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cagestark · 6 years ago

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

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

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

Read here on AO3!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two weeks until what?” Peter asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A cluster of forks rise into the air.

“Jarvis?”

“Yes, sir?”

“The kid. He’s a beta, right?”

“He has not presented otherwise.”

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

“…”

“J?”

“I believe he is a beta, sir.”

“Your confidence is downright stirring, J.”

“Always a pleasure to give, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s balance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” Steve says. “It’s alright—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter smiles. “Thanks. Steve.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“J.”

“Yes, sir?”

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

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

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

“Performing them now, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I—I have no idea. I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

“Peter.”

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

“Stay back,” Peter barks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until then?

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

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

Now, everything has changed.

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

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

And Peter isn’t his alpha.

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

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

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

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

Peter tries to smile back. “Steve.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he is more than that to Peter, too.

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

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

“JARVIS…”

“I’m here, sir.”

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

“Just Captain Rogers, sir.”

“Add Peter.”

“Shall I alert him—”

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

“As you wish, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mister Parker.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s his heat?”

“Yes—”

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I recommend a tepid shower, Mister Parker.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Peter?” he slurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that—you don’t want that?”

“I do, God, Jesus, yes I do—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, it wasn’t me?” Tony asks.

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

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

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

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

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