#spidershield: lfl

[carelessannie]

lookin for love (in all the wrong places) chapter three

Chapter One | Chapter Two

In CA:CW Steve kicks Spider-Man in the chest, awakening a soul deep bond and sending Peter into his first heat, before running away to Wakanda.

The soul bond, omegaverse, Spidershield angsty romance everyone needs.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Peter Parker Chapters: 3/4 Word count: 7.2K Rating: E Warnings: heat/rut, primal instincts, menstruation, other injuries mentioned, depressive tendencies due to soul bond sickness, poor Peter, sad Steve Read it here on AO3 Title is from this song by Johnny Lee “Bedside Vigil” for @peterparkerbingo

It’s been hard to get back into his routine since then. Sometimes, all he wants is to lasso another airplane, fly high above the city, and disappear into the clouds.

Even that would be a sure distraction from the deep-seated ache and longing in his chest.

Even that would be a sure distraction from the deep-seated ache and longing in his chest.

The ever-present sting radiating from his forearm.

Now, it’s harder to patrol, knowing that Mr. Stark is watching over his shoulder in case of an emergency. He still doesn’t know if the other Omega really cares for him, or if he just feels obliged to a sad, poor kid from Queens. Multiple times a day, he has to stop himself from calling Mr. Stark “mom” in his own head, but doubts that Tony has the same problem.

And is he allowed to call his mentor just “Tony?”

Peter’s not sure.

He checks his phone briefly before tucking everything back into his backpack, ducking his head and jogging down the stairs to hop on the subway. The doors close and he leans back against the nearest wall, shutting his eyes. His senses are dialed up, as usual, and Peter takes a moment to feel the space around him, tuning out conversations and other background noise to enjoy the thrum of life.

Since presenting Omega, he’s noticed a difference in his spider senses. Before, it was almost like a scale, alerting him to surrounding danger and threatening auras, with an instinctual alarm that would help him handle issues. Now there’s a deeper layer. Peter can still sense danger, sure, but now his general empathy has been boosted. It’s dulled when his eyes are opened and he’s trying to balance other stimulants, but when his eyes are closed, like now, he can almost read a specific emotional signature from each person in the subway car.

And it’s soothing. He can tell that three Omegas are sharing the furthest row, practically sitting on each other and radiating contentment. An Alpha and Beta pair are kissing, lustful, somewhere to his left. Several people are dull, engaged in other activities. Only one person, an Alpha, pulses enough negative energy to keep Peter on alert.

Strangely enough, his spider senses don’t register the Alpha as a threat. Peter’s not sure how they work, exactly, but as his stop approaches, the ache in his gut settles incrementally.

Omega superpower, he thinks with a deprecating chuckle.

As he leaves the subway and heads home, he thinks about Mr. Stark’s words from a few weeks ago.

After his embarrassing breakdown, Peter woke up in his mentor’s bed wrapped in at least six soft blankets. Mr. Stark had hand fed him dinner�� much to both of their utter humiliation— and forced him to sleep in the nest for the night.

And then Mr. Stark let him know about the wonderful side effects of being an Omega with bond sickness.

Apparently, when he was kidnapped and trapped in Afghanistan, Mr. Stark had just discovered his bond with Ms. Potts. Mr. Stark explained that they honestly hadn’t touched at all until the morning before he left for the demonstration— stating something about being handed things as a reason to never risk contact.

Mr. Stark had boarded the plane still reeling from the revelation, and then was subsequently thrown into months of bond sickness and withdrawal, with no way out, no way back. Peter understands. It’s how he’s felt every day since Steve left him.

“Your body will do everything it can to bring your mate back,” Mr. Stark had said, holding Peter close and stroking through his hair, “just short of killing you.”

Peter replays the words in his head as he turns into a drugstore, tearing down the aisles until he finds the feminine products. It makes him flush, scent turning embarrassed. Pulling out his phone, Peter quickly opens the list Mr. Stark made for him— brands and everything.

Maybe he should get a basket.

Peter goes back for a basket and starts filling it with everything Mr. Stark recommended: pain medicine, energy bars, electrolyte packets, heated blanket— all of those are easy enough, and go right into his haul. He picks up a box of tampons labeled “for men,” and cringes. Thankfully, Mr. Stark recommended pads for his first cycle anyways.

Those go in the pile, along with an Omega specific swaddling blanket, herbal tea to reduce symptoms, and a big bottle of lubricant. He considers grabbing a few more blankets, or an artificial knot, Mr. Stark said he would take care of it.

Peter doesn’t want to think about what that could mean. On his way out, he grabs dried fruit and an armful of different snacks. Mr. Stark said he would get hungry and most likely have cravings as well. Maybe he should buy some bagels on the way home?

The credit card that Mr. Stark forced into his wallet gets a work-out, and Peter frowns when the total is just over fifty dollars. He’ll repay it, of course, but it seems like a lot for a few paper products.

He does stop for bagels a few blocks away from the apartment, and sits to eat one on a nearby bench, the paper bag of Omega supplies resting by his feet. It’s hard to get down. He reaches under his shirt and feels his stomach, his ribs, and sighs. He really needs to eat more.

Half of the bagel goes back in the bag with the others, and he heads back home.

Aunt May’s working a double shift tonight, and Peter takes a deep breath when he closes and locks the front door. Alone, finally. He checks his phone again, before heading to his bedroom.

“Oh god, Mr. Stark.”

Dozens of boxes line his bedroom. Building a fortress tall, leaning, intimidating against his minimal decorations and belongings.

“Karen, call Mr. Stark,” he groans, pulling his phone out and clicking on the video option as it rings. Moments later Mr. Stark’s face pops up— sunglasses, suit and all.

“Hey kid, get your packages?”

“Yeah, what—”

“I know it’s a lot,” Mr. Stark interrupts, and it looks like he’s walking outside, “I really did just buy you the necessities, honest. Well— my necessities, and I’ve been doing this for, what? Twenty? Thirty years?”

“Mr. Stark—”

“Just open ‘em, okay? I’ll stay on the phone if you’d like, help you figure out what’s going on. Did you go to the store, hun?”

Peter puts the phone on speaker, sets it down, and starts opening the nearest package, “Yeah, I did. Bought everything you told me too, besides—” he gestures to the mountain of boxes.

“Good. Good boy. Alright, I’ll stay on the line, talk me through each one.”

He takes a deep breath and pulls out the first item.

“Oh god.”

“What is it?” Mr. Stark asks, sounding distracted.

Peter really doesn’t want to say it, so he just holds the bright purple phallic object up to the phone, ducking his head. Honestly, it’s the size of his whole forearm.

Mr. Stark coughs and waves his arms around, “Okay, okay— maybe just let me know when you have questions. I don’t need to… yeah. Next.”

He throws the packaged dick in the general direction of his closet and starts on the next box, relieved when there’s a blanket inside. It’s large, comforter size, and obscenely soft. Peter pulls it close to his body, burying his face inside and taking a deep breath.

“Oh,” he gasps, “Mr. Stark, it—”

“Yeah, yeah,” the older man waves his hand again, dismissing Peter’s excitement, “I made sure to scent all of them before sending the nesting supplies. It would be cruel to leave you with an empty nest, bambino.”

“Ma— Mr. Stark, I don’t know what to say—”

“Just keep opening, Pete. Chip-chop.”

The rest of the packages are a risky gamble between sentimental nesting supplies and offensive sex toys. After a while, Peter starts asking uncomfortable questions about the usage, length, and purpose of each toy just to see Mr. Stark gape, at a loss for words.

“So I really fill this one with…”

Mr. Stark sighs, covering his face, “The fake Alpha cum, yeah.”

“Oh. Alright,” Peter agrees. He has to stop himself from laughing as Mr. Stark scrubs his face, looking tired and impatient with the whole process. Good. He’s the one who sent over every penis known to man.

Unfortunately, Mr. Stark sees him giggling and feigns shock, “Hey! Alright, kid. You get the jist, right? Call me if you need anything else— you’ve got my credit card. I’ll send over some food tonight that should last you through the week.”

Before Peter can get another word in, the call ends. If he could still get headaches, Peter is sure he would have a colossal migraine right now. Mr. Stark is a handful.

He attempts to clean up the room, and uses one of the boxes to pack up the sex toys, setting his phone on his dresser to listen to local police reports that Karen summarizes for him. It only takes two trips down to the trash room before he’s cleaned everything up, and then he’s able to pull out his books and finish his homework for the weekend.

Karen keeps him notified of potential escalating crime around the city, and he speeds through his work, finishing before it’s dark outside.

“Score,” he breathes, slamming shut his Chemistry book. Junior year Chem has been a breeze, and he’s grateful homework is minimal for Friday's class. “Karen, make a list of priorities, and preheat the suit— please and thank you.”

He’s thankful for the heater as he’s slipping into the skin sight fabric. The combination of his spider powers and recent weight loss significantly hurts his ability to retain heat. Mr. Stark helped him update the heating feature after almost drowning, so now his suit not only heats instantly, but also preheats and regulates, helpful when he’s patrolling on a night like tonight.

Peter turns the heater off an hour into his patrol.

As he’s nearing the end of the night, Peter has to stop and rip off his mask, heaving and trying to catch his breath. He’s dripping with sweat, and it only takes a few moments to realize why.

“Oh, dammit,” he curses, dropping to his knees, “Karen— can you tell if I’m starting my heat?”

There’s a pause. Not good.

“Your internal temperature is five degrees higher than baseline. Your resting heart rate has increased by ten beats per minute. I’ve analyzed the primary reproductive chemical levels in your body, and found an imbalance in both hormones and pheromones, indicative of pre-heat, Peter.”

Peter sighs, pushing himself back to his feet. “How long do I have?” he asks and tugs his mask back on. A timer flashes in his peripheral alongside a basic read out of his current vitals. Thirty-five minutes.

“Let’s make the most of it,” he murmurs to himself before leaning forward, letting his body fall, slowly, off the side of the building.

---

With three minutes to go on the timer, Peter is locked in his bedroom, carefully packing away his Spider suit. It’s sheer luck that he didn’t ruin it with slick, because his entire backside is soaked already.

A sharp pain splits through his abdomen, but he can’t stop moving. Not yet.

Peter strips down to just a pair of boxers and rifles through his closet, dumping piles of blankets on his bed, and setting the box of toys near his bedside table. Sweat pools at his lower back, around his neck, and Peter wipes it away hastily. He plugs the heated blanket into the wall, and throws his food into a basket.

With the last bit of his energy, Peter arranges his nest. It was hard doing this for his first heat— he basically just laid on top of a half dozen Captain America themed blankets that he begged Aunt May to bring him. This time, he follows Mr. Stark’s instructions: padding first, scenting second, comfort third.

He lets his hindbrain take over from there, and uses a combination of the family scented blankets and other soft objects to create a castle on the bottom bunk of his bed, even going so far as to hang a blanket with Captain America’s shield dead center as a curtain between him and the door.

Curling up in the center of his nest, Peter almost feels as though his Alpha is protecting him.

He takes a deep breath and whimpers as the cramping starts.

It overwhelms his senses, twisting and pulling his body in several directions at once, splitting him in half, drowning him in pain. He’s barely aware of the noises he’s making— gutteral sobs and high-pitched whining— until a banging on the front door startles him, causing the young Omega to cower in fear of a possible intruder.

At some point he falls into a heat-induced sleep. Peter’s not sure how long he’s out for, but cries steadily through it, waking up minutes— hell hours— later with a searing headache.

Water, his body screams at him, and he feels around for the electrolyte packets he bought earlier. Grabbing one and tearing the top off, Peter searches for a bottle of water.

Oh. Shit. There’s nothing— no water, no liquid whatsoever in his nest. Peter lets out a shrill whine, remembering the dozens of bottles chilling in the kitchen, still sitting in the refrigerator. In his mad scramble earlier, he forgot them.

It’s necessary, though, and he knows this. Vaguely. Peter carefully pulls back the curtain on his bed and wraps himself in a nearby blanket. It smells like home. He rolls around for a moment, making sure the scent is thoroughly coating his skin.

Water, his body reminds him again, and Peter pulls the blanket with him as he stumbles out of the nest. The carpet is rough, scratchy against his skin. Tears sting his eyes again as he drops to his knees, threading his fingers through the carpet and pressing the edge of his blanket into the floor, “Feel better,” he tries to encourage the abrasive fabric, but the words come out in a jumble. And the blanket is suddenly, enticingly soft.

Why is he on the floor? Peter hates how the floor feels— hard and sad and still scratchy. Oh, he thinks, the tile might be nice.

It takes an eternity to crawl out to the kitchen. Peter drags the blanket along with him, stopping every few feet to roll in it again. He was right. The tiles feel incredible— smooth and cool where he’s overheated and oversensitive.

Peter looks over to the fridge. Damn, he’s so thirsty. He hoists himself up, reaching for the handle of the fridge— and suddenly his foot catches on the blanket, sliding and losing his balance. His body upends, his head cracks against the floor, and everything goes dark.

He’s woken up to a brutal wave of heat, demanding his attention.

Soft, gentle arms surround him. Steve. Oh, god— finally.

“Alpha,” he whimpers, thankful for the warmth and relief of being held so securely, protected and cared for in his mate’s arms.

He falls asleep again, trying his best to purr for his Alpha.

---

Sunlight breaks, and Peter rolls over in the soft nest underneath him as it cradles his body. He’s still empty. He’s still hot, sweaty. His throat is dry, his head is throbbing, and the gentle slide of blankets over his heated skin is distracting as Peter slowly floats back into consciousness.

It takes a great deal of effort to open his eyes. He’s definitely not in his nest at home. Actually, as he takes in the floor to ceiling windows and modern interior design, Peter realizes he’s in Mr. Stark’s room at the compound, surrounded by a mixture of his own nesting supplies and several foreign ones as well.

Curiously, he reaches for a pair of plaid pajama pants and pulls them close before inhaling deep. What he doesn’t expect is the overwhelming Alpha scent that floods his senses— and everything seems to slow down incrementally.

He’s never scented his Alpha before, barely had a conversation, but Peter knows without a shadow of a doubt that it’s Steve’s scent he’s breathing in. In a rush, he searches through the nest, finding every piece of clothing that carries the same, distinctive Alpha scent that he craves.

When Mr. Stark checks on him thirty minutes later, Peter is dressed in every article of his Alpha’s clothing he can find. The room smells like a combination of the two of them, and it makes the young Omega whine in need. He’s so empty.

