up, anyway, if your aunt
hadn’t hidden you. The owner is thrilled to meet you. He’s overseas at the
moment, but he’ll be heading back as soon as he can. He really is overjoyed.”

“The owner?” Peter asks, confused. “Of the facility? I thought—doesn’t the
government own it?”

“The government owns some,” says Killebrew, moving to the computer on the other
side of the room and typing something into it, though Peter can’t see what, the
doctor’s body blocking the screen. “Private investors who choose to use their
wealth and resources to house and study omegas own others.”

“How is that—” Peter starts, but stops himself as a wave of nausea and cramping
seizes his stomach, making him whimper, painfully, “—is that legal?”
“You’d be surprised by how corrupt the whole thing really is, Peter,” he says.
“The government allows these private facilities to operate in exchange for the
legal guardianship of the infant alphas that are born here. Those infants are
taken at birth, raised in military encampments across the country, and trained
from day one to be America’s perfect soldiers. It’s sick, and you should thank
your luck that you can’t be impregnated.”

Peter can’t keep the shock and disbelief out of his voice. “Why don’t the
parents do something? Why don’t they try and—and tell people? If people knew
about this…”
Killebrew hums again, eyes glued to the screen. “Only the weak ones are
released.”

Peter blinks, eyebrows drawn together in a frown. “What do you mean?”
“An omega who is too weak to give multiple, consecutive births is mated and
sent home with their alpha to live a quiet, civilian life. The others, the ones
who are stronger, who can handle repeated childbirths, are kept in their
facilities for that purpose.”
Despite the fever—the raging furnace of his body, under the force of his
heat—Peter feels stricken with cold, frozen at every inch.
“What about when—” he can barely bring himself to say it, not sure if he really
wants to know the answer. “What about when they get older, and can’t get
pregnant anymore?”
“They become liabilities, and are gotten rid of. Resources aren’t unlimited. If
an omega can’t bear children, she has no use. Like a chicken that can’t lay
eggs. Though, we don’t eat them,” Killebrew laughs, a jovial, gravelly sound.
“You kill them?” Peter cries, tugging at the restraints on his wrists. The
movement causes his groin to press painfully down against the table, and he
stills, moaning, tears prickling his eyes. He’s half-erect, but there’s no real
arousal in it. His penis feels heavy and swollen and trapped in the
uncomfortable cage of his body pressing against the bed. It aches like it’s
been overused, too sensitive.

“Easy,” the doctor soothes, “you’re still in heat, omega. Your body is in a
very fragile state from going so many days without being mated. Try not to
struggle so much.”

“Don’t call me that,” Peter bites out through clenched teeth, but he can’t mask
the whining tone of his voice. He curses his heat with every molecule of his
body. “What’s gonna happen to me?”

“I’ll have an alpha sent in soon to suppress your heat,” Killebrew says. “I was
able to learn a lot about it these last few days, so we’ll suppress it for now.
We can’t afford for you to get sick, after all.”

An alarm bell is shrieking with rage throughout his body—the flight-or-fight
instinct to defend himself, somehow—faced with the intent Killebrew has, so
casually presented, to see him be raped. But he forces the panic down, as hard
as he can. Maybe they’ll untie him before it happens. Maybe he’ll be able to
run, something, anything. So instead, Peter says, “I meant… long-term.”

“Ah,” he replies. “We’ll see how it goes, though I do believe the owner of this
facility plans on keeping you. He’s a beta, so he couldn’t bond with you even
if you were normal, but he loves omegas. He keeps the ones he likes, even if he
can’t mate them. That’s common, actually. Plenty of betas enjoy the sheer
wantonness of an omega in heat, the non-consensual willingness, the
insatiability. They’re the most heavily human-trafficked of all demographics.”

Killebrew’s tone is light, conversational, like he’s talking about politics or
celebrity gossip, the weather. Like the trafficking of omegas is similar to
catching a kid passing gum in class; hardly even a crime, something you can
smile fondly at. Kids will be kids, omegas will be raped. It’s the same, Peter
realizes, to betas and alphas. An inconsequential occurrence, a fact of life.
Unavoidable, and even if it weren’t, why should it matter?

“It’s illegal, and the government doesn’t approve, but betas in position of
power can easily wiggle out of trouble by cutting deals, same as the owners of
these facilities. Some betas who keep their omegas as sex-slaves will have them
bred with alphas to end their heats, and then donate the infants in exchange
for a free-ride from Uncle Sam. Most don’t go to the trouble, though. They’re
wealthy, so they’ll buy an omega, keep her in heat and use her until it’s
driven her insane, and then put her down and buy a new one. Rinse and repeat,
no sharing, no pregnancy, just a little dent in their fat wallets. It’s a
rampant problem in Hollywood. I hope you aren’t too attached to any particular
celebrities—illegal enslavement of omegas is a pandemic among the rich and
famous. It’s like cocaine.”

Peter closes his eyes, resting his forehead against his folded arms as tears
silently pour from his eyes. All those people—most of them teen girls—reduced
to that. Like they never had any wants or dreams or opinions, like they’re
thoughtless things, just objects to be bought and sold. He can’t help any of
them, if this is the way people feel about omegas. It’s a rampant problem in
Hollywood. Oh well, what’s for dinner.Like omegas aren’t humans, aren’t people,
just expendable things.That’s what they are to the world, all they’ll ever be.
Things. Even the Avengers felt that way about Peter, after they found out. The
only one who hadn’t was May—

But May had given him away. She knew how he felt, what he wanted. And she gave
him away, treated him like a thing, too. Here, you can have it,handing him to
Tony Stark like she was lending her neighbor a shovel. Just bring it back when
you’re done.Only she didn’t ask for him back, and now he could never go, even
if she had. And still, his heart aches, longing to see her, to feel her hand
caress the top of his head, her fingers in his hair. He craves that affection
so fiercely that his teeth ache from grinding them together. He misses his
aunt. He misses his home, his bedroom, his school and his friends. MJ. Ned. He
misses his life. He misses Ben.

Killebrew hasn’t noticed him breaking down and is still talking. “His son is an
alpha, only a little bit older than you, I believe, so I have a feeling you’ll
be given to him. We just have to find a way to make your mating stick. There’s
a lot of prestige that comes with having a male omega as a mate, as rare as you
are. And a mutant, too—you really are quite the catch, Peter. It will be
interesting to see what kind of control your alpha has over you, and your
abilities, once you’ve bonded to him. I doubt very much he’ll be in a hurry to
take up your Spider-Man mantle. He is a young lad, after all. He’ll probably be
quite content to just enjoy the perks and popularity mating you will afford
him, until he takes a beta wife and carries on his family name. You will most
likely end up living a very rich and comfortable lifestyle, Peter, pampered and
coddled by your rich alpha and his servants for the rest of your days. You
really are quite lucky, in comparison. I’m sure it doesn’t feel like it, but
trust me, things could be much, much worse.”

“What about their parents?” Peter croaks, throat catching on his tears and
sobs. He swallows, brokenly, and clarifies, “the omegas’ parents. The ones who
stay in the facilities. Don’t their parents ask to see them? Don’t they ask to
meet their alpha mates after they turn sixteen, see their homes? Do they just
leave them here and forget about them? Is it that easy? To just move on, like
we didn’t even ever exist before we came here? It can’t. It can’t be that
easy.”

“The whole system is designed to encourage parents to abandon their omega
children,” Killebrew says, gently. “But for the very eager and persistent
parents who demand to know what’s become of their child, they’re led in
circles, made to believe they’ve been lost in the system, put off for months,
and if they haven’t given up, they’re usually told their child didn’t survive
the mating, or died in childbirth afterwards. It propagates the false notion
that omegas are much weaker and more fragile than they really are. Of course,
for the omegas who are actually too weak to stay here and are sent home with an
alpha, their parents aren’t lied to, and whether or not they’re reunited is
left up to the alpha or his family. It would be too suspicious if we said that
every omega died, after all. We let just enough go home to their civilian lives
to keep the peace and fool the masses.”

It’s cruel and sick, yet somehow, Peter finds a shred of comfort in it. Just a
shred. They have a whole plan in place for the desperate parents. That means
there are desperate parents, enough of them to warrant an elaborate scheme.
There are people out there who love their omega children that much, who will
look for them, who will fight to see them again. Even if they never get to, at
least someone’s looking. Someone cares. And that feels like hope to Peter. A
thin, frail strand of hope, but still there, gleaming gold in all this murky
blackness, the face of despair. It's a small thing, but he holds onto it.
 
“Okay, now,” says Killebrew, with a chilling yet cheerful tone, suddenly beside
the cot. “How about it, you ready to have your heat suppressed?”

Peter goes very still, and not by choice. His muscles have all turned to
cement. He can feel the panic he previously pushed down come roaring back up
his throat, like a scream he had swallowed. He knows he’s trembling from the
tenseness of his entire body. Killebrew coos at him patronizingly, like he’s
helpless and vulnerable, a pitiful infant, and not a superhero. Not an Avenger-
in-training. Not Spider-Man.Just the poor, scared, defenseless omega. He has to
physically bite down on the urge to vomit.

“Easy now, Peter,” the man almost whispers. “It won’t be so bad. You’ve
survived every other time it’s happened, haven’t you? Eventually, you’ll have
to get used to it. Especially if this facility’s owner decides to mate you to
his son. You’ll be expected to please your alpha then. Just think of this like
practice.”

“I don’t want to,” Peter says, fearful at first, but then a little steadier, a
little more desperate. Frantic. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to, I don’t want
to do it. You can’t make me. I can’t.”

He knows he sounds erratic, but he doesn’t care. He can’t keep the words in.
He’s half-begging, half-demanding, ignoring Killebrew’s attempts at soothing
him while he pleads openly, some words whispered, some shouted.

He’s letting himself breakdown completely when the doctor touches him, hands
firm on his shoulders. Peter bucks, all he can do to get those hands away from
him, but it makes no difference.

Nothing he’s ever done has ever made a difference.

“Please don’t touch me,” he begs, loudly sobbing. “I’d rather die.I’ll die.
I’ll die if I have to go through it again. I can’t. I don’t want to.”

“You’re an omega,” says the doctor, “and you’re too valuable to let waste away
just because you have some—reservations about sex. Everyone does it, Peter.
It’s natural and healthy and it isn’t going to hurt you. Now enough of this,
you’re putting unnecessary strain on your body.”

Good,Peter thinks, praying he can sob himself unconscious, so at least he won’t
feel it, won’t have to participate or submit.

The doctor’s scathing lecture is interrupted by the blaring of a cell phone.
The man grunts, finally removing his hands from Peter’s body, and pulls the
phone out of his lab coat. He glances at it, then says, “I’m going to answer
this, and when I come back, you’re going to be mated, whether you like it or
not. Take these few minutes to pull yourself together.” And then he leaves,
phone pressed against his ear, though Peter doesn’t bother to listen to the
conversation, as filled with dread as he is. The room is still dim, yet he can
barely see. Killebrew’s hands are gone, yet he can still feel the touch,
innocent in nature yet violating and unwanted, all the same. Peter lowers his
face against the plastic mattress and cries, without a sound, drained of all
his resistance. The fight left him with the last of his sobs. Killebrew crushed
whatever was left when he said, whether you like it or not. Because that’s what
it all comes down to, really, in the end. That is life. Things happen to you
whether you like them or not, and you can’t stop them. It’s all just varying,
rippling degrees of powerlessness, the whole damn thing.

Killebrew is gone for a long time. Despite his best efforts, Peter is settled
down by the time the man returns, tired and drained and lying bonelessly on the
bed. He’d lost the strength to fight, but then the doctor approaches the bed,
the scent of an alpha clinging to him. Whether it’s his heightened senses from
the spider bite or from being in heat or both, Peter doesn’t know, but the odor
is so strong suddenly that Peter can practically see the alpha it belongs to,
manifesting in his mind’s eye, like a genie following the smoke from a lamp.

It alights the subdued fear in him once more, and Peter pulls fiercely against
the restraints on his wrists. He twists and scrambles, flinging himself off the
cot, damn near knocking the whole thing over, though it’s too heavy for him
like this, heat-stricken. He hears Killebrew sigh, but pays it no attention.
He’ll break his own wrists if he has to. He’ll pull until the damn things rip
off.

“If you try to fight off an alpha in this state, you’re going to put your body
into shock,” Killebrew says, matter-of-fact, that informative, doctor-y tone.
“If you refuse to calm down yourself, you leave me no choice. I wanted to avoid
this, Peter, I want you to remember that. This is the choice you’ve made.”

Before the words really set in, Peter’s being lifted from behind. Killebrew
reaches around him and undoes the chain holding him to the cot, then pulls him
into his lap, Peter’s back pressed against Killebrew’s chest as the man sits
heavily in his desk chair. Peter’s wrists are still bound together, and the
doctor has a firm hold around his waist, keeping him forcefully in place. He
struggles anyway, though he’s stuck; well and thoroughly caught.

Killebrew uses his free hand to push Peter’s head forward, folding him,
exposing the teen’s back. Peter has no leverage, his feet not even touching the
floor. It’s humiliating and mortifying to be in another man’s lap like this,
like a child, wrangled by a disgruntled parent.

The doctor grabs the hem of Peter’s hospital gown and pulls it to the side,
revealing the back of his neck, his shoulder blades, the ridges at the top of
his spine. Peter pulls as far away as he can, but he feels the slick from
between his legs trickle down his thighs, through the bottom of the gown, into
the man’s lap. His face burns, angry and red and ashamed.

A hand cups the back of his neck, and Peter’s whole body goes taut with
apprehension. Killebrew presses his thumb against the side of Peter’s throat,
over the still-healing bite marks from Tony, and Steve, and Clint. He pulls
gently at the skin, rubbing it with the pad of his thumb and kneading the tense
muscles with the fan of his other fingers. Peter stills, confused, unable to
understand. All he can do is whisper-ask, “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to suppress the symptoms of your heat.”

Peter reels, uncomprehending. That made no sense to him. It makes no sense. How
can he do that? “What?”

“Have you ever been gentled, Peter?”

He doesn’t know what that means. “No.”

“I thought so,” Killebrew hums. “I’m gentling you. This is a very primitive
form of heat-suppression. Very few people know how; it isn’t exactly a common
skill, as its uses are limited. It won’t actually end your heat, just lessen
the symptoms. It’s just another way to calm an omega down.”

His hand spreads out, covering the sides of Peter’s throat, over the sensitive
glands beside his jugular. Peter shivers, feeling the franticness ebb away with
every pull at his skin. It feels good. It’s terrifying that it feels good, but
the feeling is foggy and far away. It feels like how May’s hands in his hair
used to feel, her fingers massaging his scalp. It’s like that, but spreading
through his whole body. His skin prickles. The fever is fading, dropping every
second.

“There you go,” Killebrew praises, stroking his hand down Peter’s back, petting
him. “You’ll still need to be mated to end your heat, but in theory, this
method could keep the more maddening affects away for several hours at a time.
If your aunt had known this, it would have bought you some time. An alpha will
still want to mate with you, as it doesn’t stop the secretion of your
pheromones or the protective lubricant in your rectum, but they’ll be more in
control. You, likewise, will be much more clear-headed and sensible.”

The man leans forward, his breath gently, sinisterly, rolling over the naked
flesh of Peter’s neck. “And you will also be calm.”

Peter doesn’t understand.

And then he does.

He is calm; he’s calm, his breathing even, his muscles relaxed. Killebrew
literally massaged the tension and fear from his body. He’s completely
malleable, no strength to even lift himself, much less struggle. No strength
for anything. He can’t move. His arms won’t listen, his legs won’t listen. His
head hangs, eyes to the floor, his neck completely loose.

But he’s not asleep. He’s here. He feels the panic, the terror, but the
physical manifestations don’t come, no stiffening muscles or elevated
breathing. His body is pliable and relaxed, but his mind is a hurricane. He’s
tranquilized. He’s paralyzed, feeling everything, and powerless.

“Like I told you,” Killebrew says, snidely, lifting them both off the chair.
“This is the choice you made, Peter. I hope, after today, you will listen a
little better next time. You’ve made things worse than they needed to be. These
are the consequences.”

“No,” Peter begs, but his throat hardly moves, and the word is so quiet and
whisper-soft, he isn’t even sure Killebrew heard him.

The man ignores him anyway, even if he did.

He lays him back down on the bed, on his stomach, and peels away the hospital
gown entirely. Peter can’t stop him. He feels the need to sob and cry with a
vicious intensity, but it doesn’t come. He isn’t even sure if his face changes,
or stays completely lax, neutral, blank, numb.

Peter knows he doesn’t need to, but Killebrew attaches the cuffs on his wrists
to the chain, anyway, just because he can, knowing that’s all Peter will be
able to look at, all he’ll see.

His body is vulnerable, unprotected, and unresisting. Laid bare for whoever
Killebrew has waiting for him. He can’t even turn his head down, into the
mattress, to block out the sight of the restraints. He can do nothing. He
doesn’t even have the benefit of being drugged, of having his mind clouded and
muggy, no fever to distract him, no physical urges to confuse him. Everything
is painfully, strikingly, unbearably clear. His heightened senses aren’t
dulled. He can see the fine ridges and nicks in the cuffs; the pores of the
plastic mattress. He can smell Killebrew and all the chemicals surrounding him
in their beakers and the alpha waiting hungrily for him outside. He hears
Killebrew talking to the man through the door, though he knows he isn’t
supposed to be able to—hears him, clear as day, quietly tell the man, “You can
bite him, he’s un-bondable. Do whatever you want to, just don’t leave any
permanent damage.”

He hears Killebrew walk away, down a hall. And then the door opens, and a man
steps in, gasping at the sight and scent of Peter.

Peter feels everything. The man isn’t gentle; his hand around Peter’s cock
feels horribly unnatural and not at all pleasant. But this body isn’t his
anymore, and it responds, opens up for the man, lets him in, lets him take,
take, take. Peter wants to cry, but he can’t.

The man doesn’t speak, not a word to him, and for that, Peter’s grateful. He
never sees his face, has nothing to assign these painfully clear sensations
to—this nameless, faceless horror—and Peter’s grateful for that, too.
***** The Quiet Room *****
It’s hours later when Peter finally regains control of his muscles. The first
thing he does is let his head drop like deadweight against the mattress in the
space between his outstretched arms. The forcibly-relaxed state of his body
evaporates in his limbs first, leaving a dull ache that radiates all throughout
him.

He can move his fingers, his toes, his wrists and ankles—but now that he can,
there’s a debilitating stiffness surging through all his muscles, the result of
going too long without use, like the beginning stages of atrophy.

He doesn’t want to lie immobile any longer, completely fed-up with doing so,
but his body is protesting every little twitch and jostle, not to mention, he’s
still chained down. His fever left with his heat hours ago, and he’s cold,
naked and wet in places he doesn’t want to think about. His ears and nose are
chilled, no warmth in them at all, and Peter turns his head and presses his
nose flat against the side of his arm to try and spread some heat back into it,
before it starts running.

The acts had been the same. Peter knows, logically, that the acts were the
same. There’d been no difference in what Tony and the unnamed alpha had done to
him, where they’d touched, what body parts they abused. He knows this—was
grateful, at the time, that he couldn’t see the man’s face, would have no
picture in his mind to have nightmares about—knows that what the Avengers had
done was worse, deep, world-shattering acts of betrayal.

He’d been so angry, and at the time, it was the worst thing, being treated like
an animal at the mercy of people who claimed to care about him, people he cared
about. It should be the worst.

But it’s not.

What the Avengers had done—what Tony had done—what they put him through, how
they treated him, it all made Peter feel so angry, so used, powerless. He still
feels the betrayal like a gaping, black hole in his chest that he can’t cover
up. He didn’t want to be touched; hated even the smallest, most casual,
platonic brushes of another’s skin against his. He’d shied away from Natasha’s
hands reaching for his, from Vision’s encompassing embraces.

He bit down on the urge to demand that they stop touching him, because if they
didn’t listen, he didn’t know if he could handle it. It’s one thing for someone
to not realize you don’t want to be touched, and a completely different thing
to outright say you don’t want to be, and have them do it, anyway.

Peter had no shred of trust that they would have respected his wishes, if he’d
voiced them.

And still, despite that, despite all of that, this is worse. The betrayal, the
powerlessness, they don’t hold a candlestick to the sheer, overbearing feeling
of dehumanization crashing over Peter now. He’d thought the Avengers treated
him like he was nothing more than an omega, but at least they’d spoken to him,
had done their best to be there for him afterward, even though he didn’t want
them to be.

At the time, he’d felt coddled, suffocated, looked down on—but it’s nothing
like this, nothing like being fucked and left in a medical room, with no idea
who’d just been inside his body, not even a voice to pin to them.

The Avengers treated him like an omega while he was in heat, but after—after,
they still spoke to him, tried to reach out to him, trying their best to make
it up to him, even though they couldn’t. It didn’t mean anything to him then,
but now, alone and cold in this terrifying place, reduced to nothing but an
object a stranger had used, now, it means everything.

This is the first time, since his very first heat, that Peter has ever truly
felt like nothing but an omega. Lying here, shivering, afraid, bondless, Peter
is filled with a violent and primal need to be touched. He wants it so badly
that his fingernails dig painfully into the flesh of his hands. What he’d give,
in that moment, to have someone lying beside him, their arms around him.

It’s a desperate and consuming need for physical contact that he’s never felt
before, not even in heat, to be touched, comforted. To be gentled again, the
way Killebrew had earlier. It’s all he wants. The Avengers would, but they’re
not here. He’s on his own, and it’s his own fault.

The acts had been the same, but the difference between them, Peter knows, is
that even though he never wanted any of the Avengers to stay with him
afterward, if he’d asked, every one of them would have. It doesn’t change what
they’d done, what they’d taken from him, but in this moment, Peter would
forgive everything if it meant having someone beside him, holding him.

He’d forgive everything if he could have May, rubbing his back, petting his
hair, whispering softly to him. The comfort of that, the safety, a stereotype
of omegan biology, but he doesn’t care. It’s a need that is almost abusive in
its incessancy. What he wouldn’t give to have Natasha holding his hand or
Vision embracing him—Tony, lying next to him, holding him gently and firmly,
promising to keep him safe.

He hears the sound of footsteps approaching down the hall and lets his every
muscle tense apprehensively. They’re light and sharp, walking forward
assuredly, and it’s a strangely comforting sound, reminds him of May coming
home, her heels on the kitchen laminate. More than that, it’s the sound of a
human being. Someone coming to see him.

The footsteps stop outside the room and then the door is opening, though Peter
can’t turn his head far enough to see who comes in. He doesn’t recognize their
smell, but the clicking of their shoes is almost blatantly feminine. Sure
enough, a woman steps in front of Peter, gazing down at him with a neutral
expression. She’s wearing a white lab coat over what looks like business
attire—a blouse and slacks—her brown hair, lightly streaked with gray, pulled
in a tight bun on top of her head.

Peter can see the smudge of fingerprints on the lenses of her glasses. Her
security badge says, Dr. N. Connor. She’s older than May, but they have the
same colored eyes. Peter’s chest constricts.

“Hello, Peter,” she greets, unsmiling, but not unfriendly. “How are you
feeling?”

Peter swallows, trying to soothe his dry throat, and asks, “Where’s Dr.
Killebrew?”

