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Of all the fucking days.
He should’ve seen it coming. The dull throbbing at the base of his skull, the ache of his muscles, the way he runs out of breath a little quicker than usual. It’s demeaning, how affected he is by it; after years of experience, denial masked as discipline, he thought he’d be fine, capable of overcoming his trifling biology at least for the time spent tracking down the anomalies. A few short weeks of peace, uninhibited by degeneracy as most would call it.
There is one unfortunate, multiversal coin-toss: based on data collected surrounding the different universes, there is a 50/50 chance that humans will evolve to retain only one sex per person, determining whether they can breed or be bred. This also means that there is a 50/50 chance that humans will not evolve in this manner, retaining the two sexes that separately determine whether they can breed or be bred and the parts they’re born with. Of course, Miguel had pulled the shortest straw.
He’d hated this fact about himself for a very long time. He knew there was little he could do in the face of it, so he loathed the knowledge that no matter how high he held his head, this would follow him like a bad omen. Eventually, he’d learned to come to terms with it, if only to avoid thinking about the possibility that this was a fundamental wrong done to him, that he’d been assigned a role out of some universal spite, much like he felt with everything else that had happened to him. The canonicity is not nothing to him, but there is a deep-seated rage within him for it.
Christ. He doesn’t need to scent the air to know he reeks.
It’s why he’s holed up in his room, pacing back and forth in bitter rage as defeat encroaches on him. Because of his lifelong denial of his nature, his first instinct wasn’t to nest or entice; rather, it was to lock the door three times, stuff sheets underneath the door, and brew some coffee in a feeble attempt to mask the smell even slightly. He’s had to change his shirt twice in the last hour, the light shades of the fabric staining dark around his chest, so he paces at the end of his bed, shirtless and sickened with himself, as he always is every four months.
It doesn’t help that he’s experiencing this in an unfamiliar environment, at least to his body. Even though he barely has the concept of where it came from in his memory anymore, his body remembers home, the comforting scents of wildflowers, rain, and cinnamon sticking to the surfaces there. Instead, he spends it in a room that stinks only of him as a constant reminder of his loneliness, even surrounded by those in the Society that should have his back.
His eyes flit back to the bed, unoccupied and empty. It’s his own fault, since he used his sheets from the night before to block off the door, and his two pillows do nothing to fill up the queen-sized bed. His stomach churns again in warning, body complaining about the lack of fulfilment, so he sits down and frowns hard enough at the floor that if he were any other super-freak, he’d probably destroy it with one glance. He compromises with his unrelenting body by stripping out of his pants, removing the offending denim and throwing it in a random direction he’ll forget upon impact.
The cold air in his room chills his sweat-slick legs, skin burning with a feverish heat that he knows is from no flu or illness. He hates that even the slightest bit of exposure, or perhaps the possibility of it, makes him even wetter in his briefs, despite the discomfort borderlining on pain that he’s going through. His chest aches, embarrassingly full and nearly swollen when he presses a hand to it, trying to alleviate the pressure. He lays back on the bed, burying his face into the fitted sheet he left as a cover for the mattress, trying and failing to find some relief in smelling something familiar.
His hand drags downwards, almost on its own, slipping into the waistband of his briefs and touching the hot skin there. For his own sake, he keeps his mouth shut, forcing any sounds down as he drags a finger through his lips, gently circling around his throbbing clit and fights back a moan, pushing his face against the mattress and keeping his other hand on his own chest, massaging softly. Even just a little bit of teasing has already left his briefs soaked in slick, so he finally forgoes the undergarment as a whole and kicks it aside, the desperation to get some fingers in him finally overcoming him.
Then, three quick knocks on the door.
It’s a torrent of cold water over Miguel, the fire in his blood completely snuffing out even as his body is slow on the uptake. He’s angry, frustrated, and desperate when he calls out, “Who is it?!”
“It’s Peter!” The voice responds, sounding very far yet too close at the same time. He hates how sensitive he is whenever this happens, from his eyes to his ears to the feeling of anything touching his body. “Y’know, Peter B. with the kid?”
Mierda. Miguel sits up, his hands resolutely far away from his crotch as he stands, walking towards the door. He doesn’t open it, merely standing in front of it. “I know who you are. What do you want?”
“Well, I wanted to check on you. No one’s seen you for hours, and you’re usually everywhere all the time,” Peter explains, sounding sincere yet teasing. Miguel notices that the usual babbling presence of a toddler is missing this time, meaning that his kid is elsewhere. He’s not sure why that matters to him right now, but he’s certain that whatever the case, he doesn’t care enough to ask about it, considering his more pressing issues.
“Fine, you’ve checked on me. I’m here, I’m alive, and I’d like to be left alone,” Miguel replies, beginning to walk back to the solitude of his bed. He needs to deal with this fast– he can’t afford to be indisposed for any longer than a day, not when there’s too much work to be done.
“Wait!” Peter calls, and Miguel stops short, his irritation flaring up and his claws instinctively unsheathing. He rounds on the door, ready to give Peter a piece of his mind when he says, “I could help?”