“C’mon, bambino,” Mr. Stark checks his temperature with the back of his hand, trying to get Peter to sit up and drink more water, “this will feel nice, I promise. Sweet Omega, just— there you go, drink some water for me baby.”

Peter hums in relief as the water hits his tongue. “W’ere’s m’Alpha?” he tries to ask, but ends up spluttering, spilling an entire mouth full of water down the front of his borrowed sweatshirt.

“Oh, no,” he cries, scrubbing at the mess with his hands. The light blue material is turning a deep navy as the water spreads, and Peter can’t seem to make it stop.

Firm hands are on his shoulders, stilling Peter’s frantic movements. He looks up into Mr. Stark’s dark eyes and the older man shakes his head. “I got you what I could, Pete. You know why Steve can’t come back.”

Logically, Mr. Stark is right. Peter does know why, and it makes his stomach turn in agony. Instinctually, his hindbrain is confused— scenting mate and Alpha nearby, but never satisfied.

All Peter feels is rejection.

So he shakes his head no and curls further into the nest, reaching down into his pants to try and get some relief.

“No, wait!” Mr. Stark hops off the bed, running for a nearby closet. He comes back with— oh god, it’s Peter’s box of sex toys. The whole thing is dropped on the bed and Mr. Stark puts his hands up in surrender, backing away slowly. “Use wisely, kid,” he says and slides out of the room.

The toys do not help. Each orgasm brings a round of painful cramping that causes Peter to cry out, clutching his stomach and wailing as his arm burns in sympathy. Mr. Stark comes by a few times to check on him, bring him food, and keep him hydrated. After a while, Peter gives up on the toys, clinging onto the older Omega and refusing to let him leave.

He passes in and out of sleep over the next few days. Moments of clarity are full of pain and longing, and there’s a few times he’s certain he’s being held in his Alpha’s arms, safe and warm. It’s always the worst to wake up after that.

Mr. Stark holds him for the rest of his heat, letting him cry. Sometimes he reads, or works— other times there are stories and songs and long theorems, read out in the older man’s steady tenor.

He’s pretty sure Mr. Stark bathes him at some point.

His next moment of lucidity comes after his heat ends— he’s clean, dry, and warm, swaddled tight in the center of Mr. Stark’s bed. Peter stumbles a bit climbing out of the bed and feels his way into the bathroom, sighing as he collapses down onto the toilet seat to relieve himself.

With a clear head, Peter can finally process the past few days. There’s a span of time he’s missing between being at his apartment and somehow arriving here, at Mr. Stark’s place. A few times he remembers thinking Steve was with him, but obviously his Alpha is still absent.

Peter scrubs his eyes. His mouth tastes like something died in it, and he has to wait for his body to stop fucking draining before he reaches down to clean himself up, cringing at the wet slide of the toilet paper through residual slick. Absolutely disgusting, he thinks to himself, and stands back up to flush everything away.

As he’s brushing his teeth, a flash of red catches his attention.

He looks in horror at the toilet paper he just used as it swirls down the drain, leaving a vibrant streak of red around the bowl.

“Oh god,” he whispers, covering his face in horror, “Mama!”

Peter sinks to his knees and watches the water as it drains out of the toilet. Blood? He knew that those materials were on Mr. Stark’s list for him, but had denied it up until this moment. It never made sense to him, so he ignored it.

“Pete?” he looks up and sees Mr. Stark standing in the doorway, looking exhausted and concerned, “What is it, bambino? Can’t be morning sickness— I think you skipped too many steps for that.”

The humor falls flat as Peter whines, blinking up at Mr. Stark with watery eyes, “Need help, Mama. M’bleeding.”

Mr. Stark’s face pales. He looks down at Peter, crumpled on the floor, and steals his expression. “Alright. Okay. Sit back on the throne, and I’ll grab some stuff, okay?”

Peter nods and pulls himself back up. He holds his head in his hands and waits for Mr. Stark to get back.

Out of everything going wrong, every pain and inconvenience and ache, the worst is the utter loneliness that catches in his throat, choking him on a sob. He’s not sure how he’ll survive his next heat, how he’ll function every month like this, over and over again.

He holds his stomach, full of cramps and an incredibly empty womb.

Shit, he’s in trouble.

---

Steve:

There’s an itch under his skin.

The two of them have moved twice in the past month, never staying in one place long, and continuously monitoring Steve’s health. Natasha is nervous about how his Omega’s next heat will affect him, and he’s not surprised. So far, he doesn’t even have a name for the Spider kid. In his head, he alternates between my mate and my Omega, or sometimes Queens if he’s feeling frustrated.

Now Steve is standing out on the cliffside facing the Norweigan Sea. The wind whips through his hair, threatening to push the chill of the early October air deep into his bones. He gave up on wearing a thick sweater earlier in the evening— the warmth was distracting, derailing his thoughts and concentration. It rubbed uncomfortably against his skin. He’s thankful for the relief, even if he stopped being able to feel his fingers an hour ago.

T’Challa’s resources for them ran dry last week, and the two of them have been following leads across Northern Europe, clearing out the last traces of Hydra they can find. Locals have been more than helpful in providing housing and finding them daytime jobs— which is the only reason travel and lodging are still possible.

Each time Steve has been in Europe, he’s fought a war. Then, it had been Hitler and Hydra and fighting to end tyranny. Now, the fights are political. Alien. Fighting Loki in Germany, and then— years later— his own friends.

It’s different to be allowed to see Europe, and look past the scar of war and violence the continent has left on him.

And Norway is different. The people are different— calmer, maybe. More content. Steve was offered work on a ranch near the coast— storing food for the approaching winter— and in exchange, both of them have a safe place to stay for at least a month or two.

Steve scratches at his arm, grimacing at the clench deep in his gut.

Tony stopped taking his calls a few weeks ago. The last one was met with colorful threats that had stunned Steve speechless, as the older Omega refused to even give him a name for his Omega soulmate. Steve understands why— he’s a fugitive now.  And, from what he can tell, his Omega is young. Possibly not even old enough to vote.

Natasha spends most of the day looking for a way back into the States, tracking down leads and doing everything she can to make connections. She won’t divulge, but Steve is pretty sure she has a mate waiting for her as well.

The itch is concerning, though— far too similar to the last time his Omega was in heat, and Steve knows he probably has mere hours before the symptoms set in. Taking a final breath, soaking in the view and ocean air, he turns and jogs back to the small cottage he and Natasha are sharing.

It’s almost dark when he arrives, and there’s a distinct smell of lapskaus filling the house. Natasha has a knack for picking up on local cooking, somehow always finding the matron of their town and communicating enough to earn them dozens of easy, cheap regional recipes. Steve is good at boiling potatoes if needed— he spent the first half of his life doing that— but anything involving meat or spice, and he’s lost.

This time, though, he can barely focus on the appetizing smell, and stumbles under another wave of agonizing cramps. Dammit, the heat is closer than he originally thought.

“So, I thought we could— shit, Steve,” Natasha turns the corner and immediately covers her nose, taking a step backwards, “Are you rutting?”

“No, my Omega…” he doesn’t finish the sentence, and instead crouches low and takes a deep breath. “Oh, fuck.”

���Dammit, Steve,” Natasha curses and turns around, heading back into the kitchen, “Just keep breathing, okay? We’ve prepared for this.”

Her voice carries, but Steve can barely hear it over the roaring in his ears. There’s a faint sting in his hands, and he realizes that his fists are clenched, fingernails puncturing into his palm and leaving a row of perfect, red crescents.

“Nat,” he growls, backing towards the doorway. He can’t stay here. His gums are aching, and he’s ashamed to notice that he’s dangerously hard in his pants. The short sleeved shirt and shorts are too hot against his skin, and he barely resists the urge to tear at them.

There’s a blur in front of him, and Natasha is pushing a bag into his hands. He drops it and grabs her instead, snuffing along her collarbone and whining when he can’t find a scent. Nothing, empty.

He’s suddenly stumbling backwards, a sharp pain to his skull jarring his attention. “C’mon, Steve. Just a little bit longer, okay?” Natasha picks up the bag and gestures for him to follow her out of the house, closing the door firmly before making their way hastily down a nearby trail.

One perk of this property is that it has a secluded heat and rut cave, insulated from the environment and equipped with natural cool and hot springs to keep the users well comforted. Natasha leads him inside and quickly empties the bag— a few rutting toys, containers of food, and a ton of lube are thrown on the plastic covered bed.

As she’s retreating, Steve grabs her arm, “I need help,” he snarls, hoping she understands what he means.

Natasha shakes her head and pulls away, “You know I can’t give you that.”

He whines and throws a fist into the wall, growling in satisfaction when something cracks. At some point she must leave, because the next time he’s fully aware, there are large pieces of the rock wall scattered around his feet, violent gashes in his knuckles, and an absence where a partner most certainly belongs.

Desperate cries pierce the night sky as he sinks further into rut, clutching his stomach and pacing the cavern floors periodically to work off his energy. He has to protect his den. Has to be here, just in case his Omega returns.

At one point, he’s devastatingly thirsty. Steve throws himself into the fresh pool of spring water, drinking it desperately, but can’t satisfy his thirst. His head is spinning. He crawls out of the pool and lays on his stomach, willing the ache and thirst and pain to go away.

There’s a sharp impact to his head, and Steve thankfully slips into unconsciousness.

---

Waking is brutal. It’s not even close to light outside, so Steve knows he’s only slept for a few hours at most. The uncomfortably familiar sensation of empty rattles around his skull, and it combines confusingly with the need to fill and fuck. He feels empty and needy and fucking angry from all sides. And still so damn thirsty.

He lays like that for a while. The chill of the cavern floor is blissful against his overheated skin, his throbbing cock, and Steve finds himself rutting into the cold rock, searching mindlessly for release.

“Omega,” he whimpers, wanting more than anything for the warm body of his mate in his arms, safe and warm in his tight grip. Wrapped perfectly around his knot.

Release, when it comes, is painful. His knot blows wide in his fist, but he can only work a small dribble of cum out, the majority of his orgasm lost and unsatisfied. He screams in agony, jumping to his feet and stalking to the bed.

The next orgasm— wrung from his red, angry cock by a neon green pocket pussy— is almost worse. It tightens around his knot, wet and obscene as he strips the length of his dick mercilessly, but still only a few drops of cum fall to the ground. It’s as if his body is waiting, saving his load for the perfect Omega.

He curses again, throwing the toy as hard as he can, and roaring miserably when it smashes against the cave wall.

From then on, Steve refuses to touch himself. He can’t sleep, can’t eat, and ends up nesting on the waterproof mattress, humming and whispering reassurances he hopes his Omega can hear.

If he’s suffering this much, he hates to think of what his sweet mate is enduring.

And if he lets it, the guilt chokes him. The devastation he felt through their freshly awakened bond plays on repeat as he assembles and reassembles the world’s most pathetic excuse for a nest. He lays in it and weeps until the sun comes out.

The next two days pass this way— drifting in and out of consciousness, and riding waves of arousal and pain he knows come from his mate on the other side of the world.

Nearing the evening of the third day, he hears two sets of footsteps outside the cavern. He immediately can scent an Omega— someone in heat and smelling distinctly untouched. Steve growls, the Alpha in him immediately coming forward and rearranging their nest, preparing to invite his Omega inside.

He stalks to the mouth of the cave, and sees Natasha leading a young man down the trail. The boy is hardly old enough to have a heat, and his Alpha instincts helpfully point out that it’s probably his first ever.

The Omega meets his eyes and gasps, scent suddenly flooded with a confusing mix of arousal and fear. Natasha growls in warning when Steve steps forward, but he ignores her, burying his nose firmly in the nape of the small Omega’s neck.

His first inhale has him snarling and backing away quickly. Not ours, his Alpha insists, and Steve has to agree. This is not his Omega.

“C’mon, Steve. You said you wanted help,” Natasha pleads, and the Omega next to her starts to sniffle, scent turning sour at the rejection. The change repulses him further, and he’s suddenly turning and stalking back into the cavern, ready to defend against the threat to his den.

It takes a few minutes, but he finally hears two pairs of footsteps walk back up the trail, far away from his territory.

Good.

His rut lasts for five days total, and at the end of it Steve barely has the strength to lower himself into one of the hot spring pools. It’s bliss on his aches and pains, and he has a terrible moment of clarity.

He remembers the ache, the lack of relief and desperate need to be fuck and be fucked warring inside his body. He remembers giving up, and has to check his dick for a moment— suddenly scared that something may have exploded or fallen off in the violent rutting and denial. But no, everything is soft and normal.

He’ll have to apologize to Natasha for rejecting her Omega tribute. Steve laughs to himself bitterly, because that’s exactly what the poor boy was— in the confusion of his own heat, offered like a tribute to some violent, strange Alpha in a cave.

The absurdity of it causes Steve to laugh again. He’s tired, exhausted, and sinks further into the hot spring with a choked sob. The words on his arm, the only thing on his skin, burst into a flame of red hot agony and Steve lets his head fall back, tears gathering in his eyes as he exhales. Inhales and exhales.

On the next breath, he strokes over the word Queens and whispers, “They... asked me how I knew,” he clears his throat before singing the rest,

“My true love was true, oh—” Steve throws his head back and yells,

“I, of course, replied... something here inside… cannot be denied.”

“They… said ‘someday you’ll find… all who love are blind,’”

Tears fall as he yells again, “Oh! Oh, when your heart’s on fire… you must realize… smoke gets in your eyes.”

The strings play in his head, familiar and devastating as his voice echoes empty across the cave walls, followed swiftly by gentle sobs, lost in the vast rock fixture, swallowed and unacknowledged by the endless nature surrounding him in the depth of his longing.

He falls asleep that way, and dreams of terrifying streaks of red, painting an otherwise white and pure surface. It reminds him of war in the winter— pure snow white planes marred with death and blood.

---

Steve wakes up slowly. Swimming through his consciousness and battling faded dreams of wide, amber eyes and soft, bouncing curls, he surfaces into the gentle darkness of early dawn.

There’s a solid weight on his chest and Steve can feel hair tickling his nose, but no distinct scent follows. That realization alone has him up, snapping his eyes open to look around and take in the familiar surroundings.

He’s back in the cabin, Natasha sprawled across his chest. With a quick look, he confirms that both of them are fully clothed— or, at least that he’s wearing pants. Steve doesn’t remember moving, which means he… walked back? That’s probably not the case, and he’ll make sure to ask about it when she wakes up.

His body aches. It’s worse than when he was sixteen and Joey Costa beat him up, pushing him down the hill behind Turner’s and bruising his entire body. Bucky had half dragged him back home and dressed his wounds with a few boiled rags. Steve smiles thinking about how they thought they hid it from his Ma— but she found out regardless.