Dr. Connor raises an eyebrow at him, then pulls a key out of the pocket of her
lab coat and begins unlocking the chain securing him to the cot. “Dr. Killebrew
had a personal matter to attend to and won’t be back until tomorrow at the
earliest, so I will be supervising you until then.”

Unchaining him from the cot, she pulls Peter up until he’s sitting with his
legs dangling over the edge. Flexing his fingers, Peter tries to discern how
much strength he has, if it’s feasible to attempt to run, with his hands still
attached by the cuffs. He teeters a little, wobbly from lying down so long,
from the not-quite-gone effects of being gentled. Dr. Connor walks over to the
counter and begins prepping a needle.

“I’m going to give you a little tranquilizer,” she says. “Something to relax
you.”

Peter nods, not wanting to be drugged, but welcoming the potential of being
unconscious, even for just a little while. “Could I, uhm—could I use the
bathroom?”

Nodding, the woman approaches him again, taking his arm to ready it for the
injection. “You may use the toilet privately, but if you misbehave, those
privacy privileges will be revoked. Afterward, you’ll have a bath, for which
privacy is not an option. Don’t worry though, it will just be you and me.”

The needle sticks in, but Peter doesn’t really feel it until she starts pushing
the tranquilizer through. It feels like thick, numbing syrup is being pushed
into his veins, heavy and tingly, like toothpaste. His head spins a little, so
he lowers it, closing his eyes.

“I’m aware of your mutation,” Dr. Connor says, cleaning up from the injection,
“so you should know, there are alpha security guards at every door in this
facility, and they are armed. We’ll keep you minimally sedated, but if you
cause trouble, that level of sedation will be increased, and the guards will
not hesitate to use a Taser on you if you act out. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” says Peter, softly.

“All right then. Here,” she helps him down from the tall bed, and hands him a
clean overhead gown, expertly tying it beneath his arms. Her tone is scarcely
gentler. “Your legs still seem pretty weak, so I want you to lean on me, okay?”

Peter does, allowing the taller woman to wrap an arm around his side and walk
him forward out the door. It’s awkward with his hands bound, circling around
Dr. Connor’s neck. He couldn’t pull away if he wanted to.

The hallway is immediately too bright, and Peter winces and lowers his eyes to
the floor, closing them, hardly managing a glance at the wide space, the high
ceiling. He did spot a large man at the end of the hall by the big double-
doors, but he was mostly a blur. Blind and weak, Peter lets the woman half-
carry him to the bathroom, too tired to even feel embarrassed.

They stop at a closed door, and Dr. Connor lets him go, steadying him on his
feet before she pulls the key out of her pocket again. “I’m going to let you
use your hands while you’re in there, but remember what I said about
misbehaving. This is a privilege, do you understand?”

Peter nods.

“Good. I’ll be waiting for you out here. You can have as much time as you need,
but I’ll be checking on you every ten minutes.”

Peter nods again, keeping his gaze lowered to block out the offending light.
Dr. Connor undoes the heavy cuffs around his wrists, opens the door for him,
and gently nudges him inside.

Miraculously, the room is not nearly as brightly lit as the hallway had been,
and Peter can’t help the grateful sigh that leaves him. He uses the brief
opportunity to inspect his wrists, red and irritated by the cuffs, but he can
see the marks disappearing before his eyes. He looks up. The room is small,
windowless. Other than the ceiling light high above him, there are only three
things inside: a sink, a toilet, and a roll of toilet paper sitting on top of
the cistern. No mirror, no hand towels, just the barest necessities.

The sink and toilet are strange, almost unrecognizable—they’re made of heavy
plastic, not porcelain, and are oddly rectangular in shape. The bowl of the
sink is extremely shallow, and the faucet hangs so low that Peter can hardly
fit his hands underneath it. The drain is wide, ensuring the bowl can’t be
filled with even a trite amount of water. Similarly, the toilet bowl has no
water inside, and when Peter experimentally pulls the handle, the bottom of the
bowl opens, and water runs down the sides of the gap.

There’s no removable cover to access the water in the cistern, and the seat has
no lid and doesn’t lift up. It reminds Peter of a Porta-Potti, albeit a much
cleaner one. The room is odd, and Peter can’t fathom why this place has such
specifically-tailored bathroom fixtures, but he’s too tired to guess.

He uses the toilet and washes his hands, then opens the door, not bothering to
savor the moment of unrestrained privacy. It doesn’t feel much like freedom,
anyway.

Dr. Connor cuffs him and walks him further down the hallway, stopping at the
doors to let the security guard scan her badge. The longer he’s exposed to it,
the more he adjusts to the overpowering light, and by the time they reach a
guarded elevator, he’s able to keep his eyes open, pointed at the floor.

The elevator takes them to another long hallway, but then they’re in a wide,
tiled room, the walls lined with bathtubs, shower nozzles, and sinks. Still no
mirrors or windows, but there are shelves of towels and what looks like clean
gowns, as well as hair, body, and oral hygiene products.

Dr. Connor sits him down on the rim of a bathtub and begins filling it, then
fetches a selection of items from the shelf. She brushes his teeth at the sink
while the tub fills, then strips off his gown and cuffs, wets him down with the
detachable shower head, and starts roughly and clinically scrubbing his body
with a soapy sponge. It’s mortifying, reminds Peter of May, bathing him after
his suppressants failed, how helpless he’d been that day, and so many days
since.

Finally she lowers him into the blissfully warm water, and Peter sinks, letting
it encase his cold, sore body. He closes his eyes and tips his head back,
indulging in just this one thing, this small, simple thing.

“Keep your head above the water,” Dr. Connor warns, sternly. Peter sits up a
little taller, and is rewarded with a handful of shampoo massaged into his wet
hair. The contact feels so good, the opposite of the rough bathing—this is
gentle, tender. He’s sure she doesn’t mean for it to be, but it almost feels
adoring, and Peter soaks it up, how badly he missed hands in his hair like
this.

“Lean back so I can rinse it out,” Dr. Connor instructs. “Don’t submerge your
face.”

Peter obeys, relishing in the soft hands running through his hair, pulling the
shampoo out, scraping it against his scalp. The doctor is gentle and thorough
but doesn’t linger, doesn’t give more than necessary, and Peter finds himself
being pulled up from the warmth and comfort far too soon. He stands in the tub
while it drains and the woman runs a towel over him, over every inch, and he’s
thankful her touch is so clinical and detached. It doesn’t feel intimate. Peter
doesn’t know how he’d handle it if it did.

“Do the omegas try to drown themselves?” Peter asks quietly, sitting on the
edge of the tub again as Dr. Connor kneels in front of him, drying his feet.
She doesn’t falter in her task, unbothered by the question, not looking at him
as she finishes wiping the water away.

“Once an omega is mated, they are perfectly content, save for the six weeks or
so after they give birth, before they go into heat again. Many experience
suicidal thoughts during that period, as they come to terms with being
separated from their infants.”

The doctor pulls him to his feet and wraps him in a standard hospital gown,
fastening it securely around him, before re-cuffing his wrists. She gives his
hair one final pat with the towel, catching the excess water. “Do you know why
alphas and omegas evolved to be able to bond, Peter? Why they can only bond to
one person, and not multiple people, even though multiple partners,
biologically speaking, would make the most sense reproductively?”

Peter shakes his head, looking up at her from under the edge of the towel.
“I’ve never thought about it.”

“Omegas are prone to suicide,” she says, pulling the towel away. “They have
been for tens of thousands of years. You may be less so, but female omegas
struggle with a never-ending cycle of battling hormones. They alternate every
two weeks between menstruating and being in heat, and it takes a heavy toll on
the body. Constant ups and downs, mood swings, emotional lows—before they could
bond, life was much, much harder for omegas. They didn’t live very long after
they began puberty. There were no facilities back then, nothing segregating
them from the alpha population. They were unprotected and vulnerable.”

Peter sits back down, listening and watching as the doctor cleans and puts away
the items they used. “They evolved the ability to bond solely with one alpha to
gain that sense of protection. In the presence of their alpha, the brain
balances its hormone levels, even during their times of the month. In fact, it
raises endorphins, releases dopamine—it soothes and comforts them, keeps them
safe emotionally and mentally, not just physically. It evolved out of
necessity.”

Dr. Connor finishes cleaning up and walks back over to him, bending down to
place the circle of his arms around her neck, one hand on his waist. She begins
leading them to the door. “But omegas were even more rare back then than they
are now, so most of the alphas born from those bonded pairs mated with betas,
and if they had an omega child, that ability was passed on.”

“Do you think that’s why I can’t bond?” Peter asks, unsurely. He doesn’t know
what he wants her to say, and anxiety bubbles in his stomach. “It just wasn’t
passed on to me?”

“That’s extremely unlikely. Omegas who couldn’t bond often weren’t able to
handle the emotional turbulence of pregnancy, and died before even giving
birth. Not to mention the rate of death during childbirth back then—omegan and
betan alike. It’s nearly impossible.”

Peter swallows. It feels like a cup of nails sliding down his throat. “So I’m a
suicide risk?”

To his surprise, Dr. Connor lifts her free hand and reassuringly pats his head,
once, twice, a formality. “Dr. Killebrew and I will engineer a solution for
that, Peter. We already have some incredibly promising experiments in the
works. We’ll make sure you’ll be able to bond, don’t you worry.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Peter asks, before he can stop himself, immensely
hating that he let the question slip; he knows she won’t care, won’t
understand. He braces himself for the patronizing rebuke, the complete and
utter invalidation of his human rights.

“Would you really rather die?” Is not the response he was expecting, but it’s
what Dr. Connor says, softly and almost genuinely curious. Her tone isn’t
threatening or condescending at all—he swears he could almost detect a tinge of
worry.

“Death is the end, Peter, it’s final. You don’t get to ever undo that one.
Nobody gets to live the exact life that they want—children are born with
terminal diseases, and never get the chance to even experience life, or are
born in countries ravaged by war, or famine, or to criminally abusive
parents—everyone, everyone in the world, will have unspeakably horrible aspects
of their life that they cannot change—”

“But we can change it!” Peter says, determinedly. “I know there’s lots of stuff
we can’t change, but this? Raping these girls and taking their babies? We can
change this. This is wrong!”

“We aren’t talking about other omegas, Peter, we’re talking about you. I’m
asking you, would you rather die than live a life with an alpha you love?”

“Not if the alpha and I chose each other, on our own. It should be our choice,
it’s our lives. It’s—it’s nobody else’s business.” He doesn’t bother trying to
keep the vehement tone out of his voice, but Dr. Connor doesn’t seem to mind,
half-carrying him along through the building.

“Maybe things will change someday,” she says. “Maybe omegas of the future will
have that choice. But you don’t have any time to waste, Peter. You’re almost
sixteen, and every heat you go through unmated will become harder and harder.
The more time passes, the less control you’ll have over that exhausted part of
your brain that just wants everything to stop. Trust me when I say that you
don’t want to be unmated past sixteen. It’s the cruelest torture, it really is.
It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to look at.”

Exhaustion sags over the whole of his body, tiredness seeping between every
string of muscle. Lowering his head, Peter keeps silent, not wanting to talk
about it anymore, not wanting to debate his own future as if he had the power
to change it, when he doesn’t.

“I hope you have an easier time looking at it than I do.”

“What?” Peter says, confused, as they step out of the elevator into a
surprisingly dim hallway. It’s such a stark difference from the other parts of
the building that Peter almost trips. Would have, if Dr. Connor wasn’t holding
him.

The other hallways had white walls, white laminate floors, tall ceilings with
overly bright lights. They were wide, daunting. This hallway is the
opposite—deep blue carpet on the floors, pale blue paint on the walls, low
ceilings. Soft, yellow, dim lights hang from the walls, giving it a cozy lit-
fireplace atmosphere. Paintings hang all the way down the length of the room;
landscapes, sceneries, nature, fields and fields of every colored flower.

Against the walls on both sides of them are counters topped with innocuous
medical equipment, desks with computers, an examination table, and a standalone
apron sink. There are tall surgical lamps placed strategically around the room,
to give light to individual sections without disturbing the rest of it. It’s
clearly designed, from top to bottom, to be as soothing and comforting as
possible, and Peter hates that it works on him. He feels sleepy the second his
bare feet touch the carpet.

“Normally, you’d be staying in the communal sleeping room,” Dr. Connor says.
“But since you’re a boy, we’re going to give you something more segregated.
You’ll still have a roommate—omegas don’t do well in isolation—but keep in
mind, like you, she’s a special case.”

They reach the end of the hall, and Peter fully lifts his head to see two
prison cells, one on each side of the room. The bars are covered in what looks
like the same cushy, plastic-like material that the cot’s mattress he’d been
sleeping on is made of.

Dr. Connor continues hauling him forward, toward the left-side cell, inside of
which is a small bed, already made, a TV mounted to the wall, a small
nightstand with the TV remote and a plastic drinking glass on top, and against
the wall, an opaque L-shaped partition, which Peter hopes is hiding a toilet.

He turns his head and looks at the other cell to the right, and sees that it is
completely identical, except for three things: the TV is playing a show he
doesn’t recognize, and the volume is almost too low to hear, the plastic glass
on the nightstand is partially full of water, and there’s a girl lying on the
small bed, her back to the TV and to them, but Peter can plainly see her large,
round, pregnant stomach, which she’s curled around, holding protectively.

He can’t see her hands, but Peter can see the straps around her ankles,
shackling her to the bed, clear as day.

“That’s Clara,” Dr. Connor says, very quietly. “She’s already been put to
sleep, but you’ll meet her in the morning.”

“How old is she?” Peter asks as he’s led into his cell. The doctor sits him on
his bed, reaches down to unlock his cuffs, and then picks up the plastic cup.
“Eighteen,” she says, disappearing behind the partition and then reappearing a
moment later, the glass full of water. She sets it back down on his nightstand,
then gestures for him to lie down.

“Am I gonna get strapped down, too?” He asks, obeying the gesture, plopping his
head down onto the pillow. Dr. Connor reaches over him and pulls the blanket on
top of him, tucking him in.

“We reward good behavior and punish bad behavior,” says the doctor. “It’s
incentive for our omegas to take care of themselves. If you’re good, we won’t
revoke privileges—moving around your room, for example. It’s for your own good,
but that’s especially true in Clara’s case.”

She kneels down next to his bed, till they’re eye-level, and says, much more
quietly, “Now turn over, Peter. I’m going to put you to sleep.”

His knee jerks, abruptly, autonomously, he can’t help it. “H-how?”

“I’m going to gentle you,” she says, soothingly. “You aren’t in heat, so it
will knock you right out. You’ll sleep a lot better, trust me.”