Steve hopes someone’s there to wrap his Omega’s wounds.

He doesn’t know a lot about Spider-man besides the small clips they’ve found on the internet. It seems as though the kid has super-human abilities: incredible strength, speed, and durability which remind him of his own enhancements. Plus, he swings from building to building effortlessly, the movements and costume alluding to his namesake.

Even though he knows his mate has probably withstood worse injuries, maybe even at Steve’s own hands, he can’t help but close his eyes, pressing into the words on his arm and breathing deep.

Please be okay, kid, he prays, and then rethinks it.

He takes another breath and whispers, “Please be okay, my beloved.”

“What’sit, Steve?” he looks down and sees Natasha staring up at him, blinking sleep from her eyes.

“Sorry,” he grimaces, petting a hand through her hair, “didn’t mean to wake you.”

She shifts, rolling off of him and into a full body stretch. While Natasha works her joints and wakes up gradually, Steve slips off the bed with a groan. Every muscle protests in agony. He pushes through it and pads into the small bathroom, stopping to glance outside at the steadily rising sun.

A few minutes later, as he’s heating the stove, Natasha comes in behind him and sits on a nearby stool. The kitchen is functional— small, but still equipped with necessary appliances. There’s a closet in one corner that holds both a meager pantry and separate fridge and freezer set up. The stove only has two burners, but the oven can fit a whole casserole dish perfectly, so they don’t complain. Anyways, Steve’s just grateful to have electricity and running water.

“How’d you get me back?” he asks, pouring milk and water into a large saucepan, adjusting the heat to bring it to a boil.

He turns just in time to see Natasha shake her head and smirk at him, “Our landlord brought me a few Alphas and a wheelbarrow. You fucking scared me, Steve.” She sighs and holds her head in her hands, “I found you passed out and floating in the damn hot springs.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Natasha stands up and paces towards him, leaning up against the side of the stove. She’s angry, actually angry, and if he could scent her, he bets it would fill the kitchen. “I thought you were dead. Captain America, the man who survived decades in ice, dying of a rut— what was I supposed to do?”

“God, Nat— I didn’t know…”

“I know, Steve,” she leans back and takes a deep breath, “I understand. If this soulmate thing kills you, I’ll clean up the mess. You know I will. I’m here for you, Alpha.”

She fits easily under his arm and he pulls her close. He enjoys how familiar her shape has become and how easily they fit together. Something about the way she nuzzles close, scents him instinctually, and hums in simple pleasure makes something click in his head.

“Nat?”

A hum, “Yeah?”

“Are you an Omega?”

There’s a silence, and Steve uses it to stir a few cups of oats and brown sugar into the boiling pot. Oatmeal is filling and cheap, even if it’s dull and boring.

She looks up at him, “I was. They took that from me.”

Steve pulls her close again and kisses her hair, unsure of what to say. Knowing Natasha, she’d probably prefer the silence.

“I found my soulmate,” she whispers into his chest.

“Recently?”

Natasha shakes her head, “When I was twelve, he put me in a headlock and pinned me to the floor. He growled sdavat'sya in my ear.” She leans back to roll up her sleeve, revealing the Russian characters etched in gold on her forearm. Still active, then.

“He was only around for a few more weeks, and then relocated,” her sleeve is rolled down, and Natasha tears herself away, perching on the stool again.

Steve hums in acknowledgment, “What are his words? Have you tried to reconnect?”

“So many questions, Alpha,” she teases, refusing eye contact.

“Fine,” he lets her be, thinking back to the forties, when he and Bucky would sit side-by-side and compare their soulmarks, both short and vague. He can picture the blocky, foreign letters of Bucky’s mark, and can almost hear him practicing the phrase over and over again.

“Nikogda, soldat,” Natasha murmurs, words resounding in Steve’s memory of his best friend.

He leans forward and has to breathe deep. Steve knew— since getting Bucky back— that his friend had lost his soulmark along with his left arm. With nothing left on his body to signify the bond, Steve just assumed he never found that person in the forties, or had yet to find somebody today.

Wiping tears from his eyes, he stirs the oatmeal again, watching the clumps seize and move under the spoon. Small hands trace up his back and loop around his neck, and Steve relaxes in Natasha’s gentle hold.

“I wasn’t lying. I understand.”

If anyone can understand the agony of losing their mate, the separation anxiety and bond sickness that follow, it’s probably her.

Steve serves them both a bowl of oatmeal. They sit side-by-side on the porch, watching the sun crest over the horizon in a comfortable silence.

It’s hot. The sun’s hot. Steve wants nothing more than to run back to the cavern and throw himself back into the cool springs— if only to relieve the pain of heat from his skin.

He’ll never be able to enjoy the sun again.

“Romanoff.”

Steve looks over to find Natasha hunched over, holding their current international phone to her ear. He listens close, and can barely make out the rumble of a male voice on the other end of the call.

She looks up at him suddenly, face unreadable, “For you.”

As he takes the phone, Natasha rises, pacing a few steps away.

“Rogers,” he announces, listening intently for the response.

There’s a beat, “It’s Tony.”

Of all the people Steve expected a call from, Tony Stark is low on his list. It must be urgent.

He takes a breath, “What’s wrong?”

“So remember how I told you never to call, that you’re my least favorite person, and I never want to see you again?”

Steve bristles at this, forcing himself not to growl in response. “Tony,” he forces out, proud of how calm he sounds.

“Yeah, anyways. You need to come back. I’ve got a dying Omega on my hands, and he needs his… soulmate back.”

At his words, a whine bubbles up out of Steve’s throat. Dying. His Omega is dying. He can’t tell if Tony’s being dramatic, but every instinct in his body thrums with the urge to fight and kill and protect.

“My mate?” he chokes out, “he’s dying?”

“Well, he won’t eat. He always scents like despair. I’m gonna do my best to hook you up with a flight in Oslo and send Natasha the details. Try to come through, Rogers. My kid needs you.”

Steve can tell that Tony’s about to hang up, and he rushes to stop the Omega, “Wait! Tony?”

A sigh, “What?”

“Please— please just tell me his name.”

He ignores the sympathetic look Natasha gives him, ignores the way his stomach flips at begging anybody, much less his Omega rival. He ignores the sob stuck in his throat, and ignores the persistent ache in his stomach. An ache he knows belongs to someone else.

Tony grumbles a moment before giving in,

“Peter. Your Omega’s name is Peter.”

(tag list: @angelstarker @femmeparker @starkeraddictbaby Let me know if you want to be added or removed)

[carelessannie]

love ya sweet pea, I’ll give you what you need

here’s a snippet from my next chapter

annie you’re killing me here

[carelessannie]

For everyone who’s been waiting, here’s the companion piece to LFL! It features excerpts from Natasha and Bucky’s developing relationship.

Don’t worry, I haven’t forgot about the LFL epilogue.

lookin for love: always

Bucky x Natasha Rating: T Word Count: 4.6k

He’s not expecting her to move in close, and her closed fist is bouncing off his chest before either of them are fully aware of it.

Natasha huffs in disbelief, “Ya b'yu tebya.”

Taking advantage of her hesitation, the soldier easily whips her around, pinning her in a brutal headlock.

“Sdavat’sya,” he hisses.

And then the world explodes.

Tag list: @starkentrprises @moodyships @peterrparrkerr @purplefreakwolffish @instantsharkskeletonpizza @justslightlycrazy @femmeparker @shippingaddictbaby @momodashii

[carelessannie]

Here's the angsty sequel to this prompt I got a few weeks ago. It will definitely be multi-chaptered (I’m thinking 4) and pretty canon compliant with endgame fix-it.

lookin for love (in all the wrong places)

In CA:CW Steve kicks Spider-Man in the chest, awakening a soul deep bond and sending Peter into his first heat, before running away to Wakanda. The soul bond, omegaverse, Spidershield angsty romance everyone needs.

Chapters: 2/4 Word count: 3.4K Rating: T (for now) Warnings: depressive tendencies due to soul bond sickness, poor Peter, general talk of Omega heat Read it here on AO3 Title is from this song by Johnny Lee

---

Steve:

He’s always wondered what it would be like to be an Omega. Both him and Bucky had presented as Alphas in grade school, but even when his knot was smaller than a golf ball and people looked at him confused when he scented Alpha, Steve still hadn’t known.

Now he does. At least partially. His body aches, hot and empty as waves of heat roll through him. It reminds him of when he was fifteen and came down with pneumonia, and he hates it. He’s warm but has no fever, achy and sweaty but his body is functioning perfectly. After three hours, he passes out from the stress, and when he wakes up, Shuri is staring down at him in disappointment.

“Good, you’re awake. For Bast’s sake, I swear you’re just like my brother— never asking for help, never thinking anything is wrong until bam!” she claps her hands, turning to walk across the room, “you’re unconscious.”

Just as he’s about to ask what happened, a wave of agony washes through him and he curls around his body instinctively, forcing deep breaths as tears gather in his eyes. There’s a frantic beeping nearby and he can sense other people in the room, hands on his body, before his vision goes dark again.

All he can remember is feeling empty, and the desperate memory has him disoriented. He has never wanted to bend over, to take a knot deep inside— but the desire was there all the same, through the haze of agony, a need to be filled and held.

“Captain Rogers, are you mated?”

“Captain Rogers, are you mated?”

The voice comes from his left, and Steve turns to face the King as he steps into view. He tries to sit up but T’Challa just waves for him to rest. It takes a moment to concentrate and understand what the King just said.

“Mated, your Highness? No, I’m not mated. I…” Steve rubs the skin of his arm as he looks away, “I’m not mated yet.”

T’Challa gives him a disbelieving look and gestures to the bright red soul mark, “But you have met them, have you not?” When Steve doesn’t respond, he just steps forward and continues, “Captain, you have just withstood six days of severe bond sickness, with symptoms indicative of an Omega’s heat.”

The implication sinks in. There was nothing wrong with him to begin with— the pain was shared, through his bond with his soulmate. Oh god, his Omega is somewhere out there, in heat, and Steve is here.

“My Omega,” Steve growls, finally rolling up on his knees to look up at T’Challa, “my Omega’s in heat.”

T’Challa nods, “I know, Captain. Unfortunately, we cannot keep you and your team here for much longer. I can supply you all with supplies and cover for your journey, should you wish to return to your Omega. Otherwise, we have a residence for you to use temporarily.”

Steve nods, forcing himself to calm down, “Thank you, T’Challa— it’s much appreciated. Do you know where Natasha is?”

“Come with me.”

The King leads the way out of the greenhouse and farther into the palace, nodding to various people along the way as Steve matches his strides, cutting through the halls and into the residential wing. There is a collection of men outside Steve’s previous room, and T'Challa asks them a question in Xhosa, nodding when he gets an answer.

“She waits for you inside. Please, prepare your decision and we will send you off in an hour’s time. Thank you, Captain,” he ends with a clipped, professional tone, turning on his heel and heading back down the hall without further comment.

Steve watches him leave for a moment before ducking through the doorway, taking in the dimly lit room. There’s a familiar figure sitting at the vanity, facing away from him. Natasha looks at him in the mirror, and her face is carefully neutral.

She meets his eyes, “Do I need to get Tony on the phone?”

He shudders thinking of those last moments with Tony— rage blurring his vision, driving the shield home and severing their relationship in a brutal strike. As much as he needs to get home to his Omega, he knows Tony wouldn’t allow it right now. Especially not on his dime.

“No, I don’t… I think we move on,” Steve looks out the window where the early evening glow is filtered through the glass, seeming a lot more hopeful than he feels. He turns back when Natasha looks over her shoulder, giving him a light smirk.

“How’s Europe this time of year?”

---

They start off in Paris because Natasha informs him all good vacations start in Paris. Steve is less than convinced. He knows that T’Challa is relieved to get them off his hands and back into the world. The less attention on Wakanda the better.

The bunker is spacious, fit with several rooms and fully stocked with food and other survival supplies. Plus, since it’s on the outskirts of the city, it has a great view of the Seine. They sleep in shifts for the first few days, and Natasha insists on sweeping the apartment and surrounding hallways for bugs, convinced that they could be followed by Hydra sympathizers. Steve doesn’t doubt it.

On their fourth night there, Steve has a dream that he’s flying.

He’s looking down over millions of people, over rooftops and tiny cars, and he feels completely at peace. His hands anchor him to the sky, and it’s by his effortless strength that he’s suspended in mid air. Besides the bliss of being weightless and free, Steve feels a deep pit in his stomach. He tries to focus on it, but something keeps distracting him, forcing his concentration back to the sights and sounds around him.

With a shudder, he wakes up. What the hell. Steve doesn’t remember the last time he had a dream that didn’t end in cold sweat and a busted weight room. Lately it’s been Bucky and Tony’s eyes haunting him at night, but this is different.

He scans the room and finds Natasha sitting under a nearby windowsill, staring at him steadily. “Dammit, Nat,” he curses, pulling the sheets up around his exposed chest. His voice is coarse, and he reaches for the glass of water on his nightstand.

“That wasn’t a nightmare.”

It isn’t a question, but Steve answers anyways, “No, it wasn’t. I was flying over New York and I felt so free, so strong. Similar to falling without a chute, but I felt completely in control.”

Natasha tilts her head to the side, “That’s cute, Steve.”

He ignores that and thinks back through the dream. It doesn’t seem that significant, but he can’t get over the pit in his stomach, the barely restrained feeling of soul-deep emptiness. He scratches his arm absently, blinking away the last bit of sleep, and turns back to Natasha.

She has her arms folded with a thoughtful look on her face. “Does it have to do with your soul mate?”

“I think so.”

Natasha hums and swings around, moving gracefully to sit near him on the bed. Her scent is so carefully neutral, something to do with the Red Room, and he’s never thought to ask about her presentation. Or her soulmate for that matter.

Bucky’s the same way, and Steve’s getting used to it. He would rather ask and get everything out on the table, but in moments like this, he’s glad Natasha respects the need for silence.

Instead of asking, she scoots in close— a silent offering of comfort. Steve gives her a moment to get comfortable before sliding an arm around her waist, rearranging them until he’s holding her secure from behind. Their breathing is steady, and Steve lets himself scent her minutely.

“You won’t pick anything up that way,” Natasha murmurs, and her body relaxes into his.

Steve just hums, “I know, doesn’t stop me from trying.”

They lay in silence for a while. The only sound in the room is a light ticking of a nearby clock and the soft cadence of their breaths, slow and real and oh so human. Steve stops himself from drawing circles on her skin in a mindless comfort. He stops himself from wishing she was someone else entirely.

Before they drift off— Steve already thinking of flying high over an endless city skyline— Natasha whispers, “We’ll get you home to him, Steve.”

Peter:

He flies over the city, strung from web to web over the skyscrapers below. With each swing, he shoots himself higher and higher over the buildings in a dangerous arch, letting his descent bring him down, down— past windows and rooftops— until he’s only a few yards from the ground. His heart beats faster, hammering, until he shoots a new web and his body is swung out of the deadly fall.

It’s rhythmic. It’s soothing. And it’s blissfully distracting from the devastating ache deep down in his gut.

School has gone by in a blur since he was in Germany. Classes and commitments feel empty, meaningless, and May has started giving him a look. He knows it’s bad, and that spending long hours fighting crime isn’t the best way to cope.

Anything has to be better than how horrible his first heat was.

He’s secretly glad he was incoherent and unconscious for most of it, because otherwise he would have immediately called Mr. Stark and begged him to let Steve come back. And if he's been buying Captain America merch and adding it to his nest ever since, well, that’s something no one needs to know.

It’s only a few more blocks until he hears screaming, and takes a sharp detour. He definitely has time for another stop.

A few hours later, he’s crawling through his bedroom window and collapsing into his bed with a grunt. He should probably clean the blood off, or change out of the suit, but suddenly he’s wrapped in the tightness of a hug, phantom yet consuming.

The ache in his stomach yields as warmth spreads through his body. Coming from behind him, in front of him, he can almost feel the press of a strong chest against his back, or maybe in front of him, cradled in his arms. He buries his face in his pillow and drifts off, convinced he can almost smell his mate’s scent around him.

When his alarm goes off in the morning, the feeling is gone and Peter is left with only the memory of his soulmate as a reminder throughout the day.

During lunch, MJ slaps him on the arm.

“Hey, loser,” she chews on… damn, she’s eating his fries, “the hell are you thinking about? You look like you’re about to fly away, and you scent so sweet I’m about to throw up. Spill, Parker.”

He forces his arms to uncurl from where they’re wrapped around his body tightly, and pulls his tray back from MJ, “It’s… it’s nothing, okay? Just hormones I guess.”

“You can’t lie for shit, Peter.”

Her glare is intimidating, but Peter just shrugs in response, forcing himself to eat a few fries even though his stomach lurches in protest. MJ’s expression softens and she reaches forward, almost touching his arm, before tucking her hand back into her pocket and clearing her throat.

“You don’t have to tell me, alright? You’ve just been weird since presenting and I want you to know… I, uh… I need you to know—”

Peter takes pity on her, “I get it, MJ, thanks.”

They sit in silence for a few moments before she scoots a little closer, putting her elbows on the table and leaning into his space, “Did some Alpha fuck you?”

“What?”

“During your heat— did you sleep with some asshole? Did they leave you, is that it?”

“No, no,” Peter backs away, shaking his head in denial, “no one… no one did that.”

“But there is an Alpha?”

It’s hopeless to hide something from MJ. She always figures shit out, and Peter hates that about her. “Yeah, MJ,” he pulls up his sleeve, making sure no one is watching as he shows her the flaming red words on his forearm, “I found my Alpha.”

“Oh god,” she breathes, tracing a finger lightly over the word kid, before jerking it away, “is that why you presented so early?”

He nods somberly, pulling his sleeve back down. Her face is something between pity and disgust— and he gets it, he does— so he just nods to confirm it.

Anger, Alpha fury, blooms across the table and Peter flinches away. A few heads turn to look as MJ stands up, slamming her tray down on the table.

“Alright. Where is he?” Her tone is fierce, and she glares around the cafeteria, almost as if she’s trying to search for the offender amongst the poor surrounding high schoolers. If he weren’t so terrified of his friend he would laugh.

Instead, his instincts overwhelm him and he ducks his head, exposing his throat to try and calm the aggressive Alpha nearby. “He… he’s not in high school, okay?” Everything in him wants to submit to her, but he can’t bring himself to call her Alpha. Not when his Alpha is halfway across the world right now.

She sits back next to him, still seething. Thankfully her scent is losing its strength just as the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch and his own salvation. Peter hops out of his seat and heads towards the trash can, dumping his lunch, and turns to run smack into MJ again.

“Hey, I’m… I’m sorry Peter,” she puts a gentle hand on his shoulder, careful not to corner him, “I can’t stand the thought of someone hurting you, and I’m still trying to get a handle on all the Alpha stuff, you know? I just want you to know… I’m here for you. As a friend, not an Alpha, of course.”

The ache is even more noticeable deep down, and he has to swallow back a sob as it tries to bubble up in his chest. Other kids are brushing past them, already on their way back to class, and he wraps Michelle in a quick hug. They trade scents comfortingly for a moment before he pulls away, afraid of crying in the middle of a public space.

“Of course, MJ,” he gives her a watery smile before backing away, ignoring the way her face falls in disappointment, “I’ll see you after school, okay?”

As he jogs away from her, wiping his eyes discreetly, he hears her agree in a small voice. He hates that he’s running away. He never used to run away, but there’s no way he can face his emotions right now. No way he can think about the loneliness and rejection of having spent his first heat away from his mate.

---

He should be so lucky.

Later that evening, while he’s on patrol, he’s cut off by Iron Man. Peter lands in a crouch on an apartment building rooftop as the armor blocks his path.

“Halt, young padawan,” Mr. Stark’s augmented voice sounds through the mask, and Peter stands, putting his hands up in surrender. It’s surprising to see Mr. Stark out— in general, not just in Queens— and Peter immediately pulls his mask off.

“M-mr. Stark! What… what are you doing here? I’ve got everything under control, I swear— not that I’m not excited to see you here, or whatever. Just… yeah,” he rubs awkwardly at his arm, shifting on his feet as the Iron Man armor descends in front of him.

With a silent thud, Iron Man lands and Tony immediately steps out, dressed simply in black slacks and a matching black button up. There’s a pair of sunglasses tucked into the collar, but he doesn’t put them on. Yet.

“Calm down, kid, I’m just checking in. Heard down the grapevine that you found your soulmate, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t, I don’t know, spiralling into masses of depression.”

His tone is casual, but Peter knows this is probably beyond awkward— wait.

“Wait… what… what soulmate?” He tilts his head, trying to figure out how Mr. Stark knows.

Peter gets an eye roll for his efforts, “I got a call from King T’Challa, Pete. He said the Star-Spangled Mess was out cold the same week you were benched for your heat. He also said that the good Captain’s arm says ‘Queens’ in bright red letters,” Mr. Stark steps closer, gesturing for Peter’s arm, “You don’t have to, but can I take a look?”

With only a small hesitation, Peter offers up his arm, breath picking up as Mr. Stark peels back the sleeve of his Spider-man suit.

You got heart, kid. Where you from? is printed in a neat scrawl across his skin, slightly inflamed like a healing tattoo and brilliant red. Activated, but unfinished.

“Was it in Germany?” Mr. Stark asks, his voice a low murmur.

Peter can tell he feels guilty, responsible somehow, as his mentor runs his thumb over the first line carefully. Not for the first time, Peter wonders what Mr. Stark’s words say, and if it’s true he has them with Ms. Potts. Mr. Stark pulls the sleeve down, a quick movement that causes Peter’s head to snap up, eyes blinking wide.

“Yeah, Mr. Stark. He kicked me in the chest,” Peter tries to laugh, but it was clearly the wrong thing to say.

Mr. Stark’s scent flares with anger— sweet, with a hint of bitter spice that makes Peter have to sneeze. The other Omega scoffs and puts his hands on his hips, “That fucking bastard,” he curses, and something in Peter’s chest clenches.

“Oh.”

Disapproval rests heavily on Peter’s body, sinking into his instincts to please and fix a problem not only with authority, but with a parent.

Peter’s arms close over his chest and he grips his elbows, trying to make himself smaller. A whimper escapes his lips, high and mournful. Peter knows his scent matches it.

He hates that Tony disapproves of his mate. He hates that his mate can’t be here to hold him.

He feels vulnerable, like an open wound. The wind whips around in his hair, pushing and pulling him with ease, and the cold seeps down into his bones. Alone, it whispers, alone and disappointing.

“Peter,” warm arms and a familiar scent surround him, “Peter, c’mon kid. C’mon bambino, I’m sorry.”

Tony strokes his hair as they lay on the roof together. He’s never been able to relax into a scent like this before. As a Beta, Aunt May is comforting and peaceful, but Peter has a hard time sinking into it enough to let her hold him. And he knows how much Tony hates getting close.

He scrambles to get up, to get away.

“S-sorry, Mr. Stark. Didn’t mean to… m’sorry,” he mutters, but Tony holds him tight, making small shushing noises.

“Stop… stop squirming, kid. I swear. Just let me do this.”

And as he’s held tight, Peter slams face first into his emotions. They catch up to him in a rush, shaking through his body, until they burst— and Peter heaves a devastated sob into Tony’s chest.

Tony cradles the back of his head as he wails, “Why did he leave me?”

“I don’t know, bambino.”

Underneath them, the rooftop is hard, unforgiving. Tony anchors him in place as he releases hurt and devastation into the open air. Sobs shake his full body, moving Tony as well. Peter clings tighter.

The image of Steve flashes in his mind, making him cry harder. Perfect Alpha, Captain America, looking at him, taking him in fully, before leaving him for dead. Deciding in a moment that he wasn’t good enough to keep.

He barely registers being picked up, cradled against a cold, hard chest, until he’s flying again.

Peter cracks his eyes open, wiping his nose as Tony jets them back to the Tower. The ground below them is far away, distant and safe. He loves flying, loves soaring through the air, and the freedom it gives him.

This time, he doesn’t need to catch himself from falling.

[carelessannie]

Omegaverse soulmate spidershield with powers

Alrighty anon! Here’s an alternate ending to CA:Civil War, based on the post credit scenes (you can watch them here and here)

You probably wanted something cute and smutty... here’s some angst instead! Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: omegaverse, angst, omega heat, strained bond and sickness, MCU canon compliant

---

Steve

“Did you learn his name?"

Steve shakes himself, turning to look at Bucky in surprise, “What do you mean, Buck?"

He motions at Steve’s arm, “You haven’t left it alone since we were at the airport. I assume it’s botherin’ you?"

“No, I mean,” Steve pauses, scratching at the place where he knows his soulmate’s word is etched into his skin— red and irritated. He sighs, “I can’t go back to ‘im, and I know he’s... god, Bucky, we used to talk all the time about our words. You’d fuckin’ razz me for havin’ a soulmate from Queens. I just didn’t know it’d be like this."

Bucky tries to smile, obviously at loss for words, at loss for his own memories. He claps Steve on the shoulder with his good hand, giving him a lopsided smile, “What’re the words, punk?"

Steve’s heart lurches at their old nickname, but he just chuckles. It takes a moment to unzip his jacket and pull up his sleeve. He remembers the moment his foot made contact, threw the kid— no, his soulmate— under the jetway. He remembers the searing pain in his arm, the way the eyes of the spider mask had widened in understanding. And then he had to know, asking the kid where he was from.

“Queens. That’s all it says? Dammit, Stevie— what didja do, go around the whole borough asking people where they were from?"

Steve flushes bright. Damn Bucky. “No,” Steve insists, rubbing the single word where it glows bright and angry, “you wouldn’t let me."

Finally, a long and genuine laugh out of his friend. Steve rolls his eyes and joins in.

And later, when he’s alone in his room, planning the next move and remembering Tony’s face, Bucky’s face— Steve wishes he just knew his soulmate’s name. His mate’s name. Damn, he doesn’t even know if the kid is an Omega or not.

His instincts say yes, though. Clawing at his gut, pulling him towards the spider kid halfway across the world.

“I’ll come back to you, Queens,” he whispers, doing something he’d only ever done once— closing his eyes and kissing the word, wishing he could hold his mate close instead.

---

Peter

May catches him scratching at his arm, pretending to readjust his sweatshirt as he reclines on his bed and nurses a black eye. Her eyes flick down, and he knows that she knows.

“Was it that... Steve guy?” she sits on the edge of the bed, automatically reaching for Peter’s arm.

He just nods, pulling up his sleeve to show her the glowing red and stinging words. Of all the Alphas who could be his soulmate, Peter never even considered it would be Captain America. If he were being honest, with the deliberate use of “kid” and off-handed compliment, he assumed it would be Mr. Stark. He’s still not sure if this is better.

“So I assume his arm says our address, right Pete?” she smiles, giving the red mark a gentle swipe with her thumb before pulling his sleeve back down.

“No, it...” Peter ducks his head, remembering the strain of the jetway, the shock of his soul-mark lighting up in recognition. From an impressive kick, too. “It probably just says Queens, if anything. He ran away pretty fast."

The thought brings stinging tears to his eyes, and he blinks them away. It doesn’t matter, it can’t matter. When he’d asked, Mr. Stark had been very clear that Captain America is a wanted fugitive and banned from US soil. A wave of nausea has him gagging, fighting a sudden feeling of hopelessness and guilt.

He leans into May’s side, letting her hold him close as he rides the waves of emotion and longing and aching pain. “Hey, Pete?” she murmurs into his hair, “is your soulmate an Alpha?"

“Yeah, why?”

“I’m just concerned it’s gonna throw you into presenting early, is all."

He hadn’t really thought about that. Most kids don’t present until their Junior or Senior year, so Peter wasn’t even thinking about possibly presenting early after finding his soulmate.

And later that night, after he comes stumbling in from patrol achy and sweaty, crying out for Steve as he curls up tight on his bed, he knows that May was right to be concerned. He’s empty, so empty, and devastatingly alone.

May rubs his back, brings him water, and he cries for his Alpha. He knows those strong arms would hold him close, keep him safe. He can feel a gentle kiss, placed in the center of his words, and know— half a world away— his Alpha is fighting to get back to him.

[carelessannie]

lookin for love (in all the wrong places)

chapter five

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

In CA:CW Steve kicks Spider-Man in the chest, awakening a soul deep bond and sending Peter into his first heat, before running away to Wakanda.

The soul bond, omegaverse, Spidershield angsty romance everyone needs.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Peter Parker Chapters: 5/ Chapter word count: 6.5K Fic Rating: E Warnings: mild violence and implied sex trafficking, extreme levels of fluff Read it here on AO3 Title is from this song by Johnny Lee

Steve

The ferry docks in the Åland Islands for a few hours overnight, allowing the two of them to sleep in shifts to be safe. After dinner, they had swept the ship for suspicious persons and bugs, tagging three places around their hallway with ears to keep an eye out for possible threats.