He would have protested. The Peter Parker of yesterday—hell, of twelve hours
ago—would have protested, would have hated the thought of this stranger
touching him and making his body do things he can’t control. But he’s not the
Peter Parker he was even hours ago, and he rolls over, compliant, even a little
joyed, at the opportunity for another person to usher him into sleep, gently,
lovingly, letting him drift off feeling safe and comforted and not alone.
***** Harry And Clara *****
In the morning, as promised, Peter met Clara.
Clara is the first omega he’s ever met, and much like himself, she isn’t
anything like what he expects. It’s odd, he realizes, to assume that other
omegas fall under the stereotype when he so clearly doesn’t, but it’s a
subconscious reaction—likely the result of being told his whole life that
omegas are supposed to be one way, when many are really another.
Clara isn’t anything like what he was told. She isn’t shy, isn’t subdued—took
one look at him and, realizing he was a boy, called him a mutant, not even
aware that she was actually right. She reminds him of Michelle in that way. She
doesn’t hold anything back, almost brutal in her honesty, and she’s smart-
mouthed and reserved, bristly on the outside, nothing at all like the
“standard” omega that society pedals.
She actually reminds him of Michelle in a lot of ways. Same lithe figure (minus
the swollen, pregnant belly), same dark skin. Her hair and eyes are blacker
than Michelle’s, and she’s taller, but he can easily picture her dressing the
same way Michelle does, tweed jacket and leggings, hipster tees, hiking boots
in downtown New York City. They spoke for all of ten minutes before he knew,
without a doubt, that Michelle would love her. The thought made his chest
constrict.
“What’d they throw you down here for?” Clara asks, sitting up in her bed, as
tall as she can with the straps still secured around her wrists and ankles.
“What do you mean?”
The girl gives him a look he can’t fully read, cold and calculating and utterly
suspicious. “They don’t bring people down here to look at the paintings,” she
says. “Either you’re a medical mystery that they’re tired of trying to solve,
or you pissed someone off. Usually a suicide attempt. They don’t like those.
Those’re a one-way ticket to getting strapped to that bed in that padded cell.
But you’re not strapped down, so I’m guessing you didn’t try and kick the
bucket.”
“No," Peter agrees. “I didn’t.”
Clara makes a thoughtful humming noise in her throat. “Medical mystery it is,
then. Not hard to guess what’s wrong with you, considering the whole, y’know,
lack of lady-parts thing. Bet you’re practically riddled with exciting new
abnormalities.”
“Which is it for you?” Peter asks, perched on the end of his bed. “Medical
mystery or suicide attempt?”
“Both.” Peter watches all ten of her fingers flex, tensely, digging into the
tight skin of her underbelly. “One led to another.”
“How long have you been here?” He asks, his voice soft, and for a second he
worries it was too quiet for her to hear.
But then she says, “Since I was eleven.”
Peter’s hands clench into painful fists in his lap. “You’ve been here for seven
years?”
Clara blinks, looking surprised. “I don’t know. What year is it?”
“It’s 2017.”
“Oh,” Clara says, quietly, and then she sighs. “Yeah. Seven years.” She cups
her stomach more tightly, then begins massaging her fingers against the bump.
“Stopped trying to keep track of time years ago. There’s no windows in here, so
it’s not like we can count the seasons.”
She slumps down until the back of her head is resting against the wall, almost
completely horizontal on the bed. “But I guess that makes sense,” she says.
“There’s about two months in between pregnancies, and this is my eighth.”
“Your eighth?” Says Peter with a gasp, eyes wide and disbelieving. Clara gives
him a flat look, but he can’t even bring himself to wipe the shocked look off
his face. Her eighth. Eight pregnancies. Eight children. Eight children, at
eighteen years old.
He doesn’t know what to say. Is there even anything he can say? Dr. Killebrew
told him what happens to the babies after they’re born, he knows their fate.
His heart feels like it’s pumping ice through his veins instead of blood, and
he wants to cry.
Clara was eleven years old the first time she went into heat. Eleven years old
when she was mated and got pregnant. Eleven or twelve when she had her first
child. And all of that—all that suffering, the things she endured—all of it led
to this, a padded cell in a dark, lonely room, strapped to a bed.
About to give up another child, that’s been numbered instead of named.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, watching her watch him, the near-vacant expression on
her face, in her dark eyes. He knows she probably doesn’t want his apology,
that it doesn’t make anything better. He knows how infuriating it can be to be
pitied.
And yet he can’t help himself. He looks at this girl, at her blank face, at the
restraints holding her down, at her swollen stomach and the tense hands holding
it, and he feels so, so incredibly sorry.
“He’ll be born soon,” says Clara, voice hardly above a whisper. She looks past
Peter, through him, like she can’t see him, and is speaking to the paintings on
the walls.
Peter flounders to find something to say, but is interrupted in his search by
the chime of the door opening at the end of the hall. He immediately stiffens,
standing to face the visitor apprehensively, but Clara doesn’t move, doesn’t
even turn her head to look. She’s still got her vacant gaze centered on the
wall of his cell, unhurried and unblinking.
It’s a woman in scrubs, the same kind you’d see on any nurse in any hospital.
She’s pushing a cart stacked with medical equipment, and Peter can’t help but
redden when she looks at him and smiles, her pretty white teeth stark against
her red-painted lips.
She’s striking, blonde hair pulled back in a low-hanging bun, bright blue eyes,
ski-slope nose. Her thin waist accentuates the curves of her breasts, scrubs
pulled tightly over them like they can barely contain them. Peter realizes he’s
staring and promptly sits back down, mortified, turning his gaze resolutely to
the floor. He chances a look up at Clara and sees her eyeing him, knowingly,
one eyebrow cocked in a mocking, incredulous manner.
“Good morning,” the nurse says to him, before she turns to the door of Clara’s
cell. Peter murmurs back an embarrassed greeting and watches as the nurse
maneuvers the cart inside the small space, parking it next to Clara’s bed.
“Morning, Clara,” the woman smiles down at her, eyes crinkling with fondness.
Clara smiles back, smaller, not quite reaching her eyes.
“Let’s sit you up and have a look at that bump,” she says in a cheerful tone.
“If I unstrap you, are you going to behave?”
“I wouldn’t tell you if I wasn’t,” Clara deadpans, but there’s a joking tilt to
her voice that the nurse clearly picks up on, and she laughs, leaning over to
undo the straps. Peter watches as Clara’s gaze scans the woman up and down
while she’s reaching over her. Her eyes linger on the collar of the scrubs as
they slip down the woman’s neck, revealing the patch of pale skin above her
cleavage. She trails her gaze lower, stops, and momentarily sucks her bottom
lip into her mouth, releasing it plump and wet. Peter sees everything easily
from where he sits, his enhanced senses at work—sees the dilation of Clara’s
black pupils and the bob of her throat as she swallows.
“All right, up you go,” says the nurse, gently pulling Clara by the shoulders
until she’s sitting upright, legs hanging off the side of the bed. Clara
glances over at Peter, meeting his eyes, and Peter gives her the same shrewd,
sardonic look she had sent him earlier. The girl rolls her eyes and turns away
from him, a slightly irritated expression on her face.
“How are you feeling today?” The nurse asks, examining the girl’s stomach,
feeling around and applying pressure in different places, watching Clara’s face
for seemingly any change of expression. When she finds none, she turns back to
her cart and begins prepping a needle. “Any discomfort? Trouble sleeping?”
Clara holds out her arm obediently for the nurse to swab and strap the vein. “I
have to pee so bad that I’m kind of dizzy,” she says.
The nurse frowns at her, eyebrows drawn together unhappily. “You’re going to
give yourself an infection,” she admonishes. “If you can’t stop yourself from
drinking water right before bed, I can get you a catheter—”
“No.” Clara hunches her shoulders, her face stormy and her voice cold. “Don’t
want one.”
“Then you have to be more careful,” the woman says, focusing entirely on the
injection she’s giving the girl’s arm. “Making yourself sick is misbehaving,
Clara.”
Clara’s eyes darken with something akin to rage, her mouth tightening as she
suppresses the urge to protest, or maybe just to vent her anger. But she
swallows the fury on her face and slumps, defeated, uttering a quiet and
dejected, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” the nurse smiles at her, gently. “We’ll get there.” She helps
Clara to her feet, and then goes to stand by the door of her cell. “You can use
the toilet now.”
The girl walks—or, more accurately, waddles—behind the opaque partition,
disappearing from sight. Peter can’t help the way his eyes keep fixating on the
nurse’s back, the outline of her shapely legs beneath her pants, the curve of
her spine, gently sloping to the top of her round, pert butt. He can make out
the definition of her trim waist underneath her scrubs, can’t help but imagine
the line trailing down the center of her back, delineating her spine below.
Even the backs of her ears poking out beneath the wisps of her golden hair is
attractive, jeez.
He forces himself to stare at the floor, not wanting to encourage the thoughts,
even if they are harmless. He knows it’s rude to stare, and worse, it’s
creepy—and it’s not her fault she’s so nice to look at, doesn’t mean she likes
the attention, or wants it.
He doesn’t look up when Clara comes back into the rest of her cell, but does
when he hears the clicking of the straps being secured in place. The nurse
leaves them loose enough for the girl to sit up, and to reach for the TV remote
on the nightstand, or the plastic cup of water, which the nurse refills for
her.
“Try not to chug the whole thing,” she says. “Breakfast is in half an hour. You
can use the bathroom again then. Okay?”
“’Kay,” Clara says as she exhales, the word softly riding the coattails of a
sigh. “Thanks, Jamie.”
Jamie smiles at her, warmly. “I’ll see you this afternoon. Be good.”
She pulls the cart out of the cell, shutting and locking the door behind her.
She gives Peter a small smile and a nod in lieu of a goodbye as she makes her
way down the hall, and Peter’s gaze is momentarily drawn to her retreating
back, to the way her hips sway as she walks, the satisfying rotation of her
legs beneath the ripe, peach-shape of her behind.
Peter jolts, animatedly turning away from Jamie and looking instead at Clara,
and notices that she, too, has her eyes drawn to the nurse, following her
movements unashamedly. She blinks when she feels Peter’s eyes on her, and
slowly turns to meet his gaze, their eyes locking in a silent and knowing
compromise as the door chimes, leaving them once again alone.
Peter knows the answer, but he can’t help but ask the question.
“You can’t bond with an alpha, can you?”
Clara glares at him, face cold like she wants to snap that it’s none of his
business, but instead she tightens her jaw and presses her lips into a hard,
taut line. “Don’t need to bond to get knocked up,” she says.
“That’s why they put you in here?” He asks, hating the high-pitched tone of his
voice. “That’s your ‘medical mystery?’”
“It’s not a mystery,” she bites out, almost a hiss. “I’m never gonna bond with
a man.”
“Because you—because, you’re, y’know—”
“Gay,” says Clara, flatly.
“Yeah,” Peter says, a blush rising to his cheeks, though he doesn’t know why.
“That.”
Clara doesn’t reply, looking down at the round hump of her stomach, cradling it
gently in her restrained hands, her fingers rubbing tenderly over the swelling,
up and down, stroking. Peter watches as the unfriendly expression on her face
lifts, just an inch, revealing a deeper, sadder, fonder look.
“I get it, you know,” he says, quiet and soft. “I’m the same way.”
“Gay?” Clara raises an eyebrow at him.
“No!” His face goes red as a beet, and Clara gives him the barest hint of a
smirk. Jerk. “I can’t bond either, for the same reason as you. I’m never gonna
bond with a man, either. I just… can’t. There’s nothing there for me to want to
be bonded to, you know?”
“Yeah,” says Clara. “I know.”
She turns away from him again, then says, quietly, not looking at him, “You
ever been mated?”
“Yeah,” Peter says. She looks up and meets his eyes, and he smiles at her,
though there’s nothing reassuring in it, just the empty shape of his mouth.
“I’m grateful I can’t bond, even if it’s the reason I’m in this mess,” he looks
down at his hands, wringing them together in his lap.
“The guy who would have been my alpha—” he says, voice shaking, “well, really,
you couldn’t pick a better guy, but—that’s just it, he’s a guy, and if I was
able to bond with him even though I’m not, y’know, intoguys… I hate the
thought. I hate the idea of belonging to anyone, but especially someone I can’t
even bear to be touched by.”
“Me, too,” says Clara. “I hate that thought, too. But honestly, if you’re going
to be grateful for anything, be grateful you can’t get pregnant.” Her hands
tighten against the underside of the round of her stomach, but whether it’s out
of protectiveness or anger, Peter can’t tell. “Be grateful you don’t have to
let your own children be taken away, to live a life of servitude, God-knows-
where, with God-knows-who.”
“That’s not your fault,” Peter says. “You don’t have a choice.”
Clara nods, agreeing.
“I’ve never been lucky that way.”
The conversation drops off, Clara curling up on her side and dozing until a
grumpy, old nurse brings them breakfast. Peter can tell that Clara isn’t
interested in talking anymore, choosing instead to stare at the TV in her cell,
though she isn’t really watching it. Her eyes are vacant and glassy, most
likely the effects of her injection kicking in. Peter feels it, too, when the
cranky nurse gives him his tranquilizer, subduing him for the better part of
the day, until Killebrew shows up hours later.
“Hello, Peter,” the doctor greets. “I hear you’ve been on your best behavior.”
Peter feels oddly chastised at the comment, and nods, biting down on the
hostile response that wants to slip from his mouth.
“Good boy,” Killebrew smiles, and for some reason, of all things, this
moment—the look on his face, the tone of his voice—this moment is the one where
Peter realizes, openly, that he hates this man. “Let’s get you down to the lab
for your examination, and then there’s someone who would like to meet you.”
His smile is dark and promises nothing good, but Peter is hazy from the
tranquilizer, and doesn’t even have the strength to pull away when the doctor
hefts him to his feet and re-cuffs his wrists, chaining them together.
“Who?” Peter asks, but the man just grabs his arm and pulls him out of the
cell. Clara doesn’t even look up as he’s led away and out of the room.
Killebrew doesn’t answer him, and the trek down each long, overly-bright
hallway suppresses his desire to ask anything else, until they’re back inside
the dreaded examination room he recognizes, being hoisted back onto the
familiar cot, his restraints threaded through the loop at the head of the bed.
“Where were you yesterday?” Peter asks, trying to twist his body more
comfortably, not wanting to lie on his stomach, even though it would be the
easiest position with the way he’s tied down.
“Did you miss me, Peter?” The doctor teases, patronizingly. His tone is nothing
short of insufferable. “If you must know, I was attending a funeral.”
“Oh,” Peter says, quietly, his anger ebbing away, leaving him feeling ashamed.
Dr. Killebrew might not be the most upstanding person, but he’s grieving, and
people act differently in grief—that’s something Peter knows intimately well.
It’s so temptingly easy to give in to the urge to be cruel when you’re
grieving. It’s much harder not to. “I’m sorry,” he says, tone soft,
compassionate.
Killebrew looks at him, scrutinizing his face like he’s expecting Peter to say
something else, to retract his apology somehow, like he doesn’t trust the
smallest token of empathy.
“We’re going to do some bloodwork to start,” Killebrew says, and then begins to
prep him for yet another needle. He’s so sick of needles.
Peter watches the little tubes fill up with his blood, two, then three, then
four. “Am I gonna meet the owner today?” He asks.
“He’s not back in the States yet,” says the doctor, pulling the needle out. The
hole heals closed in seconds. “You’re going to meet his son,” his smile is
crooked and sinister under his thick, white moustache, “your alpha.”
Peter feels sick and cagey just at the words. He can feel his face paling, all
the blood rushing to disperse the panic raging through him. “He won’t be my
alpha if I can’t bond with him,” he says, to himself, trying to find the barest
hint of hope to latch onto.
Killebrew grins, and it’s a wholly evil thing that stops Peter’s beating heart
in his chest.
“Oh, don’t you worry, omega,” the man turns and pulls out a black miniature
duffel bag, the kind businessmen use to carry their toiletries when travelling.
“I’m confident I’ve found the solution to that.”
He opens the bag and pulls out three identical vials of amber liquid, each
vacuum-sealed in protective, clear plastic. He holds the vials up so the dim
light catches on the honey color of their contents.
“Wh—” Peter starts, afraid. “Wha—what is that?”
“This,” Killebrew smiles, “is what you’re missing. It’s a chemical compound
that’s been extracted from successfully-mated omegas.”
He places the vials back inside the bag, zipping it up; his smile is wide and
cold and sickeningly proud. “This is the hormone their brains release before,
during, and after being mated—the hormone your brain isn’t producing, despite
being in heat. A few doses of this, over the course of several attempts at
being mated while you’re in heat, and your brain should start producing the
hormone on its own. Once it does, you’ll be able to bond, the same as any other
omega.”
Peter wants to scream, there’s no way in hell you’re putting that in me, but
instead, the thing that comes up is, “Will it work on Clara, too?”
“Clara?” Killebrew repeats, like he has no idea who she is. “Your roommate? Why
on Earth would I give this to her?”
Peter blinks, brows knitting together in confusion. “So… so she can bond. Dr.
Connor told me unmated omegas become suicidal, and she is, so, why wouldn’t you
give it to her if it’ll help?”
“There’s a reason she’s in that cell,” the doctor says, flippantly. “She’s no
harm to herself where she is, and she doesn’t need to be bonded to be mated.
She can still give birth, and as long as she can, no one is going to waste
resources this valuable on her.”
Peter’s whole body tenses with rage, but before he can furiously scream, she’s
a human being, she isn’t just a goddamn womb, Killebrew’s pager beeps loud and
jarringly on his belt, and the man immediately picks it up, turning away from
Peter, shattering the tension.
“Looks like we’re out of time,” says Killebrew, pocketing the pager. “I wanted
to take a closer look at you first, but he’s already here.”
The anger in Peter turns to dread, like water freezing, as cold and as heavy as
ice, filling his stomach. Dr. Killebrew walks over to the door and turns the
dimmer on the light-switch up, brightening the room. Peter squints his eyes,
turning toward the mattress to block the light out as best he can without the
use of his hands, and hears the door open.
Two sets of footsteps enter, and Killebrew greets them in a chipper, falsely-
respectful tone, the kind he always used on Steve back at the compound. “You
must be Harry. Your father has told me so much about you.”
Peter flinches. It can’t be. He lifts his head, despite the daggers of pain
that stab into his eyes from the unfamiliar brightness. There’s no way. He
forces himself to turn, as much as he can, to look at the newcomers, terror and
confusion enveloping him. It’s not him.
But it is.
He knows that face, the tall, lanky body, the neatly-gelled hair. He looks
different here, standing in this strange, awful room, like he’s terribly out of
place, but Peter knows him, knows his wide, uncomprehending, green eyes.
“Peter?” Harry asks, mirroring Peter’s confusion completely. “What—what are you
doing here?”
Killebrew looks between the two of them, a single eyebrow quirked, just as
perplexed as they are. “You two know each other?”
Harry doesn’t take his eyes off Peter as he says, voice steady, but utterly
drenched in confoundedness, “We’re best friends.”
Killebrew blinks. Peter still can’t say anything. He hasn’t seen Harry in over
a year, only saw him once since the incident at Oscorp, when he was
bitten—which Harry doesn’t even know about, just like he doesn’t know that
Peter’s an omega—didn’t know.
“I’m—” Harry starts, then stops, mentally rerouting the words. “I don’t
understand what’s going on.”
“Peter’s an omega,” Killebrew says, gazing calculatingly at Harry’s face. “He’s
been hiding that fact for years, using illegal heat-suppressants to do so.”
“But you told my dad he’s a mutant,” Harry says, finally peeling his eyes off
Peter, giving the doctor a distrustful, questioning look. “Peter’s not a
mutant.”
“He successfully hid the fact that he’s an omega, does it really surprise you
that he could hide this, too? Besides, he’s not naturally a mutant. His
mutation was the result of an accident.”
Harry turns away from Killebrew and looks back at Peter, his expression still
just as confused, but also laced with worry. “Peter,” he says, his tone
imploring. “Dude, what the hell happened to you?”
Peter wants to tell him, as much as he wanted to tell him when it happened. He
knows Harry deserves to know, that he’s never done anything to make Peter
believe that he isn’t trustworthy, and yet, somehow, the words won’t come. His
throat feels swollen shut, all the way down into his stomach.
The only thing he can bring himself to say aloud is, “Your dad owns this
place?”
“Uhh,” Harry stutters, taken aback, before composing himself. “Yeah,” he says,
stuffing his hands into his pants’ pockets. “It’s officially under Oscorp’s
medical R&D department.”
“And your dad keeps omegas,” Peter says, not meaning to sound accusing, but he
can’t help it. It’s hypocritical, he knows, to feel betrayed by Harry for
keeping secrets when he’s kept so many himself, but they’re different, not even
comparable in magnitude. “He’s a beta, but he keeps omega girls as slaves, and
you’re okay with that? You don’t care that these girls are kidnapped and raped
and treated worse than cattle?”
Harry, somehow, looks indignant and rebuked at the same time, cheeks reddening
a little at Peter’s tone. “Dad has to follow the rules just like every other
privately-owned facility,” he says, defensively. “But thanks to that, he’s done
a lot of good. That heat-suppressing drug you illegallytook? My dad invented
it. Him and the pharmacists on his research team were the first ones to
successfully formulate an artificial way to suppress an omega in heat. He did
it to help them.”
“And the ones he’s keeping as pets?” Peter asks, voice scathingly cold. “How
the hell is he ‘helping’them?”
“They live good lives,” Harry says, all wavering gone from his voice. The
assuredness in his tone strikes Peter so suddenly that he’s almost sick.
“You’ll see, when I take you home, you’ll see it really isn’t as bad as it
sounds. They’re happy. ‘Course, it might look bad, compared to what you’re
gonna get, but—I mean, you’re gonna be my mate, so, it’s kinda expected you
won’t get the same treatment as the others.”
“Harry, I—” he doesn’t even know where to start. There’s so much he wants to
say. I’m not going anywhere with you.He wants to bare his teeth and snarl, I
will never, ever bond with you, wants to wipe that condescending smile off
Harry’s face with his brutal honesty. I would rather kill myself than mate with
you.
He wants to say these things, feels the rage coursing vehemently through his
veins with the urge to do so, but he doesn’t. He’s painfully aware that, if
Killebrew’s drug is successful, there’s almost nothing these people can’t force
him to do, and that it’s pointless to claim or believe otherwise.
So instead, he says, “Harry, you’re not even—you don’t even like guys. And
neither do I! How could you—why would you want to mate with me?”
“Well yeah, you’re a guy, Pete, but—” he shrugs, looking at Peter like he’s
ridiculous, or has lost his mind, “—you’re also an omega, so, it doesn’t really
matter.”
“Doesn’t matter?” Peter repeats, incredulous. “Dude. You dorealize that I have
a dick, right? And that the only way to suppress my heat is to touchit—while
we’re having sex? I don’t suddenly stop being a guy when I go into heat!”
Harry actually has the nerve to laugh at him. “Well, duh,” he says, walking up
to the cot. “Pete, seriously, it doesn’t bother me, don’t worry about it.”
He places a hand on the mattress, next to Peter’s hip, leaning against the bed
with that familiar, charismatic smile on his face. It’s weird seeing him from
this angle, looking down at him—he’s always towered over Peter, as long as he’s
known him.
“Besides,” Harry continues, “sure, maybe I’m not exactly itching to jump into
your pants right this second, but that’ll change after we mate, right? We won’t
even care about that stuff after.”
He moves so he’s standing directly in front of Peter, hands resting on Peter’s
kneecaps, a friendly gesture. “Honestly, man, I’m thrilled. I had no idea what
to expect when my dad said he wanted me to mate with a male omega. Wait until I
tell him it’s you! He has no idea—he’s gonna lose his shit. He’ll be ecstatic.”
“Harry,” Peter says, and it comes out strained and strangled through his tight
throat, “I don’t want to mate with you.”
Harry’s face falls, the smile giving way to a confused, hurt look. “What?”
Peter takes a deep breath, trying to quell the urge to scream. “I don’t want
you to be my alpha.”
“That’s not up to you,” Dr. Killebrew says, sidling up to the cot and grasping
Peter’s restraints. Peter can’t take his eyes off the crushed look on Harry’s
face; the way his shoulders slump, his hands falling away from Peter’s knees.
The rejection plays vividly across his face like it’s advertised on a
billboard. Peter doesn’t think anyone has ever rejected Harry before, for
anything.
“Why don’t we take this conversation to the lounge?” The doctor says,
unfastening the chain from the cot’s loop. Harry snaps out of his daze, prying
his eyes away from Peter’s, and watches as the doctor tightens the cuffs on
Peter’s wrists.
“Are those really necessary?” He asks. His voice has lost its confident, cocky
tone.
“He’s much stronger than he looks,” Killebrew says, pulling Peter down off the
cot and steadying him on the floor. “I’m sure you’ll be learning a lot more
about him from now on.”
Peter looks up at Harry and feels vaguely unnerved by the slightly cold,
mistrustful look the other boy has on his face. Harry’s jaw tightens and he
says to Killebrew, not looking away from Peter, “Won’t be able to learn
anything if he doesn’t want to tell me.”
Killebrew snorts. “When he’s in heat, he’ll tell you anything you want to know.
And he won’t be able to keep secrets from you after you mate.”
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here!” Peter says, and Killebrew grips his
arm painfully tight and hauls him toward the door. The other man who entered
with Harry—a security guard, based on his uniform—steps aside as they leave,
then follows behind them, Harry and the doctor on either side of Peter, though
Harry keeps his hands to himself.
Dr. Killebrew chatters on jovially the whole way through the building, as they
walk down several long hallways until they reach a set of elevators. They go
all the way up, to the top floor, and the elevator opens on to a wide, spacious
room—the first Peter has seen in this building with windows. His first instinct
is to go to them, to try and figure out where he is, but Killebrew’s hand on
his arm is painfully tight.
The room is large and circular with tall windows covering almost every wall.
They’re standing on the rim of what looks like a large bowl, the center of the
room accessible by a long staircase in front of them, walled off by a glass
railing that outlines the balcony.
Killebrew walks them closer to the railing, so they can peer down to the room
below, and Peter can see that it really is a lounge; comfortable and brightly-
colored with long, fancy couches and little sitting areas, all expensive-
looking, posh furniture. There are pretty women in skirts serving drinks to men
in suits, sitting next to—
“What the fuck,” Peter nearly shouts, rounding on Killebrew with fury in his
eyes. “Those are little girls!”
The doctor glares at him, reproachfully, and shoves him back from the railing
by the grip on his arm. “This is where the clients of this facility come to
choose their omegas,” he says. “Most of them are betas, but they pay well, so
naturally we allow them to meet the omegas before they buy them.”
Peter’s scathing reply is cut-off as a terrified, high-pitched wail fills the
room. He whips around to stare down into the lounge again, and sees a girl—a
child—being corralled by a sleazy-looking man in a suit, trying to pull the
girl into his lap.
“No!” The girl screams, tears running down her face. She can’t be older than
ten. “I want my mom! Let go! I wanna see my mom!”
The man grows frustrated, not being gentle in the slightest, and two nurses in
scrubs rush over to help placate the frightened child, one of them brandishing
a syringe. The girl struggles, sobbing, and the man hands her over to the
nurses with a disgusted sneer.
“You can’t,” Peter says, disbelievingly. His voice is hollow. “You can’t. She’s
a child!”
He hears Harry step up behind him, and then a gentle hand is placed on his
shoulder. “It’s okay, Pete,” he says, trying to sound comforting, though it
makes Peter feel sick. “She’s an omega.”
Peter rips himself out of Killebrew’s grasp before the man can stop him. He
spins around, reels back before the security guard can intervene, and punches
Harry square in the face.
***** Friendship *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Without even opening his eyes, he can tell that the room is way too bright.
Light bleeds behind his closed eyelids; a white, clinical, overpowering light
that sends tendrils of pain deep into his skull. It aggravates the discomfort
of waking, gives substance to the aching chill in his neck and the stiffness in
his shoulders.
Waking is disorienting. He wonders where he is, where they’ve taken him. The
room smells unfamiliar. Everything is eerily silent.
He wonders how long it’s been. It feels like he’s been out cold for months.
The surface he’s lying on—a table, he guesses, from the texture and temperature
(or lack thereof)—adds an extra, uncomfortable layer to the entire waking
process. He can feel its cool, metal surface stick to his skin, pulling at it
unpleasantly when he shifts a bit to the side to test his muscle strength.
There’s someone else in the room with him. His senses pick up on their
interest; on the way their eyes hone in on him when he starts to stir. He
wonders who it is, but he’s not ready to open his eyes.
Instead, he focuses on flexing his fingers, bringing feeling back into them as
the numbness abates. His chest feels tight and heavy with each inhale of
breath, but he forces himself to keep it slow, one after another, at a gentle
pace.
Finally, he’s ready, and his eyes squint open under the harsh, blinding light.
Immediately, it’s blocked by someone leaning over him, a friendly hand on his
arm.
Blond hair, blue eyes. A tentative, worried expression. A face he knows. He
knows him.
“Steve,” he croaks.
Steve smiles, small, but relieved. “Hey, Buck. You feeling all right?”
Bucky groans, clenching his eyes shut again when Steve leans back, no longer
blocking the light. “Cold,” he huffs.
Without saying anything, Steve moves somewhere else in the room and starts
fiddling with something that sounds like a length of wire. A moment later, a
soft, heavy weight is laid over him, bringing with it a small amount of heat
that begins to slowly rise.
Bucky peels one eye open, glancing at the electric blanket and then back at
Steve, who has returned once more to his side. “You couldn’t have given me this
earlier?” He gives the other man a falsely-accusatory look. “What, were you
just enjoying the view, Steve?”
The smile Steve gives him is that same old, familiar grin he knows so well, the
kind that makes his eyes take that half-moon shape because of how wide it is.
“Punk,” he says, fondly, before he lets the smile fall from his face, a more
subdued look taking its place. “I didn’t want you to wake up feeling… trapped.”
Bucky hums, testing the weight of the blanket on top of his still-numb arm.
It’s not insignificant. “Good call,” he says.
A moment passes in silence, and Bucky observes the way Steve’s expression
shifts, the same tense look he had when Bucky first woke up taking up residence
on his features again. It gives Bucky a nagging, worrying feeling low in his
stomach—he doesn’t outright remember Steve ever making that kind of face
before, but some latent part of him knows intrinsically that it isn’t good.
“Am I—did they fix me?”
He can tell immediately by the pained expression Steve makes that the answer is
no.
“I’m sorry,” Steve says, quiet and audibly sad. “Not yet.”
Bucky nods, disappointed, but not overly surprised. He’s sure that if that had
been the case, it would have been the first thing out of Steve’s mouth,
followed immediately by the inevitable request of, let’s go back to Brooklyn.
He hadn’t realized, until this exact moment, how badly he’d wanted Steve to say
that they could go home.
He swallows, and waits for Steve to explain why his mental exile has been
prematurely cancelled, but the man stays silent. Steve sits, looking down at
his hands, elbows resting on his knees, jaw tightening with every tense,
unpleasant thought that enters his brain. Several minutes of this goes by until
Bucky’s patience runs out.
“So what, then? Did you just miss me or something?”
This time, Steve’s smile is so filled with grief that it sends Bucky mentally
reeling.
“I did miss you,” Steve says, the pain in his smile deepening, “but that’s not
why I’m here.”
A spark of irritation flares up inside Bucky, and though he tries, he fails to
keep it out of his voice. “We had a deal, Steve,” he says, his brows furrowing.
“You weren’t supposed to wake me up until there was no chance I could hurt
someone.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…” the guilty, apologetic look on the man’s face
is hard to look at. “I need your help, Buck.”
Bucky doesn’t mean for it to sound spiteful, but it does. “To kill someone?”
At least Steve isn’t so upset that he can’t get offended, judging by the
narrowing of his eyes. “To find someone.”
Bucky’s genuinely surprised by that, and it causes him to bite down on the glib
retort on the tip of his tongue.
Steve sighs, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to prepare for the lofty
speech he no doubt has planned, “I’ve read some of the mission reports from
Hydra. I know there were several—” God, he wishes Steve wouldn’t fucking
sugarcoat it, “—assignments you had, where the target’s whereabouts were
unknown, and you had to track them down. You never failed. I need your help,
Buck. I need you to help me find someone as soon as possible.”
Well, it’s better than being asked to shoot someone, Bucky supposes. He gives
Steve an open look, one eyebrow raised, inquisitively. “Somebody make off with
your lady friend?”
“No, my—” the word omega reaches the edge of his lips before he pulls it back,
stifling it. “My teammate. He’s been kidnapped by a man named Dr. Killebrew,
most likely with the intent to experiment on him. It’s a rescue mission.”
“Ah,” Bucky says, understanding now exactly why Steve is acting so desperate,
given how the man feels about human experimentation. “Which teammate?”
“Peter,” Steve says, the name rolling off his tongue in an odd sort of way,
soft and coated with affection. “Spider-Man. You met him in Berlin, you and Sam
fought with him.”
“That weird bug-kid in the Lycra onesie?” Bucky says, surprised, staring at
Steve dubiously. “The one who was definitely way too young to be there?”
“That’s the one,” says Steve, smiling without much humor. “The whole team is
following different leads, but we need all the help we can get. It’s a
complicated situation, and I’ll explain in more detail later, if…” he trails
off, aborting a gesture toward the door, “if you’re up to helping.”
Bucky sighs, letting his head rest heavily against the table. “I’m dangerous,
Steve. It’s a pretty big risk.”
“I know. I’ll be with you the whole time.”
He closes his eyes. “And if Hydra shows up?”
Steve’s voice is even, and colder than Bucky’s ever heard it. “I’ll kill them.”
His eyes open again, and Bucky looks at his friend with a calm, calculating
gaze. “You’re pretty upset about this,” he says.
Steve sighs, but nods. “Like I said, it’s a complicated situation.” He lowers
his head, staring back down at his hands, thumbs brushing together agitatedly
in a rotating motion. He’s quiet for a moment, then glances back up at Bucky
and says, “Will you help me?”
His tongue swipes over his sore, cracked bottom lip, giving a short nod. “You
know I will.” He sits up, letting the blanket fall down to his waist, feeling a
little unbalanced. He looks down at himself, inspects his bare skin. “I’ll need
a new arm.”
===============================================================================