Even with the precautions, Steve feels on edge as they sail in the morning. Neither he nor Natasha get more than a few hours of sleep, and once the sun rises, they decide to spend the rest of the journey on the upper deck. Separating for the duration of the trip, Steve takes the helm while Natasha lounges closer to the stern.

There’s no attack, no threat to be concerned about— so when the ferry docks a few hours later, the two of them are already seated in their car and driving down the off-ramp. Steve takes the wheel first, while Natasha guides him East, following the sun until it sits high in the sky.

They stop at the border to Russia and switch vehicles, easily slipping through as the newly-mated Alpha and Omega couple on their Russian passports.

And if Natasha bats her eyes and gets them a free passage to St. Petersburg, Steve isn’t complaining.

It’s as they’re driving away that Natasha flinches at something one of the border police says under their breath, and Steve raises his eyebrow in question as he steers to merge back onto the highway. If Natasha is showing her reactions, it has to be important.

“They thought…” she pauses, chewing on her lower lip, before starting over, “When they reviewed our documents, they thought you might be my... trophy Alpha.”

“Okay,” Steve says slowly, furrowing his eyebrows, “Is that bad for us?” He doesn’t quite understand what the issue is, or why Natasha might be anxious. The two men— Betas, probably— had given them a suspicious onceover, but otherwise let them travel in peace.

Natasha makes a frustrated noise, “I’m not translating it right. They think you’re my stud— that I brought you in from America or England to… breed.”

Horrified, Steve almost swerves the car off the road. “What— does that happen often?”

“Often enough that they may call it in. It’s not illegal, technically, but if they catch wind of possible trafficking…”

“Oh,” Steve checks the rearview mirror, suddenly all too aware of the surrounding cars and trucks. “What’s our move, Nat? Do you think they’ll actually come after us?”

She shakes her head again, “Best to get to St. Petersburg. We can call Tony from there, and switch out cars. If someone’s on our tail, they’re bound to know where we’re headed anyways. Stark can get us new documents by the time we reach the base.”

“Fine. I assume you know your way around the city?”

“Steve,” Natasha coos, “haven’t I taught you not to ask questions you already know the answer to?”

He shoots her a grin, “Good, then you’re in charge of ditching our ride. I’ll make a few calls.”

“Teamwork makes the dream work,” Natasha murmurs as she reclines in the seat, shifting to give herself a good view of both side mirrors while still seeing clearly out the front windshield. She crosses her feet at the ankle and pulls down the lid of a carefully worn baseball cap. If Steve didn’t know better, he would assume she fell asleep in the passenger seat.

They spend the last two hours of the drive in a tense silence, both of them on high alert. Steve knows from experience that Hydra likes to hide in plain sight— so he scans license plates, calculates distances, and carefully surveys the people in each car, looking for anything out of the ordinary. So far, nothing.

That changes when they enter the city.

Immediately, both of them sit up straighter, scanning the surrounding lanes for a threat.

“Do you—”

“Yes, stay alert,” Natasha hisses. Her hands are digging rapidly through her backpack until they pull out their last international phone. In one swift motion, she destroys it on the dashboard, lowering the window to sprinkle pieces onto the highway, sure to be crushed further by oncoming vehicles.

Steve changes lanes, inching closer to the quickly passing exit ramps. He doesn’t see a suspicious car— no black sedans, no tinted windows— but the feeling of being watched is undeniable.

“Exit here.”

Natasha’s voice is flat, and if Steve wasn’t listening for it, he would have missed the direction. Instead, he steps on the gas and throws the car into the right lane, barely avoiding the traffic cones as he speeds down the single exit ramp.

“Slower,” Natasha is reaching behind him as he merges back into traffic, this time heading West into the heart of the city. “When we get into the city, look for a coffee shop. You’re going to drop me off. Drive around the corner and watch for me— I’ll order you a drink inside and pretend I’m grabbing an item from my car. Instead, you will switch places with me, and sit outdoors drinking what I order. Keep your eyes up, run if you need to. I’ll rendezvous within an hour. Got it?”

“Got it,” Steve confirms, already slowing down as they breach the populated city limits. It isn’t long until he’s pulling up to a small café and Natasha is sauntering down the sidewalk, drawing any nearby attention to herself as he swings the car around back.

Traffic is thick, stifling, and he’s grateful to have the intel portion of this operation. Within five minutes, Natasha is in his rearview mirror, and he steps out of the vehicle to offer her the wheel.

He pulls his own hat lower to shield his face before slipping into the coffee shop, sidestepping immediately and settling into a corner table. There are three other patrons, all scattered throughout the space and engaged in the work in front of them. No threats yet.

“Peter?” a heavily accented voice calls, and Steve has to stop himself from flinching. It’s a common name— he needs to get himself under control. The voice calls out, “Peter?” once more, just as a tall, well-built man strides through the door, walking up the counter and picking up the drink.

The man turns around, “Huh. Didn’t know you were goin’ by Peter these days.”

“Sam,” Steve breathes, meeting his friends’ eyes with a shocked smile. He jumps to his feet and pulls the other man into a hug. It’s shakey— both of them chuckling and holding on tight— but the embrace is warm and feels like home.

“The hell are you doing here?” Steve grabs his arm, steering them both outside and towards the patio. “Not that I’m not grateful to see you, but… how did you find us?”

Sam shoots him a disbelieving look, placing the coffee cup between them before reclining back in his seat, “I got a tip a few days ago— something about Hydra and a base nearby. Stark got me a ride over yesterday and said I could plan on intercepting you here.”

Something in his face turns thoughtful, “You seriously didn’t see Redwing on the way in?”

“Uh,” Steve sorts through the details of their fast paced cut into the city, but can’t remember Sam’s drone being anywhere in sight.

Sam chuckles, “I followed you from the moment you entered the city— c’mon, you can’t tell me you didn’t see him, not with the way you were driving.”

“Dammit, Sam,” Steve curses. “We thought…” and then he laughs, slumping back into the patio chair and scrubbing his face. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

Sam spreads his arms wide, and gives Steve his widest, most charming smile, “Takes one to know one, Cap.”

There’s a beat of silence as Steve sips his drink— it’s perfect, not that he expected anything less from Natasha. Sam looks good, if not a bit tired. The smile on his face is practiced, and Steve knows it’s more for his sake than anything. They’ve never lied to each other, never had the opportunity to, so if Sam is appearing strained and weary, Steve knows he’s supposed to notice.

“Decide not to take a pardon, then?” Steve hedges, watching as Sam raises an eyebrow in amusement.

“No, Steve,” he looks out into traffic, carefully thoughtful, “it’s been a rough few months since Germany, but Sharon and I have been doing some ground work wherever King T’Challa is willing to send us. There’s a lot of shit going down, and— up until now— the only goal I really had was finding you again.”

A rush of guilt hits Steve in the chest, and he winces, “Look, I’m sorry for leaving you—”

“Hey, no— don’t do that,” Sam dismisses him, waving away the apology with one hand, “I knew you had to go to Wakanda, I had other shit that needed to get done.”

“Still, you deserved a better friend than that.”

Sam laughs, but the sound lacks any real joy, “I think we all deserved better than we got.”

There’s not much to say after, and Steve takes a long pull of his drink, trying discreetly to check his watch. Forty minutes until Natasha returns.

And speaking of, “So where did the Widow herself head off to?” Sam asks, checking his own watch. ���Thought I’d catch both of you here.”

“Switching out cars. We assumed Hydra was tracking us into the city,” Steve narrows his eyes across the table, and it makes Sam laugh again.

“Damn, well... can’t say I’m sorry. Stark wanted me to keep a low profile until we crossed paths, and…” Sam sits up taller and leans across the table, forcing Steve to meet his eyes, “he mentioned something about keeping you stable.”

“God dammit—”

“Language.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Steve huffs, scrubbing his face with one hand, “why can’t Tony keep shit to himself.”

“Something I shouldn’t know about?”

Sam’s always been good at coaxing answers out of him, and Steve curses the other Alpha mentally for it. Why does he always attract friends who know him better than he knows himself?

“I found my soulmate, Sam.”

Jerking forward, the other Alpha’s eyes grow wide as his hands come down, hard, on the table. “Shit, Steve. When on earth did you have time—”

“I didn’t, Sam. That’s the thing. Fuck—”

He feels rage flow through his body for the first time in ages, and Steve’s hit with a flash of their bonding moment, marred by fear and devastation from his young Omega. He closes his eyes, remembering the residual pain from each heat. Scared and empty and alone.

There’s a hand on his arm, but Steve shakes it off, “Remember the kid Stark brought to Germany? Spider-man?”

“Sure, Bucky and I fought the kid, and he stuck us to the floor.”

“I fought him, too,” Steve sighs, rolling up the sleeve over his left arm to show the bright red and irritated word etched into his skin, “and I kicked him right in the chest.”

Sam doesn’t reach forward to touch. He barely gives it a glance, reaching over to roll up his own sleeve. Steve has to stop himself from growling in sympathy— the writing is black, smudged and illegible.

“Sam…”

With a sad smile, Sam rolls his shirt back in place, “It was years ago— and we bonded in combat. I got a few years with him on active duty, and then I felt when he was shot out of the sky.”

Sam meets his eyes, “Fucked me up good for a few years.”

“I had no idea.”

“I’m better now, sure. Wouldn’t show you if I wasn’t. Just letting you know, whatever you’re going through with this kid— because obviously you’re not with him now— that you’ve gotta value whatever time you get. In our line of business? I’m grateful I got years instead of moments, you know?”

Something clenches in his chest. Steve feels tears prick his eyes. He has to look away, afraid of the suddenly all too real possibility of crying in public. Quickly, he covers it up with a swig of cooling coffee, letting the emotions wash away alongside the bitter, familiar taste.

“I’ve never even met the kid, Sam. All I know is that he’s an Omega, and he has a strong bond with Tony.” Steve sighs, checking his watch again, “We were supposed to be extracted in Oslo, but got the tip instead. I’ll head home to him after we take care of the threat here.”

He can tell Sam disapproves of this choice, but the other Alpha just shakes his head, nodding to draw Steve’s attention back to the street, “Looks like our ride is here,” he chuckles just as a beat up Jeep swerves across traffic, coming to an abrupt stop in front of them.

The window rolls down, and Natasha makes a show of lowering her sunglasses, “Pickin’ up strays, Rogers?”

Both of them stand and approach the car, and Sam smiles as he takes the backseat, “Good to see you too, Romanoff.”

“I hope you brought your uniform,” she muses, swerving back into traffic once both of them are buckled in, “we’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

---

Peter

I think you’d hate my friends, Alpha. I don’t know, maybe not. I think you’d like that they wanna take care of me, even if they’re both little pieces of shit. I bet a visit from Captain America would shut them up. Or… Are you still Captain America, Steve?

Just as Peter finishes the line, the main cafeteria doors slam open. Both of his friends— MJ and Ned— have their arms in the air, gesturing animatedly.

“There you are!”

It’s as if he summoned them. Damn Spidey-senses, never working when he needs them to.

Peter squirms in his seat, “Hey, guys…” he checks his exits, noting quick escape routes. Sure, he’s never actually needed to run from his friends, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. “What’s up?”

Ned scoots into the bench next to him, pressing in close and draping an arm over Peter’s shoulders. MJ takes a seat on Peter’s other side, and both of them give Peter award-winning smiles— terrifying, really. Matching smiles only usually mean one thing.

“Can’t we just hang anymore, Parker?” MJ rolls her eyes, taking a discreet look at the pages in front of Peter on the table.

He quickly closes his notebook, “Sure, sure. I mean, we can hang— we hang all the time,” Peter catches them exchanging a glance, and sighs, “is there something you want? I’m trying to get homework done before practice.”

With a shake to his shoulders, Ned chuckles nervously, “No, no… we’re just looking out— ow!”

Peter looks down. MJ definitely kicked him.

“— I mean, we’re just wondering…”

“You wanna go to a Halloween party, Peter?” MJ cuts in, flicking at Ned’s arm where it’s still draped around his shoulder. Her face is open, fairly honest, and it catches Peter off guard.

“When’s Halloween?” he asks, thankful when Ned pulls his arm back.

The two of them exchange another look, “Uh…” Ned clears his throat, “it’s today, Peter. Today’s Halloween.”

“Oh.” Peter peeks into his folders to check the date on today’s homework, and sure enough, October Thirtyfirst is printed clearly across every page. Huh. He’s usually great at remembering holidays like this. “I wonder why May didn’t say anything…”

“Because,” MJ grabs his backpack, starting to shove notebooks and textbooks back inside, “we asked her to keep it a surprise. And your mom, too. We just didn’t think you were enough of a dumbass to miss the whole holiday.”

“Honestly, Peter, I don’t get how clueless you can be.”

He just nods along, letting the two of them pull him out of the cafeteria and walk towards the carpool lane. Maybe some part of him wanted them to find him today— who knows? Several other, better, hiding spots come to mind, but Peter doesn’t have it in him to protest.

A night off sounds like too much fun.

His mood immediately improves when they step outside. Parked closest to them, dark and intimidating on the curb, is one of Mr. Stark’s cars.

Happy is standing outside, holding the back door open, “Hey, kid. C’mon— haven’t got all day.”

“Oh!” Peter turns to his friends, both of their expressions smug and satisfied, “Please tell me the party’s at the compound? Oh god, I literally have nothing to wear. I have no idea—”

“We’ve got it taken care of,” MJ pushes him from behind, and Ned laughs, motioning for Peter to get in the car first.

“How did you—” Peter slides into the back seat, freezing when he sees who’s waiting for him, “Mama!”

Mr. Stark smiles— wide and genuine— and opens his arms wide. “Hey, kid. Surprise?”

Peter melts into the older Omega’s arms and squirms to get closer, ignoring how his friends laugh and tease him as he does so. Mr. Stark ruffles his hair, and rearranges them as the car starts moving. Ducking under his arm, Peter settles into Mr. Stark’s side and lets his eyes slip shut with the steady movement and noise of chatter in the background.

“You have a good day, Pete?”

He looks up to Mr. Stark and smiles, “It was okay, a lot better now. Did you help plan this?”

“What do you think, bambino? These friends of yours are… passionate.”

The description makes Peter chuckle. He’s fully aware just how passionate his friends can be. They are digging through the amenities stored in hidden compartments, and somehow both end up with a can of soda and several boxes of candy.