Delta Strip was probably every bit the seedy, thug-crawling underground hole
you’d expect it to be, considering it was a front for a mad scientist’s secret
hideout.
Hard to tell now, though, considering it’s currently in flames.
Clint watches, perched on the rooftop a block away as firefighters clear the
area, trying to suppress the raging inferno. They seem to have it handled, and
Wanda has already confirmed that there are no civilians alive, trapped inside,
so Clint stays where he is, watching.
Behind him, Wanda is trying to find either Killebrew or Deadpool
telepathically, but judging by the deep-set, furrowed frown on her face,
there’s no luck.
Deadpool had obviously beaten them here, there’s no way it’s a coincidence.
He can’t have gotten far, but considering the only possible lead to which
direction he went in is currently on fire, Clint made the executive decision to
wait, trying to spot any suspicious activity, or to see if any of Killebrew’s
known acquaintances show up.
Not to mention Nat, who not only should have been here by now, but is
definitely not going to be happy that their lead has gone, literally, up in
flames.
Biting the bullet, he sighs and fires off a text to her, letting her know that
they were too late, when he spots a figure in the crowd moving oddly toward the
building. They walk slower, more calculated than everyone else. They’re
completely calm, a stark difference to the people panicking around them. They
get as close to the building as the firemen will allow, but whatever they’re
staring at, it isn’t the flames.
They don’t call him Hawkeye for nothing—he’d know that body anywhere, the
height, the weight, the rotation of the hips as she walks. Her red hair is
hidden beneath the hood of her coat, but he knows her instantly.
He texts her again, “See anything interesting down there?”watching as she pulls
out her phone, checks it, then turns around, immediately spotting him, her eyes
honing in on him without even having to look. If it were anyone other than Nat,
it would be fucking creepy.
She replies, “Doesn’t look like Killebrew was here.”
Clint goes to reply when he sees the van. It pulls up about a hundred yards
from the fire, parks, and is turned off. Clint can see the two men in the
driver and passenger seats, heads turned to watch the building, their upper
bodies clothed in identical black suits. They don’t move, gazes fixated on the
scene.
He texts Natasha, “Van at your 6 o’clock. Probably the cleanup crew.”
Natasha subtly turns, barely glancing behind her before she’s facing forward
again. She pulls out her phone, makes a point of being obvious that she’s using
it. She pretends to take a selfie, earning a glare from some of the serious-
faced mob members, using the stereotype of a young woman addicted to her cell
phone to stand invisible in plain sight, amongst the crowd, and replies,
“Oscorp logo on this side of the van. No mention of any ties to Oscorp in
Killebrew’s file.”
“Hmm,” Clint hums, inspecting the vehicle again. He can’t see enough of them to
make out any more Oscorp insignia on their uniforms. He texts back, “If
Killebrew was working with them, and they’re here, it probably means there was
something in that basement that pointed to Oscorp.”
“That would explain why Deadpool burned the whole thing down.”
Clint scoffs. “Knowing him? Twenty bucks says he just did it for shits and
giggles.”
“Good point,” she replies. Then, “They’re probably waiting for everyone to
clear out so they can rifle through the debris. Want to find out what they’re
looking for?”
Clint smirks down at his phone, then turns to Wanda. “Hey,” he says, grabbing
her attention. “We’ve got company. Feel like reading some minds?”
===============================================================================

Peter hardly gets a chance to register the amount of blood leaking from Harry’s
face before he’s grabbed by the back of the neck and slammed into the floor. He
has scarce enough time to fling his arms in front of his face to protect it
from smacking against the cold, hard tile.
The security guard’s grip is so crushingly painful against the sensitive areas
of his neck that Peter can’t even hear what the man is snarling down at him.
His fingers dig viciously into the tender glands, and the sharp stab of pain is
so mind-numbingly abrupt that Peter can’t help the high-pitched, piercing cry
of agony that erupts from his throat.
Suddenly, Killebrew says, “I’ll take him, you go help him up.”
The hand is removed, replaced by a slightly-gentler one. Killebrew’s hand cups
the back of Peter’s neck firmly, but not with the intention to cause pain. He
keeps it clamped around him as he grabs Peter’s arm with his other hand and
hauls him to his feet.
“I hope that was worth it, omega,” Killebrew quietly hisses at him, steadying
him on his wobbly legs.
Peter looks over at Harry, and it wasn’t. Harry might have deserved that punch,
but Peter knows better. He knows what his strength can do—he knowshe can’t
afford to lose his temper, no matter how deserving it might be. If it wasn’t
for the tranquilizer forcing his muscles to stay relaxed and the cuffs chaining
his wrists, Harry probably would have died. His best friend.
As it stands, it looks like he got off lucky with only a broken nose, though
it’s a horrific and messy break, already blackening between his eyes,
completely overwriting his handsome face.
The guard helps Harry to his feet, and a nurse comes running to tend to him,
holding a cloth up to his nose to stem the blood flow. Another nurse runs over
to Dr. Killebrew, brandishing a large syringe, and the sight of the bright
yellowish liquid inside strikes Peter with an overwhelming amount of fear. Now
that he’s fought back, the instinct to keep doing so, to resist, is
irresistible.
Up until now, all he’s done is freeze and flight. He hadn’t wanted to fight.
What difference would it make? Where could he go, even if he did?
But the sight of another needle in the doctor’s hands, another attempt to
subdue him, to force, force, force things on him again, it breaks loose the
dam, and suddenly Peter isn’t afraid of the consequences anymore.
He shoves his foot beside the instep of the doctor’s, using it to take the man
off balance with a sharp elbow to his ribcage, and with his bound hands, Peter
shoves him at a tricky angle, effectively taking the doctor off kilter and
sending him sprawling to the floor. The syringe goes flying from Killebrew’s
hand and shatters on the hard tile.
This time, he’s prepared for the guard who comes rushing at him, and though his
hands are bound and his muscles aren’t responding properly, he’s still a
fighter. He’s still superhuman. He’s still Spider-Man, and he can hold his own,
the way he always has.
He’s an omega. But he’s always been an omega, and it never stopped him before.
The guard tries to tackle him, but Peter lunges out of the way, barely quick
enough. Another guard jabs a Taser toward him, but Peter swiftly leans back,
raising a foot to slam into the man’s jaw with a powerful kick. He’s almost
thankful for the tranquilizer in his blood—he can let the adrenaline take over,
let himself fight as hard as he can, and no one’s in danger of being seriously
hurt.
It’s a small blessing, but he’ll take anything he can at the moment. He has to
find a way out of here. He has to get away, anywhere, it doesn’t matter
anymore.
“Grab him!” Killebrew screeches, giving Peter a heads up to the man diving for
him from behind. He catches the guard’s wrist, pulling the man forward, and
uses the leverage of doing so to switch their positions, sending the man flying
into the other guard, both of them hitting the floor forcefully.
For a second, Peter is relieved that they aren’t used to omegas fighting back,
but then he realizes that they probably are, except the omegas they usually
have to restrain are small, frightened children.
Children who are too young to understand why the world one day stopped looking
at them like people.
He lets the anger of that thought propel him onward, knocking back a third
guard with a heavy blow, using the sides of his bound fists to strike the man
like a club. The guard stumbles, but doesn’t fall, and he lifts the Taser in
his hand like a knife and takes a step forward, preparing to stab.
Peter readies himself to deflect it, but his spider-senses start screaming at
him, loud and piercing like an ambulance siren. He doesn’t take his eyes off
the man in front of him, lunging for him Taser-first, and that’s his final
mistake. Someone slams into him from behind, pushing him to the floor, landing
heavily and painfully on top of him.
Peter instantly begins to struggle, attempting to throw the assailant off, but
a smooth, warm hand grabs him by the back of the neck again and pins him down,
willing his body to still. He continues to fight, as best as he can, but it’s
weak. His body is responding to the grip around his neck, freezing him, his
already-loose muscles relaxing even more, against his will. He can feel the
person’s breath, hot against his skin as they lean down, crushing his body onto
the floor with their own.
“Harry,” he says, voice slightly muffled against his arm beneath him. He’s not
sure how he knows, but he does. Maybe his skin can tell the difference between
the touch of a beta and an alpha; maybe he subconsciously recognizes Harry’s
scent. Maybe he’d know those hands anywhere. How he knows doesn’t matter, only
that he does, and a strange and crushing thrum of humiliation resonates within
him at being held down like this, like a misbehaving dog, by Harry, by his best
friend.
Like none of it ever mattered, all those years, growing up together. Their
history, their memories, completely irrelevant to him the moment Peter’s secret
was out, like they ceased to be, like Peter Parker was someone else, someone
gone and forgotten, completely unrelated to the troublesome, ornery omegaHarry
has pinned to the floor.
“Harry,” he tries again, letting the imploringness coat his voice, hoping Harry
hears it, hoping he cares. Harry’s fingers spread out against his neck, firmly
but gently rubbing over the tense muscles in a soothing motion. His thumb
swipes over the omegan gland beside Peter’s jugular and presses into it,
lightly, but with enough pressure to release a flood of soothing chemicals into
his body, relaxing him completely, every sign of struggle subdued within him.
Feeling him go lax, Harry pulls back and grabs Peter by the shoulder, lifting
him into his lap, keeping Peter’s back pressed to his chest. He continues
massaging the back of his neck, one arm wrapped around Peter’s chest, his face
pressed against Peter’s shoulder, slowly rocking them back and forth.
Peter starts to wonder where Harry learned how to gentle an omega, then quickly
stops himself, realizing that that’s not a story he wants to hear.
Unable to lift his head by himself, Peter closes his eyes, tries to suppress
the burning humiliation as the people around them stand there and watch,
staring, as Harry effectively cuddles him into submission. It’s emasculating at
best and at worst, dehumanizing. He listens as Killebrew dismisses the nurses,
as the guards discuss how to punish him, but the words begin to slur together,
hazy in his mind as Harry continues to gentle him.
The rhythmic rocking back-and-forth motion lulls him out of wakefulness,
Harry’s warm hand on his sensitive neck pacifying him, as consciousness slips
from his grasp and he succumbs to a falsely-peaceful abyss.
===============================================================================