Peter ignores them in favor of burying himself into the warmth of Mr. Stark’s scent. There are lazy, calloused fingers in his hair, and he relaxes even more— a pleased purr building effortlessly from his chest.

When they eventually pull up to the compound, Ned and MJ are out in a shot— barreling through the doors and screaming into the empty halls.

Before Peter can leave the car, Mr. Stark grabs his shoulders and turns them to face each other, staring intentionally into his eyes. “If you don’t want to do this, Peter, we don’t have to? I have about fifty people coming over for a costume party, but I can cancel it and we can spend the night just us, if you’d like?”

He takes a moment to actually think it over. His skin is crawling, eyes already heavy with exhaustion. The thought of socializing with more than a few people is turning his stomach, and he looks into Mr. Stark’s eyes with a helpless grimace, “I guess I wouldn’t mind a party…”

“But you’d rather not?” Mr. Stark guesses, giving him a knowing smirk. Peter scrunches up his nose and shakes his head, and gets a chuckle in response, “Alright bambino, let me make a few calls. Why don’t you go inside and coral the animals.”

Peter laughs and leans in to give Mr. Stark a quick peck on the cheek, “Okay, Mama. Don’t work too hard.”

He catches a glimpse of Mr. Stark’s embarrassed flush before hopping out of the car, skipping towards the compound joyfully. Now that the threat of social interaction is out of the way, Peter feels excited about Halloween and the evening ahead of them.

“Ned?” He calls out, “MJ? Where are you guys?”

“Try the Eastern living room, Peter,” Friday’s voice rings out in the hallway, and Peter turns around to race down the corridor in the opposite direction, still calling out their names.

“In here, Pete!” Ned hollers.

When he turns the corner, Peter comes face to face with the classiest Halloween party room he’s ever seen. Every wall is covered in glass decorations, backlit with soft lights in various colors. An entire section of the room has been converted to a wardrobe, and both of his friends are rifling through the options.

Peter gravitates towards them, pushing aside different dresses and masks, “What’s…”

“Look, Pete— I’m you!” MJ has a Spider-man mask pulled down over her face as she laughs, pretending to shoot webs from her wrists, “bet I’d be a kick-ass Spider-man.”

He just shakes his head, “I bet you would, MJ.”

“What about me?”

Both of them turn to look at Ned as he wobbles over, legs and arms shoved haphazardly into the wrong end of a Spider-man onesie. His face is so confident as he stands in the middle of the room, and Peter can’t help the cackle that bursts out of his mouth, bringing tears to his eyes as he keels over in laughter.

“Where did… what did…” he can barely breathe, and looking up again at Ned is just a mistake.

MJ isn’t any better. She tears off the mask and coughs loudly, falling to the floor in a heap, “Ned! Where did you find that?”

“What?” Ned whines, striking a pose that sends them back into a fit of hysterics, “I don’t get how you can fight bad guys in this Peter— I feel too sexy for crime right now.”

“Please!” Peter begs as he wipes away tears, “mercy!”

“What’s all the— oh mother of god,” Mr. Stark’s voice rings out in the room, and it sends all three teenagers back into peels of laughter. He stands at the entrance to the living room with his arms crossed and an indulgent smile stretched across his face, and Peter lets himself roll on the floor and laugh and laugh and laugh.

Peter turns onto his back and lets the tears flow. They drench his cheeks and drip onto the rug, creating small spots on both sides of his head. It feels good— freeing. His next inhale is deep, his mind clears completely, and Peter realizes this is the first time he’s laughed in months. That every time he’s cried in the past few weeks has been full of devastation and sorrow.

Their combined scents slowly fill the room and bind them together as the evening progresses, each of them relaxing further and further into the moment. By the time the sun’s setting, Ms. Potts and Aunt May arrive with delivery, and the small group of them curl up on the couches to watch a Halloween movie.

Mr. Stark and Pepper take the love seat, and— with one last, longing gaze at the small spot in between them— Peter settles into a lump of blankets and pillows on the far end of the longer couch. He keeps a good distance between himself and his friends at the other end, but he can tell that there’s some awkward tension in the room as the movie starts to play.

He tries to ignore it, but Aunt May keeps giving him a look from her seat on a nearby chair.

“What?” he hisses at her, pouting a bit when she smirks.

May points at the loveseat and whispers, “You should sit with them. I know you wanna.”

“Stop!” Peter shakes his head in denial, “I’m not going to—”

“Hey, pup!” Mr. Stark calls from across the room, and Peter flushes. He knows the nickname is aimed at him.

Peter pulls the blankets up around his face, “Yes, Mama?”

There’s a snort from the MJ-Ned-shaped-lump, but it’s ignored. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts exchange a few hushed words before motioning for him to join them, “Come on over, Peter,” Pepper says with a confident smile, “plenty of room to join us.”

He’s up and out of the seat before he even processes moving.

At different points in his life, Peter has imagined how it might feel to curl up, safe and warm, between his parents. Never, in a million years, did he think he would get to experience that.

But the space between Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts feels like home. Scents like home. It’s sweet and warm in a way Aunt May’s Beta scent has never been. Peter has never scented Ms. Potts up close, but he’s not surprised when her scent has him immediately relaxing, melting back into the couch cushions.

The only Alpha he’s ever been close to is MJ, and her scent is terrifying .

Pepper lifts her arm and gives him a small smile, “You comfortable, Peter?”

Words won’t come, his senses are on overload. He feels a hand on his shoulder as Mr. Stark moves him, turning him bodily to lay across their laps with his feet in Pepper’s lap, head on Mr. Stark’s shoulder.

“Just relax, bambino,” Mr. Stark whispers, scratching at the baby hairs behind Peter’s ear, “we’ve got you.”

He lets his eyes close slowly. Both of them are scent-marking him subtly— squeezing his arms and legs, kissing his hair, and laying a blanket over him sometime later. The movie passes by completely unnoticed, and Peter dozes comfortably.

Why can’t every night be like tonight?

As the thrill of the night is fading away, Peter hears Mr. Stark offer his friends a ride back to the city. The two of them are fading as well, and it doesn’t take much convincing to get them out the door and into a waiting car.

May kisses him on the head before she leaves, “Sure you don’t want me to stay, Pete?”

“M’sure,” he murmurs, blinking up at her lazily, “you have work in the morning, right?”

“Yeah, champ. I do. You okay staying the night here, or do you want to head back with me?”

Peter looks back at Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts with a hopeful smile. Both of them laugh, and Mr. Stark waves his hand dismissively, “You know you’re always wanted here, Pete.”

“By both of us,” Pepper adds, squeezing his leg where her hand is resting.

“Alright, alright, I can take a hint,” May chuckles. She leans in for another kiss and Mr. Stark gets up to walk her out, leaving Peter and Pepper together on the couch.

He looks up at her. Everything about Pepper screams an intimidating mix of composure and warmth. Now that Mr. Stark is gone, he can separate their scents— and something about her distinct Alpha scent has him ducking his head, shy and submissive.

There’s a light touch on his arm, “Don’t hide from me, Peter,” her grin is soft and reassuring, “if you feel uncomfortable with me like this, you don’t have to stay— you know that, right?”

Her eyes are kind and not at all judgemental. He believes her doubtlessly.

“We haven’t spent much time together, have we?” Peter asks, hesitantly.

Pepper shakes her head, strawberry hair sweeping gracefully over her shoulder, “No, I don’t think so. Tony does come home smelling of you often, though.”

“Oh!” Peter sniffs his shirt, grimacing, “sorry about that, he helps me…”

“No, don’t worry, Peter,” she places a hand on his shoulder again, “I just meant that I’m familiar with your scent already. Tony even puts some of your items in our nest— I know he wants me to get used to our scents together.”

“Why… why would he do that?”

“Oh, Peter,” Pepper sighs. She shakes her head and leans back against the cushions, “we’re gone on you Peter. We really want to adopt you… at least informally.”

“She’s right.”

Mr. Stark’s voice is loud in the living room as he makes his way back to the couch. With a little bit of maneuvering, Peter is stuck in between them again, and this time he’s resting against Pepper’s chest. Her arms easily settle next to him on the sofa, aware of his space and cautious not to close him in.

“We have a secret plot to adopt and steal you away, kid,” Mr. Stark smirks and kicks his legs up, sipping on a drink as they settle together. “I just needed to get proper approval beforehand, you know?”

Peter hums, and he knows his own scent has gone sweet in satisfaction. The thought of being adopted— having a mom and dad, Alpha and Omega— is overwhelming.

“You promise?” Peter whispers. Part of him is scared of the possible rejection, even though he knows Mr. Stark rarely lies to him.

“Of course, bambino— whatever you want.”

As they cuddle together on the couch, trading hushed stories and sweet laughter, Peter has a thought.

It’s not the most responsible thought he’s ever had. If Mr. Stark digs too deep, he’ll chalk it up to being a teenager, being emotional, being an Omega.

“Mama?” Peter stares up at Mr. Stark with his best puppy-dog expression, and pouts his bottom lip, “Can I ask a favor?”

“I’m suspicious already, but sure— what is it?”

Pepper chuckles behind him, and Peter reaches down to hold her hand for comfort, “Can you get my letters to Steve?”

With a loud cough, Mr. Stark chokes on his drink and sputters. His hands fly up and wave around frantically, possibly looking for something to anchor him. Peter curls further into the shield of Pepper’s body and lets her deal with the aftermath— patting Mr. Stark’s back and criticizing him for being so dramatic.

“In what—“ Mr. Stark starts, coughing hard, “In what universe would that be a good idea, Peter?”

“I... I didn’t...”

“Actually,” Pepper interrupts, interlacing their fingers together, “I think that might be a good idea.”

Mr. Stark looks betrayed, affronted. Peter turns to smile up at her, “Really? You think so?”

“Once your hormones are stable, why not?” Pepper asks, kicking at Mr. Stark when her Omega makes a disappointed face, “It might be helpful for your Alpha to hear from you.”

“Get his head on straight,” Mr. Stark grumbles. His hands are clenched, and he refuses to look at them.

There’s a beat of silence where Peter just stares at Mr. Stark, hoping for an answer. He knows it’s a big favor to ask— but if anyone can get it done, he knows Tony Stark can.

“Fine.”

---

Hi Steven Grant Rogers, God. Would you make me take your name? I really hate that. Maybe I’ll ask you to take my name instead. Mr. Stark said I could send you one letter every month, and that if you respond, I can have that letter back. I hope you respond. Uh... I’m not sure what else to say. My name is Peter and I’m in high school. I know that makes things hard for you, being old as dirt, but I hope when we meet that it won’t be too awkward. I hope you stay safe. I’m finally on suppressants and doing better than I was before. Your words on my arm barely hurt anymore. Okay. That’s all for now. Yours, Peter Benjamin Parker Oh! PS I’ve sent a little sample of what I scent like. Mama said that you would like that.

Tag list (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @purplefreakwolffish @instantsharkskeletonpizza @justslightlycrazy @angelstarker @femmeparker @starkeraddictbaby @starkentrprises @snowstark @sarcastich

[carelessannie]

lookin for love (in all the wrong places) chapter four

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

In CA:CW Steve kicks Spider-Man in the chest, awakening a soul deep bond and sending Peter into his first heat, before running away to Wakanda.

The soul bond, omegaverse, Spidershield angsty romance everyone needs.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Peter Parker Chapters: 4/ Word count: 6K Rating: E Warnings: depressive tendencies due to soul bond sickness, poor Peter, sad Steve, experimental medical treatments, angst Read it here on AO3 Title is from this song by Johnny Lee “Distracting with Affection” for @peterparkerbingo

---

Steve

It takes a few hours for them to receive a date and time.

Steve finishes a few bowls of oatmeal under the early morning light, unsurprised when Natasha disappears after their conversation with Tony. He already recognizes that look on her face— determination that dismantles governments and upends carefully laid plans. When she gets like that, there’s no standing in her way.

So Steve runs.

He starts down by the cavern and heads North, following the coastline until the sun is directly in front of him, and then he circles back.

Each footstep sings out the name of his soulmate:

Peter.

Steve wishes he knew it last week, when their heat and rut were aligned. Hell, he wishes he had stayed long enough to learn it from the sweet Omega himself.

Each footstep reminds him of the failures he’s running from.

Peter.

When he approaches their cabin, Natasha is standing outside. Her hair is up and her arms are crossed— probably the closest Steve has ever seen to looking disheveled. He slows gradually, coming to a stop next to her, “Hey. What’s going on?”

She just shakes her head and motions for him to follow, heading quickly back into the cabin. Their bags are thrown on the floor, several things either torn or missing. All of the food is pulled out of the cabinets, their beds are stripped haphazardly, and as Steve looks through the mess, he realizes every piece of electronic equipment is missing.

“What…” Steve looks up, but Natasha raises a finger to silence him. In her other hand, she’s holding a handful of small black chips— bugs. Listening devices and cameras. Dammit. Natasha sighs, depositing the group of spyware into a clear bag. Steve points a finger to his watch, holds up all five fingers— a silent signal for five minutes— and then points east.

Natasha nods and disappears into the bedroom.

Within five minutes, both of them have packed a bag and are hopping into the car. The gray Ignis has served them well up until now, but Steve knows they’ll have to ditch it soon. He lets her drive, to start. She tosses him their international phone once they’re a few miles from the cabin, “Read and discard,” Natasha instructs him, tone clipped.

Steve only spares a moment to read her expression before following orders. There are two messages on the phone and he opens the first one:

Oslo, Gardermoen. 12 08 2016. 05:14. D12. Ask for Mr. Parker at the gate.

Flight information then. Steve quickly memorizes it before moving to the next message, from a similar yet slightly different number:

Location compromised. Hold your designated resistance, avengers. 59.197, 37.948.

“Coordinates?” Steve rereads the message, as Natasha hums in confirmation, steering them effortlessly onto a main road. They’re headed east, and Steve does some quick calculations in his head. “Russia?” he guesses, based on values he’s memorized before.

“Tonshalovo in the Cherepovetsky District. I think the phrase is an acronym. I’m not positive who might be sending us encrypted warnings, but I have an idea.”

He reads the message again, putting together the first letter of the second phrase.

Hydra.

Shit.

Steve dismantles the phone— pulling the sim card and battery out first, smashing both of them in his hand and pocketing half of the remains, shoving the rest into the seat cushion. He does the same with the body of the phone, separating each of the mechanisms and dividing them to dispose of later.

He sinks into the seat with a sigh. “So what— I fly home to my mate and leave you to fight Hydra alone? There’s absolutely no way.”

“I’ll do it, Steve— you know that.”