When he opens his eyes, the first things he’s aware of are the painfully-tight
straps around his body. He moves his head from side to side, glancing around
the room, recognizing it as his cell in the quiet room. He’s not surprised to
see that his movement “privileges” have been revoked—Dr. Connor had said they
punish bad behavior, after all. The IV stand and tube going up his gown aren’t
a surprise, either. Hadn’t Killebrew threatened him with a catheter before?
The heavy brown straps bite into his skin as they keep him perfectly immobile
on his cot, all of it intentional, he’s sure. A moment passes of him testing
the strength of each strap, before he gives up, feeling light-headed and woozy,
his stomach rolling.
“You awake?” Clara asks.
Peter can’t lift his head high enough to see her across the room, so he presses
it against his thin pillow and says, “Yeah,” his voice coming out a little
slurred and hoarse.
Clara’s silent for a moment. “You’ve been knocked out for a long time.”
“How long?”
She almost sounds worried. “It’s been at least a few days.”
“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, not sure why he’s apologizing. Everything feels
confusing. He looks up at the dark ceiling, and can swear he sees it swirling,
a whirlpool above him, like in the ocean, round and round, hypnotic.
Clara snorts. “So what did you do?”
Peter blinks. He doesn’t know. What did he do to what? It feels like he’s been
asleep his entire life, and yet he’s tired, wants to go back under. He closes
his eyes, but the ceiling doesn’t stop swirling, the whirlpool following him
behind his eyelids, the blackness coiling and shifting in nauseating circles.
Oh. Clara wants to know why he’s strapped down. Well, that’s easy. “I punched
Harry.”
“Who’s Harry?”
“My…” Peter starts, his mouth filling with saliva as a wave of nausea hits him
again. He stops, swallows, forces himself to take a big, deep breath. He wishes
he could roll over onto his side so he could hold his tummy. He’s scared he’ll
drown if he vomits like this.
“My friend,” he finally manages to finish, clenching his eyes shut as tightly
as he can, trying to squish the black whirlpool, make it disperse somehow.
“They let one of your friends visit you?” Clara says, and the surprise in her
voice is so audible that it’s almost sobering. It makes Peter open his eyes,
stare blearily up at the ceiling. The whirlpool is gone.
“No,” Peter replies, “his dad owns this place.”
“Oh,” Clara says. She sounds disappointed. “So why’d you hit him?”
Peter doesn’t know what to say. He’s sure Clara would understand—the anger, the
helplessness, the frustration of being treated this way—hell, she probably
knows it all way worse than him, probably knows anger in a way Peter can’t even
comprehend. But it’s not like Harry had been trying to be an asshole. He wasn’t
the one forcing a screaming child into his lap or trying to drug her so that
another man could. He hadn’t manhandled Peter, hadn’t assaulted him. The only
thing Harry is really guilty of is being born an alpha in a world that believes
omegas aren’t people.
“He just—” Peter tries, pausing to collect his thoughts, scared the words will
come out all in the wrong order, “he just—he—he’s an alpha, and, I—I don’t
know. He didn’t know I was an omega. And he was treating me differently because
of it, even though we’ve known each other literally our entire lives, and—he’s
supposed to be my best friend, and I guess I shouldn’t’ve hit him, but I was
just so mad, he was looking at this girl like she wasn’t even a kid. Like she
was just an omega, but she was screaming and crying and I couldn’t believe he
didn’t see it—he didn’t see anything wrong at all. None of them did. But I
thought I knew Harry and it just… it hurt.”
He’s so sick of crying. It feels like that’s all he’s been doing for weeks. He
wants to run out of tears, feels slighted that he hasn’t done so already. But
he hasn’t, because there’s still more, burning their way cruelly down his face,
hot on his cool skin. He’s grateful Clara can’t see his face, even if there’s
no shame in it.
He hates the sound of his tear-stricken voice. “They’re gonna mate me to him,
and I don’t want to. It feels worse that it’s him. At least a stranger
wouldn’t—wouldn’t know me. With Harry it feels like he’s totally forgotten that
I’m his friend. He just sees an omega, and… I don’t think I can do it, Clara. I
can’t just lie down and become his omega. I can’t go from being his friend to
being his—his fucking pet. We’re friends. He’s supposed to be my best friend.”
He lets the sobs bubble up in his throat when he finishes speaking, the now-
familiar sound of them filling the room as Clara waits, silent, for him to calm
down, to gain some semblance of composure. Strapped to this cot, lying on his
back, each sob feels like the air is stolen from his lungs, and eventually he
stops, not because he’s done, but because the lack of air takes precedence and
he has to, in order to avoid passing out.
When Clara speaks, her voice almost sounds nothing like her. Her tone is so
gentle, so quiet and nurturing, it fills Peter with a longing to see his aunt;
the same comforting tone she always used. “It’s okay to feel betrayed, Peter,”
she says. “Hard to consider someone your best friend when they don’t even
consider you a human being.”
And that’s it, really, when it all comes down to it. Omegas aren’t people in
this world. Why should raping them offend anybody? To society, it’s no
different than breeding dogs.
Except omegas have even less rights.
“You know,” Clara says, after a long, drawn-out silence. “I used to hate
alphas, but I don’t anymore.”
Peter can’t look at her, but the impulse to do so is habitual. “You don’t?”
“Nah. Not really.” He hears her mattress squeak, lying beneath her, hears her
speaking up at the ceiling, mirroring his position. Her tone is light and sad.
“At first, I thought everything was their fault, but I’ve realized, they don’t
really get much more say in this than we do.”
“What do you mean?”
Clara takes a long, quiet, deep breath. “When I first came here, they tried to
mate me with this alpha. It was hell. We didn’t bond, no matter what he did,
but he kept trying, over and over again. I don’t really remember much, except
lying there, trying to hold still, looking up at the ceiling. All I remember is
thinking, how pathetic human life is.”
Peter expects Clara’s voice to deepen, to become lifeless, empty, but it
doesn’t. She maintains the same sadly gentle tone she had earlier, like she’s
lamenting the loss of an old friend. “Eventually, the doctor came in and
drugged us both. The alpha was too weak to even struggle against it at that
point. I was pretty sure I was going to die. I was hoping I would.”
Peter remembers that feeling, lying in that bathroom in Avengers tower, sobbing
in Tony’s arms.
“I hated him with everything I had. He raped and impregnated me, a kid, and
even though I was young I knew it was wrong, but somehow he didn’t. I hated him
so much I could have killed him. But that didn’t stop the doctors. They had
never seen an omega fail to bond before. They were determined to make it
happen. They induced me into heat, over and over again, each time bringing in
this same alpha. They thought the familiarity would spark a bond. They were
hoping it would happen on its own, ‘cause nothing they were trying was working,
and they were frustrated.”
Clara’s breath hitches, just a little, and Peter wonders if maybe she’s crying,
too.
“But each time they tried, it got… worse. I could see that failing to bond was
really messing with this guy. It got to the point that he wouldn’t even try to
penetrate me. He would just lie on top of me, holding me, sobbing into my hair,
apologizing over and over and begging me to forgive him. It was like my heat
wasn’t affecting him anymore.”
He stills. How can that be? An alpha unaffected by an omega in heat? If such a
thing were possible—
“At the time I thought, maybe alphas are more affected by our heats than just
needing to mate. Maybe they need to bond, too. Maybe he was grieving our son
being taken away before he even got to see him. I didn’t know. All I knew was,
what was happening, it wasn’t this guy’s choice, either. And despite how much I
hated him and what he did to me, beneath that, I felt really sorry for him.”
Despite not wanting to, despite the situations being completely different,
Peter can’t help but think of Tony, and Steve, and all of them. Of Natasha
telling him that they never would have done those things if biology hadn’t made
them. He admires Clara’s ability to forgive.
“Finally, he stopped touching me altogether. He refused. He’d fight with the
doctors if they tried and made him. But there was something wrong with him,
too. Every time I saw him, he was thinner, weaker, paler. His skin got so white
I could see every vein in his face. He wasn’t old, but his hair started
greying. He stopped shaving and his beard came in totally white. He looked
dead. I found myself actually worried about him, and that scared me, because
what if it made us bond? But I couldn’t help it. I could see that this guy was
trying with everythinghe had not to hurt me. And as much as I hated it, he was
the father of my sons. And he was suffering, too. It wasn’t just me.”
The dead, cold tone Peter expected of this conversation finally takes over
Clara’s voice, smothering the sadness. Her voice is even, steady, but totally,
completely devoid of life.
“The last time I ever saw him, he was pounding on the door, trying to get out
of the room we were locked in. He was screaming, ‘She’s a kid, I won’t do it,
you can’t make me do it.’ I’ll never forget the way his whole body was shaking.
They took him away, and to my horror, a different alpha was sent in, and I
never saw him again.”
Peter feels cold when the unmistakable sound of crying breaks in out of
nowhere, crashing over Clara like a wave on a shore. The sound is so
heartbreakingly sudden that he instinctively reaches for her, though he’s
strapped down, though they’re separated by two sets of bars.
Slowly the crying lessens, the sobs turning to whines and then to sniffles, and
then finally nothing, Clara falling silent for a long, heavy moment.
“What happened then?” Peter asks.
Clara doesn’t reply right away, but when she does, her voice is back to its
earlier lifeless tone.
“No one would tell me for a long time. When my suicide attempts got out of
hand, they finally told me, I think as a punishment. It worked. Apparently, he
couldn’t take our failure at bonding anymore and killed himself. Or maybe he
just couldn’t live with what he’d done, I don’t know. But I could tell he
wanted to bond—he wanted an omega—just not to me. With my heat not affecting
him, I was finally a kid in his eyes, and he was being forced to do something
he couldn’t stand. He died never knowing that I forgave him.”
She takes another drawn-out, deep breath through her nose, and says, “I didn’t
find out until years later that my heat never stopped affecting him at all,
they were just suppressing him.”
Peter feels his body go very still, like the flow of his blood has come to a
stop. “What do you mean?”
“They couldn’t figure out how to make us bond, but they did figure out how to
make an alpha invulnerable to an omega’s heat. They thought if they just gave
him an aphrodisiac, maybe ‘regular’ sex would initiate a bond. But they didn’t
realize that, he wasn’t a monster, and without my heat controlling him, he
wouldn’t touch me.”
“Wait,” Peter says, nearly panicking. “Hang on—wait a second, you’re saying
they know how to suppress our heat and an alpha’s reaction to it—artificially?”
He feels his complexion go white as a sheet with shock and disbelief. “Th-They
can do that? There’s no need for any of this?”
He feels bad raising his voice, but he can’t help it. He’s so compelled by
anger and frustration all of a sudden that the cot creaks and the straps groan
against his agitated squirming.
“Don’t know why you’re surprised,” says Clara. “There’s no end to what you can
accomplish when you have an endless supply of human test subjects.”
Peter knows she’s right, but all he can bring himself to say is, “We have to
get out of here.”
Whatever Clara plans on saying in response is cut off by the chiming of the
doors sliding open at the end of the hall. Two sets of footsteps approach his
cell, and then the door is being unlocked and pulled open. Peter looks up at
Dr. Killebrew as the man comes to stand beside his cot, Dr. Connor next to him.
“Good morning, Peter,” Killebrew says, attaching something to his IV as Dr.
Connor undoes the straps. Peter feels a little mortified as she lifts his gown
to remove the catheter, but it’s dulled beneath the onslaught of rage he feels.
Killebrew knew all along. He could have given the Avengers the drug to keep
Peter safe from them. He could have showed them how to gentle Peter so he
wasn’t in constant pain. It was all manageable, all of it, from the beginning.
Once the new dose of whatever Killebrew gave him is finished running up his IV,
the needle is removed, and Dr. Connor gently helps him onto his shaky feet,
steadying him. A wave of dizziness and nausea almost send him sprawling to the
floor, but he manages to push it down, and then he looks up.
And wishes, instantly, that he hadn’t.
“Clara…” he says, staring wide-eyed at her through the bars. She’s strapped
down way more thoroughly than she was before—not as thoroughly as he’d been,
but still—the straps are thick and industrial, and they loop around all four of
her limbs, covering everything, except—
“Clara, when did…”
He can’t say it.
Her stomach is flat.
She can’t look up much, but she tries, and it’s enough for them to make eye
contact. Peter looks into her eyes and it’s almost enough to send him to his
knees sobbing. The look on her face. He’s never seen anyone look so hopeless.
Clara looks vacant, dead. She looks like her soul was taken with her baby.
“Come on,” Killebrew says, taking his other arm, urging him forward. Clara
drops her gaze, severing the eye contact, and it breaks the trance Peter was
in. “We’ve got a very important appointment we can’t be late to.”
“What?” Peter asks. Killebrew grins evilly under his thick, white moustache.
“What are you talking about?” Peter asks again, wearily, glancing over at Dr.
Connor, who doesn’t look at him, and then back at Killebrew.
“Today’s the big day, Peter,” Killebrew says, holding up the empty pouch he had
attached to Peter’s IV stand when he entered his cell. “Harry’s waiting.”
“Waiting for…?” Dread fills him all the way to the brim. He knows the answer.
Killebrew huffs. “We finally perfected the chemical compound while you were in
your time-out,” he says slowly, like he’s speaking to a child. “Harry’s waiting
for you, because you’re going to be mated to him today.”
Chapter End Notes
     Phew, longest chapter yet. Sorry for the wait, you guys. This chapter
     was a doozy.
     The next chapter will probably be as long, if not longer, and I think
     a lot of you are gonna be completely stoked about who wins the race
     to Peter. ;)
     Something I do wanna mention real quick—I know that this story is
     extremely dark and heavy, and many of you have expressed a sense of
     emotional exhaustion from reading it, so if I may offer some
     compensation, I have a new story in the works that is almost
     infinitely lighter and fluffier than this one. It's a stucky ca:cw
     fix-it, but the plot is entirely centered on Bucky meeting and
     adopting Peter, and will feature gratuitous superfamily and all-
     around cuteness and the smallest amount of angst I'm capable of. It's
     the story I've been working on when this one becomes way too
     emotionally draining for me, so hopefully it will cheer some of you
     up, too! You can read it here.
     For those of you starker fans who are mostly here for the Tony/Peter
     ship—I may or may not also have an angst-free, multi-chap Sugar Daddy
     AU that is almost ready to post? ;) Y'all can go ahead and follow me
     on tumblr to get notified when that comes out, as well as all my
     other updates! I always post my fic updates there first, as well as
     some other fun Marvel stuff, so come say hi and geek out with me!
     And as always, thank you for reading!
***** An Unexpected Ally *****
Chapter Notes
     WARNING: This chapter contains graphic and disturbing content,
     similar to those of previous chapters. Do not continue reading this
     story if it is negatively affecting your mental health.
     Having said that, while this is not the last chapter to contain sex
     in this story, it is the last chapter to contain non-consensual sex.
     So, if you've merely been tolerating the non-con that's been plaguing
     the rest of this fic, then good news, my friend, tolerate no more.
     Also, you might need a protein bar or something because this chapter
     is 10k words and it's a trip. In my defense, I did promise last
     chapter that this one would be longer.
     Enjoy!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
You’re going to be mated to him today.
The moment he hears those words, two things happen at the exact same time.
The thought of, It’s here, this is it, it’s happening already, causes such an
overpowering panic to rise within him that Peter’s vision actually blurs for a
second. It’s followed by the urgent thought of, I have to get out of here,
right now. I need to go. I have to run.But the thought doesn’t get the chance
to manifest because, at the same time, a bolt of feverishness floods Peter’s
head, and he almost collapses on the floor.
Dr. Killebrew and Dr. Connor catch him, their grips tight on both of his arms,
and pull him to his feet, even as his knees wobble and threaten to give out.
The dreaded sensation of warmth spreading through his muscles makes Peter
clench his eyes shut in fear and distress.
No, please, not this, not now, he thinks, tears prickling the corners of his
eyes. Please don’t do this to me.
“That was fast,” says Dr. Connor, a note of surprise in her voice. Killebrew
hums, pulling Peter up a little straighter, ignoring the boy’s discomforted
whine as he does so. “I was expecting his mutation to slow the drug down, so I
doubled the usual dosage,” the man says. “Probably could have gotten away with
only giving him an extra half, but no harm done. The result will be the same
after we administer the bonding application.”
They begin hauling him out of his cell, and Peter tries his best to look at
Clara, but she’s let her head drop back down to her pillow, turned away from
them, like she’s refusing to watch.
His head is swimming too much as the force of his heat fully hits him,
overwhelming him, to put up a fight or even protest. He hates that it doesn’t
matter how strong he is, how good of a fighter, how fast or agile. It doesn’t
matter that he has superpowers when he goes into heat, and he hates it; hates
that his body shuts it all down, forcing him to be pliable, to be weak. He
hates being robbed of his ability to fight back, by his own body, of all
things.
The doctors drag him down the hall and into the elevator, practically carrying
him by the end. The extra dose of the heat-inducing drug Killebrew gave him
takes its toll; Peter’s legs feel as sturdy as Jell-O. He wants to fight them,
wants to pull away with his full superhuman strength, grab Clara and smash down
the nearest wall to the outside, but he can’t.It’s unbearably frustrating.
No matter how many times he goes through this, it never gets any easier.
The doctors haul him into another examination room, a different one than the
one Peter’s grown used to. This one is smaller, with less medical and
experimental equipment, and a smaller lab station than the previous one. But
there are two bigger differences between the two rooms.
The first is the large window next to the door, leading into a hallway, with a
panel and speakers set below it on both sides, most likely intended for
spectators out in the hall to communicate with the occupants of the room,
without being exposed to them—which means, Peter fears, this room is primarily
meant for containment.
The other—and far more terrifying—difference is the steel and leather apparatus
hanging from the ceiling above the cot. Peter knows its intent the moment he
lays eyes on it. The positioning of the window, the bed, where the straps fall
from the rod-like bar that’s set on an adjustable rope… It’s all meant to hold
someone on fucking display.
Peter reels back, despite the drugs, despite the heat, despite the cuffs on his
wrists and the tight grips on both of his arms, because no, no way in hell,
they’ll have to fucking render him unconscious before he’ll be strapped into
that thing, strung up for someone’s goddamn viewing pleasure.
“Stop it,” Killebrew hisses at him, yanking him further into the room. “Enough,
omega, you rotten little troublemaker. I have had it with you.”
“You’re not putting me in that thing,” Peter tries to shout, but it comes out
feebler than he means it to. He struggles as hard as he can, and Killebrew and
Dr. Connor both have to pull him forward with all their strength, Killebrew
practically heaving him toward the cot, as Dr. Connor shoves him with all her
might from behind.
“Not yet,” the man says, finally close enough that he can attach a restraint to
the cuff on Peter’s left wrist. “Just sit down, damn you. There is more work to
be done before we get to the main event.”
It’s futile, but Peter doesn’t stop fighting, even as Dr. Connor secures his
right wrist to the cot as well, and then tightens both, rendering him immobile.
There’s enough length that he can sit up, thankfully, with his arms restricted
to their respective sides of the cot, but both doctors are too smart to stand
directly in front of him, just in case he kicks. Which he badly wants to.
Peter sits, legs dangling off the end of the bed, chest heaving slightly from
struggling and from the mind-numbing heat running rampant through his body. Dr.
Connor pierces his arm with another hypodermic needle, getting ready to start a
drip—most likely of the bonding application—and all Peter can do is watch
Killebrew, warily, heart pounding in his ears.
“That will be all, Natalie,” Killebrew says to her when she finishes,
dismissively. He doesn’t look up from the array of chemicals he’s tinkering
with, so he entirely misses the irate glare she gives him. She reaches the door
when he adds, “If you could please let Mr. Osborn know that we’re ready.”
So much for there being more work to be done first, Peter thinks, watching Dr.
Connor tersely leave the room without replying.
He watches Killebrew tensely, waiting for the man to turn around and attach the
IV that will seal his fate, but the man stays where he is, his wide back
blocking Peter’s gaze from seeing exactly what he’s doing. Silence fills the
space between them, Killebrew uncharacteristically quiet, for once.
Minutes pass of the two pointedly ignoring each other before Peter cracks,
disadvantaged without something to fiddle with, unlike the doctor. “You
could’ve stopped them,” Peter says, quiet and cold. “Mr. Stark and the others.
There was a drug all along. You could’ve stopped them.”
The man doesn’t look at him. Peter doesn’t really expect him to respond—it’s
not like he doesn’t know why. Killebrew was never in it to help him or anyone
else from the get-go.
“It would have been interesting to see whether or not it worked on Captain
America,” Killebrew finally says, mildly. “He definitely would have needed a
larger dose, and probably on a daily basis. Even then, I have my doubts his
reactions would have been entirely suppressed. More than likely, he would’ve
experienced a debilitating state of arousal, though his autonomy would probably
remain intact. The same goes for Stark.”
Peter’s eyebrows raise, curiously. “Why Mr. Stark?”
“Both he and Captain America were exposed to your first heat, or what we call
the ‘presenting heat.’ You first presented when you were twelve, but your body
never had the chance to enter a full-blown heat—you suppressed it too quickly
with the drug, effectively shutting the whole thing down, and resetting your
entire cycle.”
Peter sways a little as the man talks, his head growing foggier and heavier by
the minute. His thighs are starting to spasm from how hard he has them
clenched, to keep all of the slick inside of him from leaking onto the cot.
“So when your suppressants failed,” the doctor continues, “your body
essentially went into heat for the very first time. That’s why it took over a
full day for it to really set in, and in that time, both Stark and the good
Captain were subjected to your fledgling pheromones. Their freewill was
overridden the moment they were.”
Gaze clouding, Peter blinks, slowly, trying to will his vision to clear. He’d
gone into heat, but they still let him go home. They didn’t try and keep him
there. Their freewill couldn’t have been completely overrode. They were still
them.
“There isn’t a nook or cranny of an alpha’s body that goes unaffected when an
omega goes into heat; even if they were unaware of it, nothing they did from
then on was of their own volition. Every decision, from the food they ate to
the clothing they wore, was out of their hands until they mated with you, and
they probably didn’t even notice.”
Maybe that’s why Tony came after them. Maybe his body knew, deep down, what
Peter was, and it refused to let him ignore it. Peter clenches his jaw, his
heart constricting. Maybe Tony understood all along, what it was like to be
trapped in your own body, unable to control it. The alpha inside of him might
have looked down on Peter, but maybe Tony never did.
He wants to believe that, so desperately, that he almost cries.
Killebrew still hasn’t looked at him, keeps talking. “Because he was exposed to
your presenting pheromones, and because he has attempted to mate with
you—unsuccessfully—several times, Stark is particularly susceptible to your
heat. Ergo, like Rogers, his dose of the reaction-suppressant would have to be
greatly altered and adjusted to find the correct quantity.”
A wave of dizziness overcomes him, and Peter almost collapses forward off the
cot, held up only by the shackles, keeping both of his wrists secured to the
sides of the bed.
“The part of his brain that goes into ‘alpha mode,’ for layman’s terms, has
already stored your unique DNA signature. You haven’t bonded, but that part of
him believes you have. It will always incite him to behave as your alpha,
regardless of whether or not his reaction to your heat is suppressed. He may
not try and mate with you, but he will probably be very protective, maybe even
agitated.”
Peter glances up at the back of the doctor’s head, can see the tips of his
moustache quirk upward in a cruel, malicious grin.
“I imagine he’s become very unwell, by now. He’s lucky to have his team
surrounding him, to protect him from himself.”
Tears run down Peter’s cheeks as his stomach violently heaves. “M’gonna be
sick,” he tries to warn, but it comes out as a mumble, and the next thing he
knows, everything is going black and he’s falling backward onto the cot, the
back of his skull smacking against the firm plastic.
He feels a moist, clammy hand press against his damp forehead and tries to turn
away, hating the sensation, it’s too much, too hot, too rough. He whines when
another hand starts feeling around his throat, over his pulsing glands—he tries
to swat them away but his hands are bound. He can’t even roll over to escape
them.
“Your heat will most likely be very uncomfortable for you from now on,”
Killebrew clinically informs him. “You’ve had several now and never
successfully bonded through any of them. Your body is searching for a virus or
infection that would have intervened in the bonding, and is using a fever to
try and burn it out. Hold still.”
He moves away and suddenly the room is darker, the lights dimming, making Peter
give a grateful moan. He listens to the doctor rummaging around for a few
moments, and then something cold and rough is balanced on his forehead,
bringing sweet, cool relief.
“You can’t go to sleep yet, Peter,” Killebrew says, and attempts to say
something else, when his pager beeps loudly on his belt. Peter lets his
consciousness swing in and out, focusing on his cold forehead and burning body,
rudely interrupted when Killebrew grabs the collar of his gown and hefts him up
by the hem. “Sit up,” he says, the icepack falling into Peter’s lap. Peter
whines. “He’s here.”
The man takes the icepack from Peter’s lap and moves away, leaving him perched
upright on the edge of the cot again, gently swaying with his head bowed,
barely keeping himself awake. He hears Killebrew open the door, hears people
enter, hears talking, but all he can focus on is the fever and the pain and the
unbearable wetness below him.
Two large, cool, smooth hands gently cradle the sides of his face, slowly
lifting it. Peter blinks his eyes open, needing a second for them to adjust
before he can actually look at Harry.
But it isn’t Harry.
It’s Mr. Osborn.
“Hello, Peter,” the man smiles, beaming at him. “I thought I had prepared
myself to see you here, but apparently not well enough. I can’t believe my
eyes. Look at you, all grown up.”
Peter wants to pull back, pull away, confused and disoriented and instinctually
threatened by the glint in Mr. Osborn’s eyes, but his hands are so cool, and
they feel so good on his fevered skin. His body aches with the tensing of his
muscles, and he trembles, only held upright by the gentle hold on his face.
“You poor thing,” Mr. Osborn coos, massaging his thumbs beneath Peter’s damp
eyes. “You must be in so much pain. Your whole body is craving an alpha, isn’t
it? Every sweet little inch of you.”
He gasps when the man drops one of his hands lower, onto his thigh, fingers
slipping beneath his gown. Peter’s leg twitches under the tickling sensation,
but Mr. Osborn is undeterred, moving his hand lower, groping between his legs,
feeling the wetness there. Peter whimpers when his cool hand brushes against
the sensitive underside of his testicles, the feeling so intense it almost
hurts.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you,” he whispers against his
lips. “I’ve wanted one of you for a very, very long time, Peter. And I couldn’t
be happier that it’s you; a little genius whom I always thought was sweet,
dainty and slender as any female omega, and on top of that, with an incredible
mutation, as well… you are flawless.”
Peter flinches when Mr. Osborn brings his hand back up to his face, smearing
his slick against his cheek. The man smiles at him with a blissful, raptured
expression that makes Peter feel cold to his very core.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Osborn says, looking past Peter. “If you wouldn’t mind giving
us the room? I would like to spend some time getting to know the omega my son
will soon be mating, privately.”
The door opens and closes, but Peter can see in his peripheral vision that
Killebrew doesn’t budge, studying them. Mr. Osborn looks up and sends the
doctor a flat look then says, in a much less affectionate tone, “I’ll call you
back in when we’re ready to proceed, Doctor.”
Killebrew huffs, but obeys, and the next thing Peter knows, it’s just him and
Harry’s dad, alone in this hellish place.
He strokes Peter’s cheek again. “You still haven’t said hello to me,” he
remarks. “Are you frightened, dear boy?”
A tremor goes down Peter’s spine, burning on the outside and frozen on the
inside. “Yes,” he says, nowhere to look but into the man’s eyes.
Mr. Osborn smiles. “Mm. Yes, of course you are. You’ve always been an anxious
boy, and I imagine these last few weeks have not been fun for you at all.”
The gentle, almost sympathetic tone in his voice gives Peter pause, and he
stares at the man, imploringly. “Mr. Osborn,” he says, as steady as he can,
though his voice is weak, “please let me go home. Please. I don’t want to be
mated to Harry—or anyone. Please let me go.”
“Of course you don’t,” the man says, matter-of-fact. “Why would you, smart,
young, capable boy that you are? Why on Earth would you want to give up your
life and your entire future to be someone else’s personal toy? It’s absurd.”
Exactly, Peter wants to cry out, but he doesn’t, because something in the man’s
face doesn’t look right—his tone is sympathetic, but his smile is cold, a mask
stretched over a bare skull.
“Fortunately for me,” Mr. Osborn continues, “and unfortunately for you, society
thrives on absurdity. Alphas and omegas are lessened to the most outdated,
basic understanding of their biology, and therefore, betas run the show. We are
the majority, we control everything. We have all the money, all the power, we
run every division of the government, from the White House to the military to
the public schools. We make the rules, and those rules were made to our
benefit.”
Mr. Osborn leans in, still holding Peter’s face, until their noises almost
touch. Peter pulls uselessly against his restraints, wanting nothing more than
to push the man away.
“Do you want to know the truth, Peter?” he asks, grinning conspiratorially.
“We’re well aware of just how capable your gender is. We’re the ones
propagating the urban myth that omegas are weak liabilities who can’t function
without our protection, and everything you see around you is the product of
that propaganda.”
Peter tries to lean back, to get some space between them, but the hands on his
face tighten almost painfully, and the slick underneath his legs sends him
sliding forward an inch instead, to his horror.
“You are a minority, Peter,” he says to him with unchecked glee, “and you
belong to me, just like the rest of your kind. It’s not the alphas you should
be afraid of. They’ve been outnumbered since the beginning of time, and while
they may be physically stronger, they are not the ones with true power, and
never have been.”
“Let go,” Peter says, pulling harder against the man’s grip, yanking at the
cuffs on his wrists. “Let go of—”
His demand is cut off by a hand moving from his face to his hair, fisting it
roughly and wrenching his head back, exposing his throat. Peter’s entire body
goes stiff with dread, unsure of what the man will do next, unpredictable in
ways no alpha that’s touched him so far has been.
“This is my facility,” Mr. Osborn whispers against his throat. “Everyone under
its roof belongs to me, one way or another. I own them all. I own you—” his
teeth graze over the tender gland beside his jugular, and Peter flinches,
terrified, “—and will for every second of the rest of your life.”
“You said—” Peter gasps, trembling, “you said you were gonna mate me to Harry.”
He can feel the man smile against his skin. “Oh, I am, sweet boy. I’ll mate you
to him nice and proper, and then it’s off to college he goes. He is eighteen,
after all. A boy can’t live at home forever.”
The man dips lower, sliding his gown open, his lips resting above Peter’s
collarbones, teething at the skin with a heady, possessive reverence.
“And while he’s gone,” he continues, “it will be just you and me. Don’t worry,
sweetheart, I’ll make plenty of time for you. I’ll bring you with me wherever I
go, collared and leashed like the exotic pet that you are, showing off my
pretty omegan boy to the whole world. And when your body is ravaged by the pain
of being separated from your mate, I’ll comfort you, over and over again, until
every inch of you knows, with absolute certainty, who you truly belong to.”
Mr. Osborn bites down on his throat, right where an alpha would, but it’s
horrible and so much more painful than any other bite Peter’s had; his betan
saliva burns like acid as it enters his bloodstream, and Peter cries out loudly
in agony. “Stop,” he begs, pulling at the restraints for all he’s worth. “Stop,
p-please, it hurts.”
“I know,” the man smirks. “I’ve had plenty of time to learn everything there is
to know about omegas in heat, and how they react to being fucked by betas,
Peter. Most of it firsthand.”
He moves lower still, mouthing across Peter’s chest. His hand slips between
Peter’s legs to rub his slick-soaked thighs. “Do you want to know a secret?” he
whispers, grinning. “I’m actually a bit of an anomaly, myself.”
Tears roll down his cheeks again at the awful feeling of those cool, smooth
hands between his legs. “Wha—what?”
“That’s right,” Mr. Osborn presses his face against Peter’s chest and breathes
in, deeply, like it’s a refreshing breath of fresh air. “Did you know that most
betas are slightly repulsed by the smell of an omega in heat?”
Peter shakes his head, unable to stop the trembles wracking his body. He
flinches from the overstimulated sensation of Mr. Osborn running his tongue
across his nipples.
“It’s an evolutionary tactic to repel betas from sleeping with aroused,
vulnerable omegas begging for sex. To alphas, the smell is intoxicating; a
heavy, sweet aroma that is so delectable it makes their mouths water. To betas,
it’s more of a strong body odor, feverish and a little sour. But I’m
different.”
He trails his open mouth across Peter’s chest, tasting him as his hands
continue to grope between his legs. Peter screws his eyes shut, and tries not
to slip on the river of slick beneath him, that will only shove him further
against the man.
“I was about your age the first time I smelled it,” he whispers. “I was with a
girl I fancied, alone in her bedroom, when she went into heat. I could smell it
before she even knew. I had never smelled anything like that before—as strong
as whiskey and as sweet as wine. I couldn’t help myself then, and haven’t been
able to ever since. It’s addictive, Peter. Just the scent of an omega in heat
can bring me to the edge.”
He pushes Peter’s gown up to his waist and grabs his hips, pulling their
crotches flush together, Peter’s legs fully dangling off the end of the bed.
Peter gives a sharp yelp of pain as his fevered head hits the mattress once
more, stunning him.
“And you…” Mr. Osborn breathes. “God, Peter, you… you have the sweetest scent
I’ve ever come across. Just look at me, I can’t keep my hands off you. I feel
like I could devour you whole.”
Pushing forward so that Peter’s legs spread wider, the man starts rocking his
hips, thrusting the clothed form of his erection against Peter’s sensitive,
bare ass, forcing him to feel exactly how hard he is, what his intentions to do
with that hardness are.
“The things it makes me want to do to you,” he growls. “I should have been an
alpha. You won’t bond with others, but you would have to me, wouldn’t you? I’ve
always loved a challenge. I would have knotted and bitten you so deeply that
belonging to me would’ve been written into your DNA. The only man on the entire
East Coast to own a male omega. I was meant to have you.”
“No,” Peter sobs, begging. “I don’t want to, get off of me, Mr. Osborn,
please—”
The man moves both of his hands to cup Peter’s ass and lifts him slightly off
the cot, slotting his body further between his legs, pressing the hard outline
of his cock right against Peter’s soaking wet entrance. “Yes,” he moans out in
a hiss. “That’s it, pet. Beg me. Beg me for it. I’ll fuck you until you can’t
speak, and then I’ll send a photo of the aftermath to that cocky brat Tony
Stark, to show him what taming an omega reallylooks like. Some alpha he is, if
he’d done it right, maybe his wouldn’t have run away—”
It’s a reflex. He doesn’t exactly mean to do it—wasn’t even sure he could,
until he does—but a flash of anger bursts through him and it happens, anyway.
His body moves without even thinking. It happens so fast, it leaves him stunned
and confused.
His knee plants firmly into Mr. Osborn’s stomach, knocking him back, and before
either of them really know what’s going on, Peter kicks, as hard as he can, the
heel of his bare foot cracking loudly against the underside of the man’s jaw,
sending him careening backward.
Peter hears him crash against the table and tries to sit up, but his body is
weak, ravaged by fever and stress, and he ends up just collapsing back against
the mattress in a panting, aching heap. His foot throbs from where it made
impact, but it’s a dull and satisfying ache. It grounds him.
A bruising, clawing hand wraps around his shin and yanks him further down the
cot, making him yelp with pain as the cuffs harshly dig into his wrists. Mr.
Osborn leans over him again, face red with anger, blood dripping from his mouth
and down his chin. His eyes look crazed, blazing with fury.
“If that’s how you want to play, Peter,” he snarls, blood dripping down onto
Peter’s cheek, “then so be it. I will break you.”
He grabs him by the hair and roughly pulls him up, until he’s sitting upright,
and then yanks his head back so he’s looking up at the terrifying harness-like
contraption hanging above him. “You see that?” the man spits. “That’s going to
hold you nice and open and still while you’re getting fucked. I should let the
guards take turns with you first, after that little stunt, but no. You’re my
son’s mate, and I will not force him to share his omega with a pack of mongrels
like a bitch.”
Mr. Osborn releases him, holding him upright with a firm hand in his gown, and
then hollers out a commanding, “Killebrew!” in a deep, furious tone that has
the doctor reentering the room hastily. Killebrew stares at the injury to the
man’s jaw, and then gazes at Peter, equal parts disbelieving and downright
astonished.
“Are you all right?” he asks, turning away from Peter still wide-eyed. Mr.
Osborn merely grunts, wiping at his mouth and chin with a handkerchief, before
fixing the doctor with a stern look.
“String him up. Make sure he can’t move a muscle. I don’t want any part of his
body to be mobile except his hips.”
Killebrew nods, clearly still a little dumbstruck, as he reaches up and begins
pulling the harness down, unfolding it. The straps brush against Peter’s still-
bare shoulders and he flinches, trying to fling himself off the cot, away from
the device.
“You said that the only way to suppress his heat is to make him ejaculate while
he’s being mated, correct?” Mr. Osborn suddenly asks. His cold gaze is fixed on
Peter, almost cutting through the suffocating heat of his fever.
“While he’s being knotted and bitten, yes,” Killebrew answers, still opening
the straps. “All three criteria need to be met before his heat can be
successfully ended.”
Mr. Osborn doesn’t take his eyes off of Peter. “So even if an alpha bites and
knots inside him, as long as he doesn’t come, his heat will continue?”
“That’s right,” the doctor says, removing Peter’s gown completely, before
beginning to loop the harness around the boy’s chest.
The other man is silent for a long, tense moment. Then, “Put him in a chastity
device.”
Killebrew turns around, a skeptic look on his face. “The bonding application
won’t work if Harry can’t successfully suppress his heat—”
“This isn’t about bonding them,” Mr. Osborn interrupts. “This is purely to
teach him a lesson. We’ll worry about bonding them once this one has learned
his place.”
For a second, Peter’s body goes so cold, he almost dares to think that his heat
has ended itself.
The doctor hesitates. “What about Harry? It will take a toll on him, too.”
“Give him breaks,” clips Mr. Osborn, as though it’s obvious. “Drag him out if
you have to. Hydrate him, feed him, let him rest, and then send him back in.
There won’t be any lasting side-effects after they bond, anyway. As for this
one,”
Mr. Osborn takes a half a step closer, boring into Peter’s eyes.
“No comfort,” he hisses. “When Harry isn’t here, I want him in total isolation.
Water, but no food. And no one speaks to or touches him in any way. Am I
clear?”
“Yes,” Killebrew says, though there’s a hint to his voice—an unsureness, a
spark of doubt.
“Good,” the man says, turning on his heel and heading for the door. “Notify me
when you’re ready for Harry to be sent down.”
He leaves without another word, and for a minute, neither of them moves or says
anything. Killebrew has a look on his face like he can’t quite believe what’s
going on, staring at Peter with complete incredulity.
Finally, Killebrew clears his throat, continuing to ready the harness as he
speaks. “He laughed when he heard you punched Harry, you know,” he says,
fastening the straps around Peter’s back. “Permit me to give you some advice.
That man delights in taking the fight out of stubborn omegas. I suspect that
that’s what truly gets him off—not the sex, but the power. So do yourself a
favor and don’t make yourself any more interesting than you already are.”
Peter doesn’t reply, head bowed and defeated as the doctor manhandles him,
pulling him into the middle of the cot and placing him on his knees, steadied
by the leather restraints around his chest, arms and shoulders. His neck is
bare.
“I’ll be right back,” Killebrew says. “I need to go hunt down a chastity
device.”
He hears the doctor speaking to someone outside, knows that there are guards
just outside the room. Alpha guards, Dr. Connor had told him. They must be on
the reaction-suppressant, if they haven’t bust in here yet, frenzied by Peter’s
heat…
His eyes screw shut. Mr. Osborn had threatened to let the guards have their way
with him, but he must be aware that they can’t react to his heat under that
drug. Which means he was betting on them assaulting him completely sober, with
nothing motivating them except the sickening desire to do so.
Mr. Osborn was completely confident that they would have no qualms with raping
someone on command. How many times has that already happened here? How many
people, alphas and betas alike, choose to work in this industry, where there
are children readily available to be abused without consequence?
He doesn’t have the energy to cry. He just waits, letting the fevered dizziness
in his head pull him in and out of consciousness, until Killebrew returns.
There’s something different about the man, but Peter can’t quite tell what it
is. He’s less angry, maybe. Moving and speaking with a little more carefulness
than he was showing Peter earlier. Maybe it’s remorse. More likely, he doesn’t
want Peter to completely shut down mentally before he can find out whether or
not his new drug will work.
Killebrew finishes stringing him up. The end result is Peter, on the center of
the cot, on his knees, arms fastened to the steel rod above his head, ankles
secured to the cuffs on either side of the bed. His legs already hurt from the
not-quite sitting position he’s in, his arms already going numb, but thankfully
the harness around his chest and shoulders help alleviate some of his weight,
hanging from the same rod as his wrists.
He doesn’t struggle as the doctor adjusts everything, lowering the height of
the cot, raising the height of the harness to lift Peter higher on his knees,
and then tightening every inch of the straps until Peter feels completely
bound, every part of him tied down except his hips, neck and head. Even his
genitals, as Mr. Osborn demanded, are stuck in a strange cup-like apparatus
that slides over his flaccid penis, the base tight around the shaft above his
balls, keeping his dick soft. Killebrew locks the device in place and pockets
the key, stepping away from him.
The last thing he adds is a thick, rubber ball on a belt, which he forces
between Peter’s teeth and then attaches tightly behind his head. “So you can’t
bite,” Killebrew says to him. Peter doesn’t even have the strength to glare.
The doctor begins packing the concoctions he’d been working on into a large
bag, preparing to vacate the room. “I’ll be watching,” he says, plainly.
“Mostly to ensure there are no complications. I’m sure it’s a small comfort,
but I will intervene if your health or safety are at risk.”
Not mentally, Peter thinks, petulantly.
Killebrew does a final sweep of the table and desk, confirming he has
everything he needs, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his
cellphone. He types something into it, sighs, and puts it away again, giving
Peter a blank look. “Harry will be escorted down momentarily,” he says.
Peter shuts his eyes, letting the harness and his knees take his full weight.
Killebrew leaves without another word.
The room feels hot and cold at the same time. It’s stuffy, a kind of stifling
heat that reminds Peter of the summer streets of New York in peak tourist
season, walking among thousands of people all moving at once in a big,
suffocating crowd.
And yet it’s cool, the air not quite as hot as his heat-ravaged, fevered skin,
a little biting to the touch. His sweat feels slightly cold against his skin,
as do the leather straps, and especially the device around his privates.
He waits. There’s no clock, but time has become an unnecessary luxury at this
point, anyway. He knows it’s only minutes, but with the pounding fogginess in
his head, it feels like an entire lifetime has passed when Harry finally opens
the door.
Peter knows it’s him. He can smell him, but even without that, the way Harry
gasps when he walks in, the way he slams the door, locking it quickly and
aggressively, all give him away.
“Pete,” Harry says, quiet and breathless. He steps forward, knocking into the
bed, jostling Peter slightly. Peter doesn’t bother opening his eyes, there’s no
point. Harry’s smelled him. He’s in heat. There’s no stopping it now.
“Peter,” Harry says again, pleading now, his hands trailing over the leather
wrapped around his chest, arms and legs. “What did they do to you?”
He hefts himself up onto the cot, the only place where there’s room, directly
behind Peter. Harry’s hands move over his naked body, following the bonds
constricting him, his breathing loud and laborious against Peter’s bare back.
“Does it hurt?”
Peter wonders what Harry would do if he nodded. Would he let him down, try and
make him as comfortable as possible, or would he—any part of him—not care at
all? Would he be glad to see him like this, an omega, on display for an alpha,
or would he be upset to see Peter, his friend, tied up to be raped?
He honestly doesn’t know.
Harry’s hands still when they reach his hips, and he pulls Peter back, flush
against him, gasping when Peter’s ass makes contact with his clothed hard-on.
“Ohh my God,” Harry pants. “Peter, Pete, I can’t believe this is happening,
fuck.”
Peter flinches when the other boy’s wet mouth attaches to the back of his neck,
teething at him lightly, as Harry’s fingertips dig into the meat of his hips
much more roughly.
“Fuck, Peter. I’m so hard.”
His hips thrust against Peter’s ass, desperately, and Harry practically
whimpers into his hair, wrapping his arms around Peter’s waist in a tight hug
while he ruts against him. “Feels so good, holy shit, Pete. I wanna fuck you so
bad.”
Peter expects it to happen then. He expects Harry to slide into him without
further delay, completely giving in to his urges, but he doesn’t. He mouths at
his neck and back, gropes at him roughly with his hands, and continues
thrusting against his ass, but that’s all, almost as if he can’t stop.
“Get this off,” Harry growls into his ear, clawing at the strap around his
thigh. Peter flinches when Harry’s nails scrape against his oversensitive skin.
“I want it off.”
He tries to answer him, but the gag is sitting uncomfortably on his tongue, and
all that comes out is a pitiful, pained whine. Harry growls again, hastily
pulling at the clip behind Peter’s head keeping the ball in his mouth. It takes
him a moment to get it undone, and once it is, Harry flings it away, across the
room, with a vengeance.
“Harry,” Peter sobs.
“Mine,” replies Harry. He digs his nails in deeper to Peter’s soft skin. “Mine,
you’re mine. My omega.” He bites Peter’s shoulder, not quite hard enough to
break the skin, shoving his hips faster into Peter’s backside.
When his teeth catch on the thick strap over his back, Peter gasps, his eyes
shooting open. Harry’s teeth scrape against his skin as he tries to tear the
leather in half, trying to pull it off with his mouth, while his hands do the
same to the ones on Peter’s thighs.
Flinching from the pain, Peter momentarily looks up, gaze lifting to the window
across from them, sees Dr. Killebrew and Mr. Osborn standing there, watching.
Killebrew looks unaffected, merely surveying them with a clinical eye, but
Harry’s dad locks eyes with Peter and lets a cold, malicious smirk spread
across his face. Harry seems to have noticed them, too, because he snarls into
Peter’s hair, tightening his hold, repeating the mantra of, “My omega, mine,
mine,” over and over again.
Peter doesn’t look away, not even when Harry begins to push inside of him,
unable to give Mr. Osborn that small satisfaction, to admit defeat. It’s a
petty victory, but he keeps his head up all the same, purely out of spite.

===============================================================================

Consciousness comes and goes. Peter doesn’t bother trying to keep track of how
many times Harry fucks him. It’s not like the information could help him,
anyway. At some point, Mr. Osborn leaves, though every time Peter looks up, Dr.
Killebrew is still there, watching. Harry’s movements have slowed, have become
tired and fatigued, with no more strength behind them.
Peter prays that means it’s almost over. Harry can’t even speak anymore; his
breath comes out in quiet, ragged pants, collapsed on top of Peter for the last
several hours. It didn’t take him long, after they first started, to grow
frustrated with the position Killebrew tied Peter up in, and he haphazardly
unfastened the harness from the metal bar above, freeing Peter so he could pin
him down on the cot. Peter didn’t fight the submissive position, grateful to
give his aching muscles a break from being forced upright.
Harry comes again, whining, tears dripping down between Peter’s shoulder
blades. He has more stamina than Tony did—doesn’t need to wait as long to get
hard again—but it finally seems as though he’s completely exhausted himself. He
sags on top of Peter, body going limp, his breaths slowing until they’re almost
inaudible.
Peter almost lets himself succumb to unconsciousness again, too, when he’s
startled awake by the lock on the door clicking. He can’t lift his head to see
who enters when the door opens, but several sets of footsteps come in, and the
next thing he knows, Harry is being lifted from his back.
“Take him to the infirmary,” says Killebrew from somewhere behind him. “Have
Dr. Connor look him over.”
The men give an affirmative, and the sound of rustling fills the room before
they’re walking out again, the door shutting behind them.
Peter hears Killebrew approach, and sure enough, a hand rests on the back of
the harness above his spine and pulls him up, despite his pained groan of
protest.
“Let’s clean you up,” the doctor says, forcing Peter to sit, albeit shakily.
It’s hard enough to lift his head, never mind speak, but Peter tries, anyway.
“Thought you weren’t supposed to talk to me.”
The doctor scoffs. “Norman isn’t going to be able to break your spirit with
this farce. Harry will break long before you do, that much is obvious. In the
meantime, I’ll be the one cleaning up after you, making sure you don’t waste
away, and if I have to play along with this absurd charade, I won’t do it
silently like some expatriated housekeeper.”
If he had more energy, Peter might be able to find some amusement in just how
jaded the doctor is about this whole affair, but for the moment, he’s too
exhausted to really care at all. So he keeps his mouth shut as Killebrew wipes
him down, washing his skin, turning him over and laying him on his side so he
doesn’t wobble off the table in his fatigued state.
When that’s finished, he’s given a cool glass of water, which he gulps down
gratefully. The doctor gives him a moment of reprieve to lie there, aching and
exhausted, before he’s being pulled up to his knees again and re-strapped into
the leather monstrosity.
“He’s just gonna take me down again,” Peter slurs, head lolling from side to
side.
Killebrew’s moustache sags as he frowns. “Yes, well. Unfortunately for both of
us, Norman is the boss, and he wants you on full display.”
It’s that comment that makes Peter realize—the window in front of him just
leads into the hallway. Anyone could walk down it and look in, see Peter strung
up like this, legs spread and arms restrained above him, a hungry alpha taking
him from behind. He shivers, head bowing in humiliation. How many people had
already seen him like this?
The doctor finishes securing him, stepping back to admire his handiwork, when
all of a sudden, a loud, piercing, shrieking alarm blares, ripping through the
quiet of the facility like a gunshot.
Peter and Killebrew both startle, eyes going wide, and then the man is pulling
out his cellphone and frantically typing something into it. “What’s happening?”
he hollers, holding the phone to his ear, forehead beginning to sweat.
Peter strains to hear what is being said on the other end of the phone, but
it’s difficult with the repetitive screeching of the alarm above them. He
distinctly hears the words floor and intruder, Killebrew’s eyes bulging wider.
He turns and lunges for the desk behind him, hastily unlocking a sliding drawer
and retrieving a slender, silver handgun from it. Then he turns, spares Peter a
final glance, hesitates for only a moment, and then bolts from the room.
Peter can hear him speaking with the security guards outside, voice panicked
and shuddering, but not loud enough for him to make sense of what’s being said.
The conversation is derailed suddenly when one of the guards shouts something
that sounds like, “Freeze!”
Peter tries to hear what happens next, but the alarm is too loud, the walls too
thick. There are sounds of struggle, of gunfire, of screaming, and then
Killebrew is in front of the window in the hallway, walking backward, hands up
defensively. He stumbles, legs visibly quaking, and catches himself on the
panel beneath the window, filling Peter’s room with a high, sharp click, the
speakers allowing sound through.
“Emrys!” comes a joyful, singsong voice. “I have been looking everywhere for
you!”
“S-Stay back,” Killebrew demands, lifting the gun in his hands. “Stay back, you
madman, or I’ll shoot!”
“Ouch,” says the stranger, stepping into view. He’s wearing a full-body black
and red suit, similar to Peter’s own in some ways, but he’s covered in blood,
has guns and other weapons strapped to his utility belt and thigh holsters.
He’s holding two katanas, one in each hand, which are absolutely dripping with
blood. “Not even a ‘hello’? Don’t you recognize me, Doc? No? Wow. I can’t
believe you don’t know who I am. After all we’ve been through.”
“I know who you are,” spits Killebrew, viciously. “You’re the one who murdered
Ajax and burned down his workshop, not to mention my friends William McTavish
and Ian Crass. I know exactly who you are, Deadpool.”
Peter blinks. Something about that name sounds familiar, but he can’t remember
what.
“Ah, yes, I did indeed kill Francis and your little Breakfast Club of evil
doctors,” the man says, gesturing animatedly as he talks. “I thought about just
leaving it at Francis, you know. After all, I had a bigger grudge against him
besides what he did to my face.”
The man points one of his katanas at the doctor, the eyes of his mask
narrowing, somehow.
“But you, my finely-moustached friend, you’re the reason Francis did what he
did in the first place. Weapon X never would have succeeded without you. And,
as I’m told, Francis reported to you directly.”
Killebrew shivers, hands tightening on the grip of his gun. Deadpool takes a
slow, menacing step forward, his voice dropping to a deep, threatening
register. “And now I see you’ve switched over to torturing and raping little
kids. What a résumé you’re building, Doctor. And yes, the diacritics are
necessary, damn it. I’m Canadian.”
Peter and Killebrew share the same confused, bewildered look, before Deadpool
continues talking.
“Anyhoo!” he singsongs, twirling his blades. “This has been a gas, but I’m
afraid playtime is over now, Monopoly Man. Time to die.”
The gun fires loudly and in quick succession, Killebrew letting out a hoarse,
startled cry as he unloads the clip into Deadpool’s chest. The man stumbles
backward from the force, groaning as the bullets rip through him, before he
straightens, cracks his neck, and surges forward, impaling both of his swords
through the doctor’s chest, skewering him like a fried dumpling.
“No!” Peter shouts, watching as Killebrew sputters and dies, blood seeping from
his mouth as his eyes roll back. Deadpool pulls his swords out when the other
man’s body goes limp, dropping him unceremoniously on the floor, before he
turns to the window, seemingly noticing Peter for the first time.
He somehow manages to look shocked through his mask as he glances Peter over, a
long, confused, “Uhhh,” sound leaving his lips. The two stare at each other,
neither one sure what to say, before Deadpool lifts one of his hands, still
holding a blood-soaked katana, and waves it at him in greeting. “Hello!”
Peter stares, shocked, aching, and exhausted, before he forces himself to snap
out of it and says, as strongly as he can, “Help me. Please, please help me.”
The man gives him another once-over, then sheathes his swords on his back.
“Shit,” he says, glancing at the contents of the room, but especially at the
harness holding Peter up. “Jesus, kid, you’re an omega, aren’t you?”
Peter nods, desperately. “Please untie me. Please, you’ve gotta help me.”
Deadpool rubs at the back of his neck, sheepishly. “Well, see, small problem
there, kiddo,” he gestures down at himself, toward his crotch. “I’m an alpha.
So. Really shouldn’t come in there.”
Before Peter can reply, more shouts ring out from down the hall, grabbing
Deadpool’s attention. “Hold that thought,” the man says, pulling out his guns
and dashing out of sight, filling the hallway with bright flashes, gunfire, and
agonized screams.
He comes back a moment later, even bloodier, re-holstering his guns as he steps
into view. “Okay, sorry about that. Where were we? Oh yeah. You’re clearly in
heat, so I can’t come in there without cementing my place in the seventh circle
of Hell. And while I might not exactly be a saint, I definitely have more
morals than these pissbags. So, uhh…”
Peter can’t help it. Tears well up in his eyes, threatening to spill, his head
lowering when he loses the strength to hold it up any longer. “Please,” he says
again, softer. “Please help me. Get me out of here, I’ll die if I have to stay
here. I can’t.I’m begging you.”
His shoulders tremble as he tries desperately to hold in his sobs, every inch
of his body aching. Deadpool is quiet for a moment, then sighs, muttering a
quiet, colorful curse under his breath, which sounds suspiciously like French.
“Okay, kid, well,” Peter looks up, sees the man staring dejectedly at the
floor, hands on his hips. “This won’t be a perfect solution—in fact, it’s going
to totally, utterly suck ass, but—there is a way for me to get you out of here
without going all Catholic Priest on you. But it’s going to suck. I really
can’t stress that enough.”
“I don’t care,” Peter says, voice breaking. “Please, I’ll do anything. Just get
me out of here.”
Deadpool scoffs. “Slow your roll. It’s not going to suck for you.” He
unsheathes his katanas, takes a deep breath, and turns his back to Peter. “All
right, well. Here goes. Shield your eyes, pipsqueak. This ain’t gonna be
pretty.”
Eyebrows raised, Peter frowns, confused, a sense of complete disbelief washing
over him when he hears a loud, distinct zzzip pass through the speakers.
Wait a second, he thinks, panicking. No, no way, he’s not actually going to—?!
That thought is cut off as Deadpool scissors his katanas in one fluid, swift
motion, a gut-wrenching, ear-piecing scream leaving his lips as he cuts off his
own—
Peter’s gonna be sick.
This guy is fucking insane.
Deadpool collapses against the window, panting, groaning in agony and misery as
he finds his balance. “Yep, I was right,” he whimpers. “That sucked more ass
than a Fine Arts major who’s short on rent. Fucking Christ.”
Stunned, Peter just continues staring, mouth agape and eyes wide. He can’t
believe this… this stranger would actually—would do that to himself, just so he
wouldn’t—
He can’t even comprehend what he just saw. His mind goes blank, completely
short-circuiting.
Deadpool takes another heavy breath, then stands up straight, zips up his fly,
and turns around. The front of his pants are completely drenched in blood.
Between that and the gun wounds, he should be dead, from blood loss, if nothing
else. Either that, or he’s about to keel over. There’s no way anyone could
survive being that low on blood.
“You’ll die,” Peter says, numbly, as Deadpool pushes the door open. The eyes of
his mask widen as he takes in the scent, and he ambles over, a little shakily,
coming up to lean against the cot.
“Don’t worry about me, baby boy,” he says, patting Peter’s cheek, gently.
“Let’s get you down from there, hm?”
Peter can only nod, dazed but hopeful, as the man carefully undoes the straps
holding him up and the cuffs tying his ankles to the cot. Peter falls forward,
boneless and weak, and the man catches him, cradling the base of his skull and
his lower back. Peter shivers at the touch, but he can’t move. He can’t walk.
He’ll have to let the man carry him.
“Lean back,” the man says, gently. “Let me take this awful thing off of you.”
“S’locked,” Peter slurs, his body going numb as the blood can finally flow
through his aching muscles again. Deadpool hums, then slips two of his fingers
beneath the hard plastic circling Peter’s hips.
“Well, luckily for you,” he says cheekily, “I’m really strong,” and then cracks
the material like a potato chip, severing the device’s hold on Peter’s lower
body. Deadpool gingerly pulls the offending contraption away, dismissively
tossing it to the side, before grabbing Peter’s discarded hospital gown from
the adjacent table and helping the boy into it.
“So, fair warning,” says Deadpool, entirely too casual, “I’m probably going to
be way more cuddly and physically affectionate than either of us is comfortable
with, so, y’know, I’m pre-emptively apologizing for that. I’ll do my best but,
holy shit, baby boy, you smell really good.”
Deadpool turns his back to Peter and pulls him up by his arms, wrapping Peter’s
arms around his neck and his legs around Deadpool’s waist in a piggyback. “I
shouldn’t get too randy with my twig and berries lying out there in the
hallway, but I still kind of want to lick you all over like a motherly cat, so.
Just be prepared for that, I guess.”
They start heading down the hallway, toward the elevator, when Deadpool
suddenly turns and pushes through another door instead, leading to a stairwell.
He starts heading up, not down, when Peter suddenly calls out, “Wait!”
“What?” Deadpool says, abruptly stopping. “What’s the matter?”
“We have to—we have to get Clara. And the others.”
“The other omegas?” the man clarifies, continuing their ascent. “Have no fear,
they were the first ones evacuated.”
“But Clara’s different,” Peter insists, his arms tightening. “What if they left
her? We have to check.”
“Listen, kid,” says Deadpool, stopping again. “I can’t carry any more children.
At least, not if we wanna get out of here alive. I need my hands free to shoot
the probably dozens of law enforcement officers who are undoubtedly on their
way to murder us at this very moment. So, unless you have a wagon hidden
somewhere underneath that little dress, there is literally no point in going
back for her.”
Peter swallows. His arms tighten further around the man’s neck, taking in a
big, deep breath. “If she’s there…” he starts, steeling his voice as best he
can. “If she’s there, take her instead. You can leave me behind.”
Deadpool looks over his shoulder at him, the wide eyes of his mask narrowing.
“What happened to, ‘I’ll die if I have to stay here’?”
He lets his resolve show plainly on his face. “I’d rather that, if it means
Clara can get out of here.”
“Kid…”
“Please.”
Deadpool sighs, turning back around. “Okay,” he relents. “We’ll go look.”
Peter smiles, lets his head fall forward onto the man’s shoulder. “Thank you,”
he whispers.