“Dammit,” he curses, “that’s not happening. We stick together, Nat, whether or not we head back with Stark.”

There’s no option Steve can accept where they would split up. He’s not sure who warned them initially, but even if it was Stark or Wilson or even T’Challa, he owes it to all of them to finish the job he started. Natasha shouldn’t have to manage it alone.

“It’s up to you, Steve,” she says, eyes still trained ahead.

“I know,” Steve agrees, closing his eyes with a sigh, “we need to head East and find a secure line along the way. I have a feeling my conversation with Tony isn’t going to be a pleasant one.”

Natasha shoots him a sympathetic look. He doesn’t want it, doesn’t want to think about what this choice means in the long run.

As they drive, he gives himself ten minutes to fantasize about a different decision. Instead of driving through Oslo, they would rendezvous at the airport. The flight is tomorrow morning, and Steve bets it wouldn’t be hard for them to find shelter for the evening, grab a meal and sleep off the stress of the day.

On the plane, Steve would have written his soulmate a proposal. An apology. He would have spent the hours it took getting back to the States dreaming of his Omega’s face— what type of skin he could have, his hair and eyes, even the shape of his nose and lips. Maybe he would sketch out options, throwing each of them away when his drawing could never come close, never even scrape the surface.

For a moment he imagines his Omega’s scent. It would blend well with his own, while still maintaining the tangy, sweet aroma typical to male Omegas. Steve’s been told— often, by Bucky— that his scent is a medley of angry gorillas humping a pine tree. On USO tours, female Omegas would coo about his earthy scent, loving the balance of summer grass and freshly fallen conifer needles.

Steve imagines that his Omega smells like sunshine, breaking through dense foliage and waking the earth below. Sunshine and oranges— indulgent, like Florida in the summertime. Hot, Miami beaches, shaded with the relief of cool mimosas and large expanses of water.

And Peter would be his oasis.

Ten minutes are over, and Steve shakes himself out of his daydream.

Instead, they drive through Oslo, heading East on E16 until they pass into Sweden. It’s simple enough to travel through the border, and they switch driving a few hours later. Steve guides them through the night and lets Natasha sleep, waking her up only when they connect to Route 74 in Gävle and turn South.

By this point, the sun is rising again and it’s been almost twenty-four hours since they’ve had a hot meal. Steve takes the next exit and stops at a small café, satisfied to see it’s opening for business.

“You take care of breakfast,” Natasha’s voice is certain as she swings open the car door, “I will locate a different vehicle and a secure line. I’m sure you’ll want to make… a call. Seeing as our flight was three hours ago.”

“Fuck,” Steve curses, scrubbing a hand down his face. Natasha gives him a smirk and struts around to the driver’s side door, motioning for Steve to get out of the car.

Before getting in the seat, she digs around in her backpack, pulling out a small billfold and slapping it into Steve’s waiting hand. “About three hundred Krona should get you enough food until we can get into Finland, okay? I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

She’s true to her word. The money gets him a few dozen pastries and sandwiches, and Natasha drives back in a small Toyota just as he’s finishing a second bagel, thankful for the fresh food and renewed energy.

As they continue South, Natasha insists on driving and hands Steve an international phone, “Don’t ask how, but it’s secure.”

“Nat…” Steve tries to protest, but she just fixes him with a glare.

“Steve. Just call.” With one hand she flips open the phone and clicks through a handful of contacts, handing it back to him with a number highlighted.

He doesn’t bother responding, and hits the call button with a grumble.

It rings twice.

“Stark.”

“It’s me.”

There’s a pause over the line. “What the— fuck you, Rogers. What the actual fuck? Where the hell are you?”

“We don’t have the time, Tony,” Steve cuts him off, “we’ve been compromised. Heading East, we think it’s Hydra underground. We have to finish this, and we have to do it now.”

“Of course, Hydra. Always Hydra,” Tony’s voice is distant, and Steve can hear him typing away on a keyboard, “So where are you headed? No, wait— let me guess… Russia?”

Natasha just shrugs, so Steve huffs, “Yes. We got a tip.”

“Send me the coordinates and I’ll set up—”

“No, Tony, you don’t have to—”

“Shut up, Rogers, god,” Tony sounds angry now, and Steve’s mouth snaps shut, “let me take care of some things for you, okay? Send me coordinates and find a way to contact me once you’re within twenty miles.”

It’s risky, but Steve agrees anyway. They’ll take any help they can get. “Thank you, Tony. We owe you one.”

“No, Alpha,” Tony sneers through the line. The honorary holds anything but respect, and sends Steve reeling for a moment before the other man continues, “it’s not me you owe. Remember that.”

His breath catches. “Can I… can I talk—”

“No. You find a way to see him in person, and I’ll allow it. Until then, you haven’t earned his time.”

Natasha gestures for him to end the call, and Steve chokes on another breath. It seems as though the distance between him and his mate grows wider with each passing moment.

“Steve?”

He can’t respond, doesn’t know who’s calling his name, and the phone is suddenly snatched from his limp, unresponsive hand. All Steve can do is stare straight ahead.

“Yes… yes… less than twenty four hours… okay… okay I’ll tell him.”

There’s silence in the car as it speeds down the road, heading to the ferry and away from his soulmate. It’s light outside— sunshine, a painful reminder of what he’s running from. Sunshine that burns his skin with radiance and shame.

“Steve?”

Natasha’s voice is soft, and he doesn’t deserve that. Doesn’t deserve the pity or the comfort she freely offers him.

“Alright, Steve. Don’t wanna talk? Fine. I’ll do that instead.”

He feels a small hand settle in the crook of his arm, and has to stop himself from pulling away as Natasha speaks, her voice little more than a whisper, “I went twelve years without my soulmate. We bonded in combat, and when the handlers realized what had happened, he was removed. I was sixteen, Steve. How old do you think your Omega is?”

Understanding what she’s implying, Steve whips around to face her and draws in a shaky breath, “I won’t do that to him.”

“Hush, I know that. I’m just letting you see that I survived, and I still have a sliver of hope. Even with governments and world leaders fighting against us, I know we’re destined for each other.” Natasha looks away and mutters, “Even if it’s just for a moment’s time. Even if it’s just another mission.”

You’re my mission.

Steve sits back, remembering the words Bucky yelled on the Helicarrier. Before Natasha can remove her hand, Steve clasps it between his own, squeezing her fingers comfortingly.

“Do you hate him for leaving you?”

Natasha glances over, meeting his eyes with a cool, fixed stare, “I did.” She turns back to the road and slips her hand out of his grasp, returning it to the steering wheel.

“But now I just hate the men who took him from me.”

Rolling the windows down, both of them sit in the silence as they trek the coastline. The October breeze brings much needed relief to the heat on Steve’s skin, and he lets his eyes fall shut.

He thinks about his Omega. He knows any amount of hatred is justified, but can’t help hoping that his young mate will wait for him without growing resentful. For the duration of their trip, Steve clutches his left arm tight— hugging close to his body the only bit of Peter he can claim for himself.

It isn’t until they’re boarding the ferry later in the afternoon that Natasha speaks to him again.

“Tony said he put your Omega on suppressants.”

“He what?”

Natasha covers her mouth, just barely stopping herself from smiling, “He said something about not trusting your patriotic ass to take care of the kid, so he’s put Peter on a few different suppressants for now.”

Deep breaths. Steve forces himself to inhale deep, controlling the wild anger in his Alpha scent, before exhaling out the stress. “Is it… is it safe?”

Now Natasha is laughing, shaking her head in exasperation as she watches Steve’s face in amusement, “Yeah, Steve. Herbal and synthetic suppressants tend to be doctor recommended for unmated Omegas.”

Steve snarls instinctively, “He’s not—”

“Come off it, Alpha. I know he’s yours,” the admission helps Steve calm down, even if Natasha doesn’t stop laughing, “but, without his Alpha, Peter’s body will do everything it can to secure him a mate. This will at least delay that process until we can get stateside.”

It’s not ideal, and Steve wishes he was stable enough to receive the news directly from Tony. He looks back out the window of the car, absentmindedly counting the vehicles in line ahead of them to board the ferry. They’ll ditch their ride as soon as they reach Finland, but until then it’s dangerous to leave it behind.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t get jealous, Alpha,” Natasha adds, already preparing to leave their car once it’s parked. “Tony doesn’t want your mate.”

Steve rolls his eyes, “And how do you know that?”

Now Natasha laughs, shaking her head and pinning Steve with a glare, “You’re an idiot. Tony’s an Omega, Steve.”

“I…” Okay, Steve didn’t know that. He assumed with the lack of scent that Tony was a Beta, or that something happened, like with Natasha. Regardless, something inside of Steve relaxes. “So… is Peter his son?”

That would explain the possessiveness from the other Omega, but Natasha just shakes her head again, “He doesn’t have any biological kids, but Tony’s definitely been known to pick up strays. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve formed a pack bond.”

“Adopted?”

“Maybe,” she admits, “I’ve never met the kid, so it has to have been recent.”

The radiator ticks and crisp, autumn air blows through the open windows steadily. Steve runs a few fingers through his hair. He’s not unfamiliar with pack bonds— even before they presented, he and Bucky had formed a strong bond that only intensified as they had their first ruts. Even now, he’s intensely protective of his best friend, and Steve can’t imagine what a maternal bond must be like for two Omegas.

He shudders thinking about it, and hums, “I guess I know Peter will be well taken care of, then.”

Natasha stares at him for a moment, assessing, before pulling the keys out of the ignition and gracefully climbing out of the car. It’s settled inconspicuously in the lot, and Steve watches her carefully tuck the keys into the sun visor. Whether they decide to take the car or leave it, at least it won’t be completely stranded.

The trip through the Åland Islands should take close to ten hours if they’re lucky. Natasha waves their ticket packet at him and starts towards the elevators, leaving him to follow with just a call of, “Eighth deck, Alpha.”

Everything about the ferry is small and functional, and it reminds Steve a little bit of the SHIELD accommodations that he had for a few weeks after coming out of the ice. They end up walking to the end of the hallway before reaching their room.

“Spacious,” Natasha deadpans as she swings open the door.

Steve can’t help returning the sentiment as they take in the cramped cabin, fitted with an outdated television and minimal bathroom. The bunks protrude from the left-side wall, and come close to hovering over the corner desk and chair.

“At least there’s a window, right?” Steve chuckles, letting his bag drop to the floor, “Are you okay taking top?”

Natasha winks at him before flinging her belongings up to the higher bunk, “Why Captain, if you wanted to bottom, all you had to do was ask.”

He feels himself flush at the hidden meaning, but laughs instead, following suit and tossing his bag onto the second bed. “How about you buy me dinner, and we’ll go from there?”

“Sounds like a plan, Alpha,” Natasha holds up a handful of meal passes, grabbing Steve’s arm to lead him out of the room, locking it shut as they walk away.

---

Peter

Mr. Stark has been acting weird since his last heat. He knows it’s because the older Omega feels protective, maybe even possessive, but Peter’s started to avoid calls and check-ins. Honestly, he’s fifteen. He needs space.

But apparently no one else agrees with this conclusion.

If it’s not Mr. Stark, MJ and Ned are breathing down his neck, demanding his time and attention. And then, when he’s home, it’s Aunt May and even Happy checking up on him and asking personal, invasive questions.

Peter realizes something actually might be wrong when he spends an entire week locked in his room after school, lights off, and refuses to patrol at night.

He’s never felt like this before, and it scares him.

“May,” he calls out, already concerned at how weak his voice is, “Aunt May!”

It’s eerie how familiar this feels— sitting, helpless and alone, in his nest, waiting for someone to come save him. Aunt May pushes into the room and makes an injured sound, approaching his nest timidly, “Peter? Honey? What’s going on?”

She reaches to feel his forehead, and the touch stings, causing him to pull away with a hiss. He can’t be near her, can’t get close to her— his body won’t let him.

Peter doesn’t even have the energy to cry.

And for the first time since this started, he curses his Alpha. His damn heroic soulmate, who had to go off and save the world, and left him here, alone, to suffer. Fucking Captain America, the Alpha of his dreams.

For a moment, he hopes Steve can feel every ache and pain he’s had to experience. But that only lasts for a moment. The violence and rage of the thought helps sober him, clearing his mind, and he listens to Aunt May talking steadily on the phone as he traces the words on his arm mindlessly.

“... might need to come get him… no, he just rejected my touch,” Peter flinches, instinctively moving further away from May into his nest, “... whenever you can… would it be safe?... anything, Tony… he can’t live like this.”

She hangs up, and Peter cracks open his eyes to see her pulling items out of the closet, stuffing his clothes and books into a few bags.

“Wha’s… wha’s go’n’ on?” Peter slurs. He tries to sit up straight, but ends up slumped against the nearest wall. There’s a rattling noise nearby, and he focuses on it, trying to find the source.

“God, Pete— you’re shivering.”

Oh. The rattling is coming from him.

“Mr. Stark is coming. He thinks one of his doctors has something that will help you get better.”

Of course, he can’t answer her. She moves to touch him again, and he can’t help the wounded howl that escapes his lips, warning her to stay away from his body. She might be crying, Peter can’t tell. He wiggles further into his nest and wishes that the lights would turn off.

There’s a click of the door opening, and muted voices surround him.

“... safe to move? I didn’t realize…”

If Peter could perk up, he would. He knows that voice. That voice means home and warmth— things he needs so much more of. A familiar scent surrounds him, and Peter reaches for it blindly, thankful when strong arms surround him and tuck his face in close.

“M’ma,” he sighs into warm skin, barely stopping himself from mouthing to try and coax out more of the comforting aroma.

“I’ve gotcha, bambino, you’re safe.”

Peter closes his eyes, more than willing to give himself over to the calm waves of his Mama’s scent, surrounding him and enclosing him in safety, if even for a moment.

He knows it can’t last long. It never does.

And, just as he expects, Peter’s woken up by the steady beep of a monitor nearby, the chatter of a far away conversation, and the disarming smell of a sterile and clean environment.

All traces of his nest and his Mama’s scent are gone, and he pushes himself up to better take in his surroundings.

“We gotta stop doing this, kid.”

“Ma— err,” Peter stops himself, unable to meet Mr. Stark’s eyes as the familial nickname almost leaves his lips again, and he corrects himself quickly, “Mr. Stark, what’re you doing here?”

Mr. Stark moves across the hospital room and settles himself on the bed next to Peter, carefully rearranging wires and shifting Peter to the side so he can recline. Peter doesn’t expect it when Mr. Stark turns, sliding his legs under Peter’s, and pulling the smaller Omega almost entirely onto his lap, secure in his arms.