===============================================================================

Peter’s heart sinks when they reach The Quiet Room and both of the cells are
empty. He might escape this Hell, but Clara still hasn’t. He clenches his jaw
and swears, as soon as his strength has returned, that he’ll find her. He will
save her.
Hang on, Clara, he begs her, despondently. I’ll come back for you.
“Okay, detour over,” Deadpool chirps, swiveling on his heel. “Can we please go
now?”
Peter nods, letting the exhaustion overwhelm him, slumping fully against
Deadpool’s back. “Uh huh.”
The man is silent, pushing through another set of doors to head back toward the
stairs. “Hang in there, kiddo. We’ll be out in a jiffy.”
He doesn’t say anything in reply, allowing his eyes to begin to close, when the
door to the stairwell ahead of them suddenly bursts open, a panting and
frazzled Dr. Connor freezing at the sight of them.
“Peter,” she gasps, breathless, her eyes narrowing at Deadpool. “Put him down
this instant.”
“Uhh,” Deadpool says, looking the woman over. “No.”
Dr. Connor’s eyes narrow into an indignant glare. “He is property of this
facility. You are kidnap—”
Deadpool barks out a loud, slightly-fake sounding laugh. “Uh, lady, that’s
hardly the worst thing I’ve done since I got here. Take your scary librarian-
looking ass down those stairs and out of my way, and maybe I won’t shoot you in
the face.”
Her eyes study Deadpool’s face, before landing on Peter, her gaze softening,
just a hint. “Peter,” she says. “You can’t leave, you’re in heat. You’ll be
attacked the moment you step foot out of this building. Come with me. I’ll take
you somewhere safe.”
“Nowhere is safe with you,” Peter says, voice weak and tired. “Nowhere is safe
for any omega, as long as you betas control everything.”
A hurt look crosses over Dr. Connor’s face, her usually stoic expression
cracking at the edges. Her eyes brim with guilt. It’s the most human Peter has
ever seen her.
“You’re right,” she says after a long moment, shoulders drooping. “You’re
right, Peter. We do control everything. And it’s you omegas who suffer the most
because of it. I’m sorry.”
Her expression shifts, hardening a little, a spark of determination lighting in
her eyes. “Even so, you won’t survive out there without us. You need our help.
My help.”
“No,” Peter breathes, eyes widening as realization sets in. “No, not yours. Dr.
Killebrew’s. The mating drug…”
Dr. Connor mimics his expression, blinking, understanding exactly what it is
he’s asking for.
“His lab,” Peter says, insistently. “It must be in his lab.”
He can see the hesitation in her body, the way she shifts from foot to foot,
her gaze lowering. She doesn’t say anything, so Peter says, as steadily as he
can, “Dr. Connor. Let me take it. Please. You owe me that much.”
She looks up at him again, meets his gaze. Another long minute goes by before
she relents, exhaling nervously. “Okay,” she says, voice wavering. “Okay.
You’re right, Peter.”
She turns around, toward the stairs. “Follow me.”
Deadpool starts walking after her, but he pulls his gun from its holster and
points it at her head. “Don’t try anything funny,” he says. “I literally will
blow your brains out if you fuck us over.”
“I won’t,” Dr. Connor says, and the tremor of fear in her voice makes Peter
believe her.
She leads them back down (to Deadpool’s misery), to a floor of different labs
and offices, stopping at the biggest and most extensive-looking one. On the
counter by the wall, she spots a bag that Peter recognizes—the same one
Killebrew packed earlier, full of the concoctions he’d been working on, in the
room Peter was brought to.
Dr. Connor rifles through it, pulling out a case with several small vials
filled with amber liquid, then hurriedly packs it away again. “That’s the
bonding application,” she says, turning to Killebrew’s desk and ransacking his
built-in filing cabinet. She pulls out a thick notebook, flips through it, nods
once, and turns around to the shelf behind her, snatching a large, liquid-
filled plastic bag that looks like an IV drip, bringing both it and the
notebook over to Killebrew’s bag.
“This is the suppressant that makes alphas invulnerable to an omega in heat,”
she says, stuffing the heavy bag in next to the other case. “It’s taken
intravenously, biweekly. One bag won’t last you long.” She lifts up the
notebook in her other hand, showing it to them, before depositing that in the
bag, as well. “These are Dr. Killebrew’s notes on how to make it. It should be
simple enough for any decent pharmacist to duplicate.”
She zips up the bag, hefting its heavy weight into her slender arms, before
handing it over to Deadpool.
Deadpool stares down at the bag, oddly silent, before a loud, angry “FUCK!”
comes tumbling out of his mouth, startling the doctor and Peter both. “Alpha
suppressants?” Deadpool rages, voice shrill and disbelieving. “Are you fucking
kidding me?!”
Peter winces, sympathetically. He didn’t even get the chance to mention the
suppressants earlier, before Deadpool took… drastic measures.
Suddenly, there are voices in the hallway, beyond the door. Dr. Connor pales,
shoving the bag into Deadpool’s arms and heading for the emergency exit. “You
need to go,” she says frantically. “Now.”
“Ugh,” Deadpool groans, following her lead, the bag in one hand and his gun in
the other. “Fucking finally. We can, right, kid? No more stops? We can get out
of here?”
Peter nods, eagerly, tightening his arms around the man’s neck. “Yeah,” he
says, smiling for the first time in—he doesn’t even remember how long. “Let’s
get out of here.”
Chapter End Notes
     And the race is won. I apologize for being so mean to Deadpool. Just
     because he can grow body parts back doesn't mean I have the right to
     lob them off.
     Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this installment, and I apologize for
     the long wait. I've never—ever—written a chapter this long before, so
     I hope my exhaustion didn't come through too strongly in my writing.
     Real quick, I'd like to plug my tumblr where I post my fic updates,
     and my other WIP_fic, which is a stucky ca:cw fix-it in which Bucky
     meets and adopts everyone's favorite tiny superhero and they have
     many a fluffy shenanigan. It's superfamily galore.
     Speaking of superfamily, where does this fic go from here, you ask? I
     hope you will stick around to find out. Thank you so much for reading
     along this far, and for all the wonderful comments, kudos, bookmarks,
     and tumblr messages. I love you guys! <3
***** Wade *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Faintly, Peter hears the stampede of armed men all around them, the stomping
and shouting echoing in the halls, but it slowly fades the further up they go,
until Deadpool is bursting through a heavy a door and they’re stepping out onto
the roof.
He looks up through bleary eyes and is surprised to see a small two-seater
plane, stealthy and black, parked innocuously on the building’s rooftop.
He’s even more surprised by the Stark Industries logo painted on the side.
“Did Tony send you?” he asks, though it comes out as a tired whisper.
Deadpool pauses as the overhanging door to the plane lifts open. “Tony who?
Goldwyn? Curtis? Curran? Hale?”
“Stark,” Peter says. “This is his plane.”
“Oh, in that case, no. I’m just borrowing it.”
“You’re friends?” Peter asks, one eyebrow raised.
“Best friends,” the man says, maneuvering Peter off his back, setting him down
beside the plane and leaning him against it. “Although, I’ve never actually met
him, but apparently he’s got a good sense of humor, so he’d love me. Or he’d
want to shoot me with his—whatever they’re called, laser-beams. Or maybe both.
Either way, I’m sure we’d end up sharing a fifth of mid-range scotch before the
evening ended.”
There’s a couple of things Peter wants to say in response to that, mainly: “If
you’ve never met him, how did you get his plane?” and “They’re called repulsor
rays,” and “If he shot you with one, you’d be dead,” which leads to, “How are
you still alive?”
He doesn’t get the chance to ask any of that, because Deadpool finishes
chucking his belongings—weapons, mostly, and the bag Dr. Connor gave them—into
the plane, and then looms over him and says, “Now uhh, at the risk of making
both of us extremely uncomfortable, I have an odd request.”
He points to the cockpit of the plane with his thumb, his voice taking on a
slightly apologetic tone. “If I try and fly this thing with you sitting next to
me, smelling like that, we’re going to crash before we even make it off this
roof, because omegas in heat do not mix well with cramped, closed-in, highly-
pressurized compartments. So,”
He holds out his arms like he’s asking for a hug, suddenly sounding much more
comical, though Peter’s pretty sure he can hear a note of discomfort in the
masked man’s voice, as if he’s joking to try and hide just how distressed he
actually feels.
“I’m gonna need you to sit in Daddy’s lap.”
Peter balks, his eyes widening in shock. The idea is—mortifying, but that’s not
the worst part.
“Uhm,” he says, face darkening to a deep red that matches Deadpool’s suit. “I…
I, uh… that’s really not a good idea.”
“Best one we got,” Deadpool says. “The only chance we have of keeping my head
straight is if you are directly in front of me.”
“But, I—I’m—I’ll—I’ll ruin your suit,” Peter confesses, lowering his humiliated
gaze, feeling his whole face burn from the heat of his blush.
“Uh, do you see all the bloody bullet holes covering this thing? I look like a
gigantic bleeding Swiss cheese, kid. The suit’s due for a wash, trust me.”
Resisting the urge to groan in frustration, Peter bites the bullet and says,
“I’m—lubricating.”
“Oh,” Deadpool says, then after a moment, follows with a louder, clearer, “Oh.
Oh! Pfft. That’s quite literally the least of our worries. I mean, you do hear
that alarm blaring, right? This rooftop is going to be swarming with armed
security guards in, like… thirty seconds. Getting a lapful of soggy omega is
really not going to ruin my day.”
“But—”
“Tell you what,” Deadpool gestures to the cockpit with one hand while looping
the other around Peter’s shoulders. “We’ll wrap you up in the nice fuzzy
blanket in the emergency kit to cut down on the, err, leakage. That make you
feel better?”
Peter doesn’t get the chance to respond before a thundering bang sounds from
the other side of the door, followed by shouts, and then more metallic clashes
echoing from beyond it. Deadpool immediately springs to action, scooping Peter
up with one arm and climbing into the pilot’s seat.
“Sorry kid, time’s up!” he shouts over the whirring of the plane’s engine
powering to life, as he initiates take-off with his free hand, the other still
holding Peter to his chest. “You’ll just have to bear with it! If it makes you
feel any better, holy son-of-a-virgin-bitch, you smell fucking incredible!”
Peter watches as the roof’s door bursts open, a team of gun-drawn alphas
charging through, just as the plane’s hatch finishes closing and Deadpool
launches them into the air. The guards raise their guns, but the plane shoots
away from the building, high up into the air, until all Peter can see is a
thick, dark forest, stretching out into the horizon in every direction, until
the clouds swallow everything up.
“Where are we?” he asks, sagging into Deadpool’s lap despite himself, the
exhaustion catching up with him once again when the realization sets in.
I’m free.
“The ass-end of Maine,” says Deadpool, adjusting Peter in his lap so he can
rest his chin on top of the boy’s head, his hand splayed tensely against his
abdomen. “Practically Canada. And not the good half of Canada. You know those
rumors about Canadians being super nice and friendly and polite? Those
stereotypes specifically refer to the western half. The east side is nothing
but a bunch of elitist montrealy snobs.”
Peter blinks, wanting to curl up for comfort, but not wanting to move around
and be any more—distracting—than he already is. “Isn’t Montreal just a city?”
“Not to Montrealians,” Deadpool huffs. “To them it’s a state of mind. Montreal
is like the Philadelphia of Canada.”
“Oh.”
In spite of everything, all the trauma, and the fear, and however long it’s
been—weeks? Months? He doesn’t know—of being locked up, experimented on,
assaulted—Peter finds himself smiling again, wide and honest-to-God, until his
lips burn from the stretch, too long without it, it’s unfamiliar now.
Though his mouth hurts from the unusual position, he keeps smiling—that is,
until Deadpool asks, “So, where am I taking you?”
The relief of being freed dissipates in front of him like smoke. Peter tenses,
curling up before he can think to stop himself, though he freezes when Deadpool
inhales sharply and tightens his arm around Peter’s waist.
“Fuck,” Deadpool hisses.
“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, pressing his face against Deadpool’s shoulder, almost
burying it in his neck. He curls up tighter, sideways in the man’s lap, letting
Deadpool drape his arm around Peter’s rigid, trembling body.
He wishes he had that blanket.
“Kid,” Deadpool says, his voice deeper, more baritone. “If you don’t have
anywhere to go, you need to tell me, because if that’s the case, we are going
to run out of time before something awful happens real fast.”
Peter frowns, his eyebrows drawing together confusedly. “What do you mean?”
“I regenerate,” the man says with a dramatic wave of his hand. “Surprise! I
grow things back. Like body parts, for instance. Including certain very
inconvenient and crime-committing body parts? The only reason we’re in the air
right now is because I’m physically incapable of going all ‘Jared from Subway’
on you. But that isn’t going to be the case forever, so again, if you’ve got
nowhere else to go, I need to know right now. Please.”
Peter hesitates, not knowing what to say. He knows, technically, he does have
somewhere to go. He could go back to the compound, to Tony, to the Avengers,
but what then? After however many days—weeks—he’s spent imprisoned in that
facility, can he really stand to be locked up again, even if it’s with his
team? And besides, what would this man think if Peter asked to be dropped off
at the Avenger’s Compound?
And then there’s May. He could go home to her. He wants to, didn’t want
anything while locked up in that facility as badly as he wanted to see May
again, but…
She had given him away.
Peter fists his hand in the material of Deadpool’s suit and tries not to cry.
May had given him away. Would she accept him now, if he tried to go back to
her? Or would she just call Tony again, anyway?
The thought—the fear—of being taken again, of being willingly handed over like
an object, and imprisoned in the compound or another facility or anywhere else
makes Peter grit his teeth defensively, in fear and anger in equal measure.
“I…” he starts, hating the shakiness of his voice. “It’s… complicated.”
“Okay, Avril,” Deadpool says, reaching over and fiddling with the coordinates
on the plane’s dashboard. “Safe house it is. Why don’t you get some obviously-
much-needed shut-eye until we get there? It’ll be a few hours.”
Peter wants to protest, but he can feel his body ease at the suggestion, as if
just now realizing how tense and exhausted he really is.
As his eyelids start to feel heavy, Peter relaxes completely against Deadpool’s
chest, starting to drift away as he quietly asks, “Where are we going?”
The last thing he remembers before falling asleep is Deadpool saying, “The city
that never sleeps.”

===============================================================================

The smell of old linen, the feeling of scratchy blankets pressed against his
cheek, and an arm circled around his waist, pulling him flush against another
body behind him are the first things Peter becomes aware of before he even
opens his eyes.
The room is dark, illuminated only by a dim, single-bulb lamp beside the bed.
Peter glances around, as much as he can without turning over, and takes in the
mess—the piled-up belongings, threadbare furniture, the strewn-about clothes
that cover every single surface, including the bed they’re lying on.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Deadpool greets jovially, though his voice is deeper
than Peter remembers it being. “Or whatever. Technically it’s ten at night, but
that’s no way to wake somebody up.”
A wave of dizziness rushes through Peter, and he collapses more heavily against
the pillow, stifling a whimper. The symptoms of his heat seem clearer now, more
aggressive, no longer dulled and hampered by the overwhelming exhaustion that’d
been plaguing him earlier.
“Easy,” says Deadpool, somewhat gently, as he cuddles in closer behind him.
“And, uh, sorry for the compromising position. For what it’s worth, I haven’t
just been lying here spooning you for the last six hours. Only the last, like…
two. Girl Guide’s honor. Or whatever you call them here in the Land of the
Free. Girl Scouts.”
“Where are we?” Peter murmurs, feeling the fever spike throughout his body, and
the humiliating, disgusting feeling of wetness pooled underneath his lower
half.
“Safe house,” Deadpool chirps, somewhat proud. “Though, technically, this is
just my old apartment, since I moved back in with my girlfriend. Mostly just
use it for work now. Base of operations, so to speak.”
“We’re—” Peter gasps, shuddering as pain and pleasure swirl together and spread
through him. “We’re—we’re in New York?”
“You betcha. About four blocks from LaGuardia. So if you feel tremors shaking
the bed, don’t look at me funny, ‘cause it’s probably just an airplane taking
off.”
Groaning, Peter sags into the mattress and Deadpool’s chest, resisting the
temptation to fall back asleep. It’s not like he has the energy for anything
else.
“At the risk of sounding like a broken record, can I just say again that you
smell really good? I can’t remember the last time this place didn’t reek like a
boy’s locker room.”
“Still does,” Peter mumbles.
Deadpool laughs, loud and kind of hyperbolic. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’ve
been banned from most of the laundromats in the neighborhood. They are so
uptight. Accidentally wash one of your socks with a foot still inside it one
time, and suddenly everyone’s up in arms.”
In spite of himself, Peter breathes out a little laugh that turns into a full-
on giggle at the mental image of the man accidentally throwing his own body
parts in a washing machine in a public laundromat.
“So, uh,” says Deadpool, pausing to clear his throat. “What’s your backstory?”
Confused, Peter furrows his eyebrows together, frowning. “My what?”
“You know,” he replies, gesturing emphatically with the hand that isn’t wrapped
around Peter’s waist. “Your origin. Your dark and tragic past. Or whatever. The
events that led you to that facility and being rescued by moi. I’m just kind of
assuming they didn’t grow you in their evil laboratory like some kind of
fuckable cruelty-free meat.”
Peter doesn’t know whether to blush or balk at that last comment, but the urge
to do either is swallowed up by the insurmountable request to tell Deadpool
everything. His “backstory” seems larger than life to him; longer and more
eventful than the mere fifteen years he’s been alive on Earth, like he’s
somehow lived multiple lifetimes all parallel to each other, and is carrying
the weight of each one of them within his tired, aching body.
“I don’t know where to start,” he says.
“Take your time,” Deadpool offers, gently, before immediately returning to his
usual tone of voice. “We pretty much have until my dangly parts finish growing
back before we’re in trouble, and considering my stones are more like aquarium
gravel at the moment, I think we’re in the clear for a while longer yet.”
Peter sighs and closes his eyes, letting another wave of dizziness pass over
him. Then he draws a deep breath to calm his nerves, opens his eyes, and begins
to speak.
Surprisingly, Deadpool is a much better listener than Peter thought he’d be.
For almost the entire duration of Peter talking, the man stays silent,
attentive, occasionally giving a nod against Peter’s back or tightening his
arms around him to show he’s still listening, and for that, Peter is grateful.
Through the whole thing, Deadpool only interrupts him three times. The first is
at the very beginning, when Peter mentions that being mated off is something
he’d tried to prepare himself for, since, after all, he’ll be turning sixteen
soon, which prompts Deadpool to blurt out, in an uncomfortable, terrified tone,
“Oh, God, you’re fifteen?”
“Uhm,” Peter says, taken aback by the interruption. “Yeah?”
Deadpool groans, unwrapping one of his arms to palm himself in the face. “Okay,
kid, look, what I said earlier about—about you being ‘fuckable,’ I didn’t—I
wasn’t, y’know—fuck. That was supposed to be a dumb joke about you being more,
uh, easily banged than if you’d just been some slab of artificially-created
hamburger, although who knows what vegans are doing to their meat-substitutes
when nobody’s looking—not the point, point is, I wasn’t making a move. I’m not
into kids.”
“Uh, it’s—” Peter stammers, overwhelmed. “It’s fine, really, I—I could tell you
were joking.”
There’s more ranting after that, which only ends when Peter explicitly
reassures Deadpool that he believes him, before he can continue talking,
retelling the story, until he reaches the part where May willingly handed him
over to Tony Stark. The second interruption comes when Deadpool asks, “So how
come you didn’t ask me to drop you off at your aunt’s?”
Peter goes very still, his jaw tightening at the thought of admitting out loud
exactly why he won’t—can’t—go home, not to May, not after that. “What then?” he
whispers, hands clenching into fists. “This would all just happen again.”
Deadpool is actually silent for a moment, then says, as if it’s the simplest
thing in the world, “But you want to see her.”
“She gave me away!” Peter goes to push himself up, but the fatigue of being in
heat for so long keeps him down, makes him collapse back against the mattress.
He grits his teeth, letting himself feel angry, letting the hurt and betrayal
boil within him instead of solidifying into despair. “She knew I wanted to stay
with her, that I didn’t want to go, and she gave me away anyway!”
“And I’m not saying that that wasn’t a shitty fucking thing to do,” Deadpool
says as he reaches out, gently coaxing Peter back into a more comfortable
position, pulling him back into his arms and then easing the tension out of his
body with a steady, firm massage near the base of his neck—not enough to gentle
him, as Killebrew and Harry had, but enough to relax him.
“And clearly, it caused a whole shitstorm of issues for you and hurt you a lot.
There’s no way around that, kid. She fucked up pretty spectacularly. But she’s
still your family, and think about it, if she went through all that shit for
three years just to keep you safe, she obviously loves you. You don’t have to
forgive her, but it sounds like to me like she was just trying to do right by
you.”
“What if…” he starts, then stops, feeling tears begin to well up in his eyes.
“What if she… just… didn’t want me anymore?”
He waits, not sure if he’s expecting an answer or not, but Deadpool says
nothing, and the moment stretches on until Peter’s able to stifle his tears,
never actually letting them fall. When he feels that he’s able to speak again
calmly, Peter continues on, fighting the feverishness and dizziness and
uncomfortable sensations flooding his body as he does.
The third and final time Deadpool interrupts him comes when Peter is in the
midst of recounting what Killebrew’s experiments on him had been, and Mr.
Osborn’s gleeful and sadistic fascination with him. Halfway through mentioning
the men’s shared interest in his gender and mutation, Deadpool suddenly shoots
up on the bed, loudly exclaiming, “Holy fuck!” as he stares down at Peter
through the wide, white eyes of his mask.
“What?” Peter asks, alarmed, but Deadpool merely looms over him and examines
him up and down, as if searching for something. “What’s wrong?”
“How tall are you?”
Bewildered, Peter simply blinks, staring up at the mercenary uncomprehendingly.
“Uhm, 5’6.”
“Oh my God.”
“What? You—you’re freaking me out.”
Seemingly shocked, Deadpool whispers, in a disbelieving, awed tone, “You’re
Spider-Man.”
Reeling, Peter forces himself to sit up, to scurry backward on the bed
frantically. “What? No, no, I—”
“You’re Spider-Man!” Deadpool shouts, excitement dripping from his voice. A
loud, high-pitched, squeal-like noise leaves the man’s mouth as he shakes his
fists enthusiastically. “Oh my sweet Judeo-ChristianGod,I spooned with Spider-
Man! I’m getting that printed on a T-shirt.”
“H-How—how did you—”
“Same way I tracked Emrys’s wrinkled corpse all the way up Maine’s asshole in
the first place!” Deadpool says, laughing, before finally sitting back down on
the bed, deflating a bit, though he still seems to thrum with excitement. “I
mean, really, you’re close personal friends with Tony Stark, you’ve been
hanging out at the Avenger’s Compound—I can’t believe I almost bought that
intern shtick—you have a mutation, your bruises from that BDSM harness I freed
you from are already gone, so you also have a healing factor, and let’s not
forget, you were willing to be left behind in that literal hellhole to save
your cellmate, which goes way beyond being a Good Samaritan and is definitely
more ‘hero’ territory.”
Peter merely gapes, letting himself collapse against the headboard so he can
mirror Deadpool’s seated position, gazing at the man in stunned silence.
Then, after a moment, he regains himself and says, “None of that points towards
Spider-Ma—”
“Oh, really? Young, heroic teen with a mutation, who hangs out with the
Avenger’s—the team Spider-Man just joined—on weekends, who has been locked in
an omegan facility while Spider-Man has been MIA, and who just so happens to be
Spider-Man’s exact height?”
“How do you know my—his—Spider-Man’s height?”
Deadpool scoffs, crossing his arms, offended. “Like I don’t know what Spidey’s
height is.”
Peter feels himself becoming frustrated, and he curls in on himself,
unwittingly taking a more defensive position. He eyes Deadpool warily, then
nervously asks, “How do you—I mean—why? I don’t even know you.”
“Oh, uhh—hey, don’t look at me like that! Nothing freaky, swear on my testi—oh.
Right. Uh, look, I’m just a big fan. A really big fan. What do you kids call
them nowadays? ‘Stans’? I’m a stan for Spider-Man. SPIDER-STAN. Oh my God, I
love life. Now I need to make two T-shirts.”
“And you’ve been—” Peter pauses, still not really comprehending what he’s
hearing, “—what, following me? Did somebody hire you?”
“To what? Kill you? Jesus, Spidey! No! I just, y’know, heard about you, saw you
swinging through the jungle one night and thought you had a great—actually, no,
never mind, oh God. I keep forgetting you’re fifteen. Fuck.”
Peter frowns, not really sure where to start with that. They stay like that,
Peter trying to collect his thoughts, to make sense of everything through the
haze of his heat, while Deadpool begins rambling, geeking out, rapidly asking
Peter a thousand questions about Spider-Man’s abilities, and then never giving
him a chance to answer them.
Deadpool is somehow still talking a solid twenty minutes later; still ranting
on about his own origin story—about singlehandedly bringing down the Weapon X
program, hunting down Killebrew, and apparently fighting an extremely dangerous
cyborg named Cable.
“You know what we should do?” he says, the grin unmistakable behind his mask.
“What?” Peter frowns.
“We should find the other omega facilities and Attica that shit.”
Peter freezes, feeling his body go very still. He searches Deadpool’s face to
try and read his expression, but as dramatic as his mask is, it still doesn’t
give enough of his emotions away.
“You would do that?” Peter asks, his voice very small.
“Let’s see,” the man hums, thoughtfully, listing reasons while counting them
off with his fingers. “I get to kill shitty, abusive alphas, defy the
government, overthrow an organization that’s conducting inhuman experiments,
save a bunch of kids from a fate worse than death and work with Spider-Man?
Hell-fucking-yes I would.”
“You can’t kill anybody!” Peter objects, his voice pitching too high for his
liking. “Absolutely not! We’d never be able to change the system if we
slaughtered a bunch of government employees in the process!”
“Counterargument—slaughter enough of them, and the system will be forced to
change. New management and all that.”
“There are better ways,” Peter insists, peering into the eyes of Deadpool’s
mask determinedly. “If people knew—if the parents of the omegas knew they were
being lied to about their children—if enough people stood up and demanded
change…”
“Then what?” Deadpool replies, gesturing animatedly while he speaks, as he
often does, Peter is learning. “Angry parents riot in the streets, some social
media protests sweep the internet, hashtag-free-the-omegas trends, and the
government just apologizes and sends everybody home? Gives them a meager sum of
money attached to a note that says, ‘Sorry we were dicks,’ like it’s the
government of Canada apologizing to its First Nations citizens?”
Sighing, Peter slumps down, tired and defeated. “I don’t know,” he says. “Even
if we got people to believe us… it would take forever for things to change.
Those kids need help now.”
“And for the spectacularly dense population of America—hell, the whole world—to
believe us, we’ll need proof. So, idea numéro deux: we find the other omega
facilities, Attica that shit, and collect proof as we go. We can compile
evidence like we’re detectives building a case! It’ll be fun!”
“I like it,” Peter says, smiling. “But—what’ll we do with the kids after we
free them? If we take them back home to their parents, the government will know
exactly where to find them again.”
Deadpool’s voice is thick like honey and dripping with absolute glee. “Not if
they lose all their files.”
Quirking an eyebrow at him incredulously, Peter asks, “We’re going to steal
their files, too?”
“Nope,” says Deadpool. He grins so wide and prominently that it’s completely
visible beneath his mask, almost disturbingly clear.
“We’re going to burn them.”

===============================================================================

It takes most of the night, but eventually, Peter and Deadpool have a pretty
solid plan for Operation: Omegan Facilities Revenge Tour (name courtesy of the
masked mercenary himself).
They’re forced to stop their planning a few hours before sunrise, when Peter’s
heat knocks him unconscious again, nestled in Deadpool’s arms like he was all
night long, dizzily drifting in and out of wakefulness while they schemed and
strategized. Peter falls asleep with Deadpool nuzzling against his neck, the
masked curve of his mouth and jaw brushing against his enflamed, aching skin,
and wakes up the same way—on his side, Deadpool glued to him, trailing his
mask-covered lips up and down the sensitive column of Peter’s throat.
“Kid,” Deadpool says, hoarse and desperate once he realizes Peter’s awake.
“We’re running outta time. We gotta get you someplace safe, before I try and
breed you for real.”
Peter’s cheeks redden at his choice of words, but otherwise, he doesn’t react.
The force of his heat is completely overwhelming to him now; every small
movement causes his body to erupt in tremors from the exertion. He can feel one
of Deadpool’s hands fisted in the back of the sweatpants he lent him, in the
soaking wet fabric covering the backs of his thighs.
“The alpha suppressant,” he whispers, voice sleep-addled and weak from his
fever. “Where’s the bag? If you take the suppressant—”
“No good, Spidey,” Deadpool laments, sounding genuinely remorseful. “We don’t
have much, and with my awesome healing factor, I would probably need to take
all of it for it to work at all, and it wouldn’t last long enough to be of any
good. We gotta get it to a—a potions master, or something. Whatever they’re
called. Someone who can make more. We’ll need it.”
Whimpering, Peter turns his face into the thin, case-less pillow and lets it
soften his aching head. He knows Deadpool is right; for their plan to work,
they’ll need all the help they can get, and all the resources they took from
Killebrew’s facility. They can’t afford to waste any of it if they don’t
absolutely have to.
But that doesn’t leave them very many options.
As if sensing his thoughts, Deadpool says, in an almost-pleading tone, “You
should call your aunt.”
Peter wants to sound angry, but he knows his weakened voice merely sounds
beaten and broken. “I can’t.”
“The Avengers, then. I can drop you off with Iron Man’s shiny Stark Industries
plane and kill two birds with one stone, although I still say we should keep
it. It’s way faster than mine.”
“You can’t keep it,” Peter mumbles, as sternly as he can muster, in a tone that
he wishes said, we’ve been over this, but instead says, I’m only saying no
because I’m too stubborn to give in. “Doesn’t belong to you. It’s stealing.”
He expects Deadpool to sigh dramatically, to make some affectionate joke about
Peter being a goody-two-shoes, but he doesn’t. The man groans, not
exaggeratedly, but deep and agony-ridden, a pained sound that startles Peter
slightly. The man crushes him harder against his chest, holding him tighter,
pressing his face flat against the back of Peter’s head.
“I’m desperate, kid,” he hisses through gritted teeth, “I don’t wanna hurt you.
You gotta make a choice here, because time is running out and it’s Usain Bolt-
ing that shit.”
Shame courses through Peter then. He hasn’t thought about how Deadpool feels,
being near him in heat like this; hasn’t considered the strain the man is
clearly putting himself under, if the tremor in his voice is any indication.
But clearly, the toll it’s taking on him is significant—he doesn’t even sound
like himself, anymore.
“I don’t know,” he admits, quietly. “I don’t know what to do.”
His voice trembles, almost tearfully, and Deadpool pulls back slightly at
hearing Peter’s tone. He relaxes his grip, loosening his arms around the boy
slightly, and nestles his face against Peter’s shoulder affectionately.
There’s no alternative to suppressing his heat, and Peter knows it. He’ll have
to pick someone—Deadpool, Tony or one of the other Avengers—someone he trusts,
to just get it over with, so he can move on and start carrying out his plan. He
has work to do, and besides—Clara, the other omegas—all of them need his help,
and they’re suffering while he fails to make his choice.
But Deadpool, an alpha,for all his insanity, his self-harming antics, his lewd
comments, his lack of personal space—he’s still letting Peter have that choice.
He’s letting him decide, an omega.
It causes tears to slide down his cheeks, hot and unwanted, and he knows the
man knows as soon as they fall, as he holds him just a little tighter.
“Get some more sleep,” Deadpool says, more gently than Peter’s ever heard him
speak before. “We haven’t been sleeping that long. We can save the painfully
awkward and invasive discussion for after we snooze some more, okay?”
“’Kay,” says Peter, more of a sigh than anything, the word drifting from his
mouth as his entire body obediently slows down in preparation for more rest.
His muscles relax, wet eyes slipping closed, the feeling of Deadpool’s head on
his shoulder and his arms around him and his alpha scent lulling him back to
sleep.

===============================================================================

The feeling of a hand running through his hair wakes him, pulling him from a
deep and heavy sleep. Peter blinks awake, Deadpool’s red suit in front of him
unmistakable, even through his blurry vision.
“Wakey wakey eggs and bakey,” the man coos, stroking his cheek gently. “Time to
rise and shine there, Petey-pie.”
Peter squints at him until his vision clears, and then he’s staring, wide-eyed,
mustering the strength to be shocked even in the thick of his heat. “Deadpool—?
What—happened?”
He stares at the man kneeling in front of him, dripping blood down the entire
bottom half of his suit, puddling onto the floorboards below him. The front of
his suit’s pants, just below the belt—it’s almost black from how dark the
bloodstain is.
“Impulse decision, but it bought us some time,” Deadpool answers jovially, like
he isn’t bleeding out from his crotch. “Hurt way more the second time, by the
way. My nethers weren’t fully grown back, so I had trouble getting the knife
underneath—eh, you don’t wanna hear about that. What’s done is done. At least I
was smart enough to go pee first this time.”
“I’m sorry,” Peter says, not knowing what else to possibly say. This is the
second time this man—this stranger—has seriously injured himself to protect
Peter from him, and he has no idea how he could even begin to express how
grateful he is for such a sacrifice.
“Don’t sweat it, baby boy. It’s just like shaving. Only slightly more
unpleasant. But the basic principle is the same. I’ll have five o’clock
genitals before you know it.”
Peter laughs, unable to help himself. He can tell that Deadpool is smiling at
him underneath his mask, but then the man’s expression shifts into something
much less readable, and he says, in a more serious voice, “It’s time to go
home, Pete.”
Frowning, Peter gives Deadpool a lost, confused look. “What?” he asks.
Before the man can answer, the loud squeak of a door opening disrupts the room,
and Peter glances over to the apartment’s front door as it opens wider, and
sees… sees—
It can’t be.
“Peter…”
His eyes are clouded with tears before he even feels them, sudden and
aggressive as they pour liberally down his cheeks.
It’s Aunt May.
“Peter,” May says again, stepping further into the apartment, her own face wet
with tears, leaving bright red tracks on her unusually-pale face. “Oh, Peter…”
“Aunt May,” Peter tries to say, but it comes out as a sob, and as soon as it
leaves his mouth, May is bolting toward the bed—Deadpool scarcely managing to
get out of the way in time—collapsing beside it, her knees streaking across the
puddle of Deadpool’s blood uncaringly as she drops her upper body on the
mattress and on top of Peter, desperately pulling him into her arms.
“Oh, God, Peter,” she cries, loud and almost hysterical. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,
baby, I’m so sorry.”
Peter wraps his arms around her shoulders, catching a glimpse of Deadpool
behind her, who merely gives him an encouraging nod before turning and politely
leaving the room.
“This is all my fault,” May says as she pulls back, face swollen and red from
the flood of hot tears. “I should’ve known better than to trust an alpha who’d
already been exposed to an omega in heat, but I didn’t. I’m so sorry, Peter.
Oh, God, look at you, you’re so thin…”
He wants to say, It’s all right, I’m okay, but the words don’t come, even
though all the anger he’s felt up until this moment has vanished in the wake of
May’s heartbroken expression. He could never stay mad at her; doesn’t know how
he managed to this long, even if the choice she made cost him more than he
really understands.
“I missed you,” is what he says instead, and being crushed back into her arms
is exactly the outcome he’d been hoping for.

===============================================================================

Peter doesn’t remember much of the trip back home, besides Deadpool helping him
in and out of the car, and trailing behind them as they drive to protect them
from any other alphas who might pick up on his scent. Thankfully, they leave
late enough at night and take enough quiet residential streets to avoid too
much attention, and when Peter comes to, it’s to Deadpool carrying him through
the threshold and into his home.
Home.
He doesn’t have the energy or the hydration to cry anymore, so instead, Peter
sags, gratefully melting into his bed—his bed—when Deadpool lays him down on
it, the sound of May furiously locking the front door filling the apartment
behind them.
“Thank you,” Peter whispers, feeling his consciousness fade a little around the
edges.
Deadpool kneels down beside his bed, somehow giving him an affectionate look
beneath his mask. “No need to thank me, Spidey,” he says. “All part of the job.
Speaking of…” he lifts his hand, showing Peter the little pink business card
he’s holding. “This is my number,” he leans closer and whispers, “call me when
Spider-Man is ready for an old-fashioned revenge-slash-rescue mission.”
Peter smiles, feeling a spark of invigoration, in spite of himself. “I will,”
he says.
The mercenary hesitates for a moment, then leans down and ruffles Peter’s hair,
gently, but with enough tension for Peter to be able to feel just how hard
Deadpool is holding himself back. The man turns and leaves, bidding goodbye to
Aunt May before vanishing out the window.
Peter dozes, awoken a few minutes later to May offering him water and then
ushering him slowly into a hot bath.
“May,” he croaks, head lulling to the side as his aunt soothingly washes his
hair. “I need you to—to gentle me.”
May’s hands still, a confused look crossing her face. “What does that mean?”
“It—it relieves the heat symptoms,” Peter says, trying to sit upright, but
lacking the strength on his own. “But I’ll be paralyzed afterwards, so I don’t
wanna do it here. It’s just—a massage, on the back of my neck. On my omegan
glands and down my spine a little.”
“Just a massage?” May asks, surprised.
“And… rocking,” he says. “And… petting my hair, too. Helps.”
May smiles, just a corner of her lips stretching upward, as she gently rinses
his hair and says, “Okay, big guy. Let’s get you into some clean, dry clothes
first, and then we’ll give it a try.”
Exhaustion be damned, Peter does cry when May starts to finally, finally gentle
him. They lie down on the couch, curled up in blankets with Netflix on in the
background, Peter practically draped across his aunt’s lap as she works her
hands through his hair and along the back of his neck.
He knows how badly he’d been craving this, but it still feels better than he
can even express to finally be here, home, with his aunt, the discomfort of his
heat ebbing away under gentle, loving, non-violating hands. This is all he’d
wanted for months—since the day this entire hell began. Comfort.
May gentles him that night, and again the next morning, and the evening after
that. It helps, relieving Peter of his fever and dizziness for hours afterward,
even if he isn’t able to move. He doesn’t appreciate the helpless state it
renders him in, but it’s worth it for those few blessed hours of reprieve, of
muscles that don’t ache, of skin that isn’t burning to the touch.
On the third night of Peter being back home, curled up with May on the couch,
her hands gentling him with ease now, May clears her throat and says, “Peter,
honey, we have to come up with a plan.”
“Mm,” Peter hums, because speaking in this condition is a monumental task.
“Gentling you isn’t a solution, it’s just temporary symptom-relief,” she says.
“We need to figure out how to actually suppress your heat. We have to consider…
all the options. You can’t live like this forever. I have to go back to work,
and go grocery shopping, and every time I open that door, we risk some alpha
smelling you and… Besides, you can hardly eat anything in this condition.
You’ll waste away at this rate.”
Peter tries to say, I know, but it comes out as a tired groan, completely
unintelligible.
“I’m not forcing you,” May is quick to say, her hands stilling for a moment.
“I’m not, I won’t ever force you to do anything—anything like that, ever again.
We’ll do what you want, when you want, okay? I just—I need you to think about
what happens now, Peter. Please, I can’t bear to watch you shrivel up.”
And he knows it. That had been the same fear that’d gotten him into this mess
in the first place—May’s fear of him dying, of her having to watch him die, of
having to bury him next to Ben and being the only Parker left standing
afterward.
He can’t speak, so instead, he merely nods, a small, jerky movement that makes
May smile and bend down to kiss his temple.
Peter slumps further into his aunt’s lap, reveling in the absolute
contentedness that fills him.

===============================================================================

He waits until the next day, until May is forced to go back to work and he’s
left alone with no one to gentle him, before he picks up the little pink card
Deadpool gave him.
He isn’t sure what the man will say, if he’ll even agree—especially considering
that he said he has a girlfriend—though, normally, most betas—and even other
alphas—are okay with their partners mating with omegas, as far as Peter has
heard.
But still, would someone who resorted to castrating themselves just to avoid
mating with someone else really be willing to turn around and sleep with them
four days later? Is he being completely selfish and inconsiderate by even
asking?
Peter frowns, clutching the card and his cellphone in his feverish hands. He
has no choice. As May said, he can’t live like this, and he can’t afford to
just waste away, either. Not anymore. Clara… and all those other omegas—no,
every other omega—is counting on him. He has to do this, because he’ll never be
able to save anyone in this state, and he has a lot of people to save.
Steeling himself, Peter determinedly types the number into his phone, then
holds it up to his ear with a trembling, shaking hand as it rings.
On the fourth ring, Deadpool answers.
“DJ Deadpool plays all the hits, all the time,” the man says when he picks up,
in an obnoxiously-fake radio DJ voice that makes Peter smile widely.
“Uh, hey,” he says, laughing. “It’s, uh—it’s Peter.”
“Spidey!” Deadpool gushes, excitedly. “I’ve been waiting for you! What’s the
sitch? You get all good and fixed up yet?”
“Uhm,” Peter starts, feeling his face redden for completely non-heat-related
reasons. “Uh, no, actually… that’s why I’m calling.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line, stretching long enough for Peter
to start panicking and blurt out, “Uhm, look… I know this is, uh… rude, and
weird, and—I honestly don’t know how to—how to even ask this, but, uh—if you
want to, I mean, if you’d be willing—if you wouldn’t mind… I want you to
suppress my heat.”
The silence continues, Peter holding his breath as he waits, and then Deadpool
says, “You’re in heat.”
“Um, yeah—”
“So this isn’t really… consensual, for either of us. I mean, you literally
can’t consent to this, Spidey.”
“Yeah,” Peter says, agreeably, mirroring Deadpool’s strangely-grave tone. “I
know. It’s… a really shitty thing to ask someone, but, at this rate… I’ll die
if I don’t. And it’s okay if you don’t want to—really, you have no idea how
much I would understand it if you said no, but—if someone has to… help me… I
want it to be you, Deadpool.”
Another beat of silence passes between them, before Peter catches the faint
sound of Deadpool swallowing, gulping in a mouthful of air like he’d been
holding his breath, too.
Then he says, “Call me Wade.”
Chapter End Notes
     Sorry for the horribly long wait this time around, guys. I had a lot
     of trouble with this chapter—Deadpool is a really tough character to
     write, and I couldn't figure out how to do it properly and didn't
     want to upload something I wasn't happy with—but I've made you all
     wait so long already that I figured, even though it's not my best, at
     least people will know I haven't given up on this fic.
     Just in case anyone was offended by Deadpool's Canada quips—I was
     born in eastern Canada and was 100% just making fun of myself, so
     please don't take any of that personally, my fellow Montrealians.
     If you'd like to get updates about when I post, or to just come say
     hi and hang out with me, here's my tumblr.
     Thank you so much for reading!
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