Peter leans into the embrace and settles his head on Mr. Stark’s shoulder. He’ll take what he can get.

Mr. Stark whispers something, but Peter misses it, “What? Sorry.”

“I said,” the older Omega starts over, looking directly into Peter’s eyes, “you can call me Mama if you’d like. God knows we’ve got the bond to show for it.”

There’s warmth and rare vulnerability in Mr. Stark’s gaze, something Peter knows he’s unlikely to see again from this man. “Okay, Mama,” he tests it out, smiling as Mr. Stark’s scent flares with pride and satisfaction. He’s never had that with Aunt May, and never had it with his parents either. It’s warm, it feels right, and the pack bond swelling between them helps ease the ache his soulmate has left.

“What happened?” Peter asks after relaxing further, letting Mr. Stark pet his hair affectionately.

“What do you remember?”

He thinks for a moment, “I remember needing to be in my nest and not wanting to be around anyone else… and then suddenly a week had passed, and I hadn’t gone out to patrol.”

The memory causes him to whine in mild distress— it doesn’t make sense. He’s never been one for laziness or sulking. When he’s sad, Peter usually resorts to working more, not cutting back.

“Do you remember me coming to get you, bambino?” Mr. Stark asks, voice soft.

“Not really. I remember not wanting to be touched, though.”

Mr. Stark hums thoughtfully and continues stroking Peter’s hair. He seems to debate something before making eye contact again, “Alright, kid, I’m gonna give this to you straight. Initially, after your bond, you went through a presentation heat and a stress heat a few weeks later. The doctors think this was your body’s way of trying to bring back your Alpha. After that failed, your bond sickness worsened to the point of depression— not just mental depression, but bond depression from being rejected by your mate.”

“But I… I never was with my mate,” Peter argues. It makes sense, but the possible implications are demoralizing.

“I know, I know— but your body doesn’t know that. I went through this kid, okay? Your hindbrain doesn’t know any better, and just assumes you’ve been rejected because of the separation. And…”

He pauses, looking away with a concerning grimace on his face. It makes Peter nervous, and he tugs on Mr. Stark’s sleeve, “What, Mama? And what?”

“The way it’s going,” Mr. Stark sighs, giving Peter a sad smile, “your body is slowly killing you.”

“Oh.”

Peter’s not sure what to say to that. There’s no emotional response— instead, he feels numb. This feels expected. And he’s not surprised at all.

There’s a single tear track down Mr. Stark’s face, and Peter brushes it off with his thumb. Their scents mix together in melancholy. Peter’s not sure what to say, so he just waits. If anyone has a plan, a solution to his problem, it’s his Mama.

And sure enough, Mr. Stark suddenly sits up straight. He turns so they’re facing each other with a determination Peter is all too familiar with, “I’m not gonna let you die.”

“Is there… is Steve…”

Mr. Stark shakes his head, “No. No, I’ve got doctors here. They have… it’s a suppressant mix that helps with bond depression. Your Aunt wants to give it a try, and I think it has real potential. You just…” he looks down, taking Peter’s hand in both of his, “you just have to give us the green light, okay? It’s just a few shots, and then weekly appointments to monitor you.”

“Are you sure it’s fine with my… Spider stuff?”

“Yeah, I’ve analyzed it, and we’ll keep checking in,” Mr. Stark squeezes their hands together, forcing a reassuring smile, “and I’m gonna get you better, okay?”

He trusts Mr. Stark indubitably. Even now, his limbs feel heavy and all Peter wants to do is curl up in his nest— so different from his usual energy and excitement. If there’s a way to fix that, he has to jump on it.

He needs to last long enough to meet his Alpha. Eventually.

“Yeah, Mr. Stark. Whatever we need to do.”

---

The shots are easy. Two in his left shoulder, and one in his right that leaves the taste of cinnamon in his mouth. By the time he’s done eating dinner that evening, his body feels incredible.

Peter didn’t even realize the depression had dulled his Spidey-senses until they came back full force.

Mr. Stark offers him a stay in the compound for the evening— the hospital is in the first level of the basement, and it’s an easy walk up to the apartments and Mr. Stark’s bedroom.

He makes sure to video call Aunt May after dinner, letting her know he’s already feeling better. She coos over him and frets until Mr. Stark takes the phone away.

“He’s fine here, he’s in the best hands possible under the care of the greatest doctors in the world, May. Trust me, trust him, trust the god of thunder or something— you into Norse mythology? No, probably not.”

Somehow, his rambling calms her down, and they all decide to turn in for the night.

It should be weird, sleeping over like this. After Mr. Stark offered him a position with the Avengers— living at the compound and everything— he could never have seen himself actually fitting in here. And now, the compound is practically empty.

Peter knows Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts spend most of their time in the city anyways, but the large, expansive emptiness of the place is almost haunting. It speaks of missing teammates, vacant rooms and dust build-up on equipment that should be in regular use.

He’s sure new members will move in eventually, but for now, it feels good to fill up the space with their warm, combined scents. Peter wants to roll in it.

They curl up in Mr. Stark’s nest with hot chai and turn on Mythbusters, yelling corrections at the screen periodically, until both of them are laughing so hard their drinks spill. Mr. Stark doesn’t seem to care, and throws a towel down so they can repeat the process again.

Peter understands that what he has with Mr. Stark is unusual, especially for his age, but— having grown up without his mom or dad— he feels no guilt or shame indulging in the care that the older Omega is freely offering. He lets himself daydream for a moment about spending time with Pepper as well, being enveloped in a small family and considered theirs.

Even if that perfect picture of their family is incomplete.

Because for as close as he presses into Mr. Stark’s side and as much time he spends buried in the Omega’s nest, there will still be a gaping hole where his soulmate is supposed to fit.

No amount of cuddling or suppressants or crime-fighting will fill his Alpha’s spot.

But damn if Peter isn’t going to try.

Mr. Stark is waving his arms, trying to explain why the mechanics of a duct tape trebuchet are fundamentally flawed, when Peter taps his arm, getting his attention. The other Omega comes grinding to a halt— almost visibly so— and turns animated eyes down to where Peter lays across his chest, “What… what is it, bambi? Was I doing it wrong?”

The confusion makes Peter laugh, shaking his head, “No, no, I just have a question.”

“What is it, kid?” he asks, turning the volume down on the television.

“When you were in the cave in Afghanistan, how did you deal with the bond sickness?”

“Oh,” Mr. Stark’s expression softens, and he helps Peter sit up to face him, “real conversation time, I guess—”

“— if that’s okay,” Peter cuts in, “I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable…”

“C’mon kid, there’s not much that could make me uncomfortable at this point,” Mr. Stark jokes, but the humor doesn’t meet his eyes. Still, he continues, “So, when I was in Afghanistan, that’s when I built Iron Man— which you know already. And before getting on the plane, that’s when Pepper and I bonded as well.”

He stops, staring past Peter into middle distance, “I’ve never felt like that before in my life, Pete. Similar to what you’re going through, and then they stopped feeding me and added water torture to top it off. I wasn’t able to distinguish the bond depression from the actual, physical pain until about a month in, when they wanted me to build the Jericho.”

“Didn’t you have a heat, like mine?”

Mr. Stark shakes his head, “No, I’ve had implanted suppressants for decades, and they kept me from having a heat like that. I had to make a choice, though. Not just for the ultimatum they gave, but for my life and my purpose, I guess. And I chose to fight. I built the armor of course, but when they asked what supplies I needed… I asked for reams and reams of paper.”

Peter furrows his eyebrows, “Paper? Like for blueprints?”

“Some,” Mr. Stark agrees, “but I started writing letters.”

Definitely not what Peter was expecting.

“I started by writing letters to myself. It was easier to yell at myself and give myself a hard time when things weren’t looking up. And then… suddenly my letters weren’t to myself anymore. I didn’t address them at first, but I started writing letters to my Alpha.”

“Oh,” Peter breathes, hand shooting out to grab Mr. Stark’s arm.

“Yeah, bambino,” the Omega gives him a wane smile, “I wrote dozens of letters to an Alpha half a world away, not yet bonded, and unsure if we would ever be together. For the last two months, it felt as though she was sitting next to me, calling me back to her.”

Tears are already forming in Peter’s eyes, and he wipes at them ferociously, “But, you had control of that, Mr. Stark. You escaped, you made it back home to your Alpha. I have no idea where my Alpha even is!”

“Okay, kid, but think of it from Pepper’s point of view. She spent months waiting for her soul words to smudge across her arm, waiting for the day I turned up dead— never having the chance to hold her mate for the first time.”

Peter’s tears fall freely now, and he can’t help the sob that bubbles up.

Mr. Stark scoots closer, “But I was fighting for her— for me, for us— the whole time. God knows I wish it wasn’t Steve of all people you were waiting for, but if I know anything about that man, it’s that his loyalties run deep. My mistake was thinking that applied to our friendship.”

“B-but, he didn’t choose me!” Peter chokes on the words, admitting his rejection and letting bitter shame fill his scent.

And it hurts. Allowing it to be true, allowing himself to accept his pain hurts. Mr. Stark reels him in and Peter buries his face in the worn cotton of his t-shirt, letting himself wail and wail, knowing only the bots in the lab and Friday are nearby to hear him.

If he weren’t enhanced, he probably would have missed the damp patch forming in his hair, or the small, hitched breaths coming from Mr. Stark— but he registers them, nonetheless, and pulls back in horror to find the other man’s face streaked with tears, eyes red and skin blotchy.

“Pete,” he whispers between his own tears, “he’s choosing you, kid. I’m choosing you, okay? You gotta know that, Omega.”

He doesn’t know that, he’s never known that— not when everyone he’s ever loved has been ripped away from him mercilessly. But, looking up into Mr. Stark’s steel-set eyes, overflowing with conviction, Peter finds himself nodding along.

“Want that,” he mumbles, nuzzling back into Mr. Stark’s neck, letting the other Omega tuck them in tight as they drift off to sleep.

“Gonna make sure you get it, Peter,” he hears just as he fades into the comfortable warmth of sleep.

---

Dear Peter,

“Wow, that’s the worst,” Peter grumbles, crumpling up the entire sheet of paper. Absolutely not. He can’t write a letter to himself, what was Mr. Stark thinking?

Hey asshole,

That seems a bit better.

Hey asshole, Stop being sad. From, Yourself.

Peter looks down at it, frowning at how dumb the words look on the large piece of paper.

He crumples that one up too.

I wish you were here.

Okay. That’s a bit better. Honest. Genuine. Simple.

I wish you were here. I wish we didn’t meet in the middle of a fight. Sometimes I wish I’d never met you at all. Do you even know my name?

Peter folds that one in half, shoving it in a shoebox under his bed before starting over.

Steve,

Oh, that feels weird. He crosses it out and starts over,

Steve, Alpha, Do I call you Alpha? Mr. Stark says you don’t like the traditional dynamics that much, but you’re like ten years older than me, I feel like I need to call you Alpha or Mr. Rogers or something. Oh god.

Peter goes to throw that one away as well, but something devilish inside has him folding it instead, slipping it into the box with the other one.

If his soulmate doesn’t have a sense of humor, why bother?

He tries again,

My Soulmate, It’s been three months since you kicked me in the chest and left me for dead. It’s been hell, that’s what it’s been. There’s a part of me that hopes you are suffering just as much as I am, but when I really think about it, I don’t hope for that at all. What is it about fucking soulmates that has us caring for each other instantly? I’ve had so many friends to lean on during this, but the emptiness you left behind aches with a ferocity I wasn’t prepared to handle. I want you to know… I don’t hate you. At least, I don’t think I do. Mr. Stark says loyalty is a big thing for you, and I understand why you did what you did. He’s hopeful you’re fighting to get back to me because “that’s the type of man he is, Peter,” but I don’t know you. I just know myself. And I’m not sure I’m worth fighting for. Anyways, I hope you can feel some of me wherever you are. God knows I can feel you, all the time. I wish you’d come back, at least come look me in the eyes and see what you’ve walked out on. Shit that sounds pathetic. Forget I said that, I’m thriving, Alpha, and don’t need no man! Come home to me… I won’t give up on you, Steve. Yours.

[carelessannie]

STOPPPPPPP teasing me with Spidershield. I can't handle iiiiiiiiiiiiiit

TONIGHT, DEAR ANON

I’ll post here and on AO3 in a few hours!

[carelessannie]

Finishing up something exciting …

[carelessannie]

Highkey loving the BuckyNat vibes happening around here lately

oooo thanks Anon! The two of them are so gorgeous together I can’t help but reblog. I have a few more of them on my queue coming up!!

(I’m also considering writing an outtake for them in LFL, but you didn’t hear that from me)

[carelessannie]

Sneak peek for my sad Saturday anon ❤️❤️

[carelessannie]

What’s this? Annie’s gonna update LFL weekly?

Couldn’t be me

[carelessannie]

Something new on the way…

[carelessannie]

Guess what’s going up tonight?

[carelessannie]

You guys want the next chapter of LFL tonight?

[carelessannie]

LFL pleassssssssssssssssssssssssssseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

How about a teaser?

He looks back out the window of the car, absentmindedly counting the vehicles in line ahead of them to board the ferry. They’ll ditch their ride as soon as they reach Finland, but until then it’s dangerous to leave it behind.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t get jealous, Alpha,” Natasha adds, already preparing to leave their car once it’s parked. “Tony doesn’t want your mate.”

Steve rolls his eyes, “And how do you know that?”

Now Natasha laughs, shaking her head and pinning Steve with a glare, “You’re an idiot. Tony’s an Omega, Steve.”

“I…” Okay, Steve didn’t know that. He assumed with the lack of scent that Tony was a Beta, or that something happened, like with Natasha. Regardless, something inside of Steve relaxes. “So… is Peter his son?”

That would explain the possessiveness from the other Omega, but Natasha just shakes her head again, “He doesn’t have any biological kids, but Tony’s definitely been known to pick up strays. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve formed a pack bond.”

“Adopted?”

“Maybe,” she admits, “I’ve never met the kid, so it has to have been recent.”

The radiator ticks and crisp, autumn air blows through the open windows steadily. Steve runs a few fingers through his hair. He’s not unfamiliar with pack bonds— even before they presented, he and Bucky had formed a strong bond that only intensified as they had their first ruts. Even now, he’s intensely protective of his best friend, and Steve can’t imagine what a maternal bond must be like for two Omegas.

He shudders thinking about it, and hums, “I guess I know Peter will be well taken care of, then.”