That has Miguel freezing, surprised. This isn’t even close to what he expected from the man, and disbelief immediately sets in. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
Peter has the gall to chuckle, like there’s anything particularly funny about this entire situation. “Well, yeah I do. 616B is one of those universes, didn’t you know?” Peter says, the lilt of his voice making it sound as if he’s smiling. “I know how to help, but only if you want me to. If you want me to leave right now, I’ll go.” There’s a bit of movement outside, where Peter sounds like he’s shifting his feet. “If you want me to help, then I’ll help. Just say the word.”
His first instinct, of course, is to tell Peter where he can shove his help. The last thing he needs during his heat is the embarrassment of having an idiot try to talk him into some kind of gratification, or even worse, attempt to help him using physical means. He’s offended by the offer, even as his thighs clench up, his hard clit pulsating like a gunshot at the prospect of extra hands on him and something far better than his own fingers buried in his cunt.
He’s sufficiently distracted by his own untamed need that he doesn’t hear Peter ask again, his tone shifting to sound more enticing. Miguel isn’t sure if it’s Peter himself doing this, if the unassuming alpha doesn’t realise how alluring his voice is in that moment, but it’s disarming enough that Miguel gets a hand on the doorknob before he stops himself. He grits his teeth, sharp with distress and desire. “If you mention this to anyone...”
“Geez, man, I’m not gonna kiss and tell. What am I, twenty?” Peter chuckles, teasing but genuine. “I promise, whatever happens there stays there. You have my word.”
Miguel swallows dryly, squirming uncomfortably. He was able to stave off his needs for a little while as he spoke to Peter, but the desperation is back with a fury. He cups the underside of his chest, inconceivably heavy and full, before finally unlocking the door and kicking the sheets away, opening it by a crack. He lines his eye up at the crack, trying to look at Peter with a threatening glint in his eye, but he’s almost certain it doesn’t work based on the way Peter unsubtly scents the air, eyes going wide and his cheeks beginning to flush with colour.
Peter blinks, staring wide-eyed at Miguel. “You’re far along, aren’t you?”
“Get in here or stay out,” Miguel hisses, pulling the door wider and fisting a clawed hand into Peter’s shirt before pulling. He’s had enough of this charade, his body aching, pleading to be touched. He slams the door shut, crowds Peter into the wooden slab, and inhales deeply at his throat, seeking out the undercurrent of citrus and sandalwood that he’d scented many times before. The action soothes his nerves, calming the little voice in his head that had been begging for anything safe and familiar in this unsafe and unfamiliar environment.
To his surprise, Peter doesn’t object or pull him away. Instead, he cards his fingers through Miguel’s hair, gently untangling knots in the process, and says, “That’s it, breathe deep. I’ve got you.”
It’s disturbing, how much those words settle deep within him, like a rock sinking to the seabed in the ocean. He squirms again, thighs rubbing against each other as he seeks some semblance of friction, to which Peter rests his free hand on the bump of Miguel’s hip and slides his exposed thigh, shorts bunched up at his pelvis, in between Miguel’s own. His hesitation is clear, with the way Miguel refuses to budge from where he’s familiarising himself with Peter’s scent, until the latter decides for him and rides his thigh upwards, sliding it back and forth against Miguel’s weeping cunt.
“Fuck,” Miguel groans, his face hot as he caves in and starts rubbing against Peter’s thigh, wetting it with his own slick as his nub rolls against the slightly coarse skin there. It’s more than enough, yet nothing at all, as he rides the thigh to a fist-clenching end, soaking Peter even more as he shakes atop him. Biting his lip to keep any sound out, he hears Peter say something from right next to his ear, but he hardly hears it over the beat of his own racing heart.
Peter tugs on his hair, a dull throb at his scalp that forces his head to look up at Peter’s teasing face. “Did you hear me, Miguel?” He asks, keeping his fist firmly in the other’s hair.
Miguel’s indignation flares up, only to shortly be replaced by burning need as Peter’s other hand comes up to cup his chest, thumb lightly brushing over his nipple. “I asked if you wanted to move to the bed,” Peter says, his tone gentle even as his right hand tugs on Miguel’s hair and his left plays with his puffy tit. “Otherwise, we’re going to make a pretty bad mess on the floor. Why don’t you take me to your nest, huh, pretty boy?”
He doesn’t say anything in fear of the sounds that might escape his throat, but Peter laughs all the same. “You like that, pretty boy?” He asks, his tone teasing but his smile hungry, eyes so usually full of mirth now glazed with want. “Look at you, who wouldn’t say that about you now? God,” Peter mutters, the hand in Miguel’s hair slipping away and cupping his other tit, firm and full and just a little damp. Miguel can’t fight the needy moan that it elicits, only barely resisting the urge to strip Peter of his shorts and ride him on the floor then and there.
“Bed,” Miguel gets out, his nerves fried as he pulls Peter along with him, pushing the man against the bed and straddling him. Miguel helps him out of his shorts, tossing them aside as Peter pulls his shirt off before surging up to latch his lips around one of Miguel’s swollen nipples, alternating between sucking, biting, and licking all the while. Miguel moans brokenly, rutting against Peter’s hardening cock, the pressure on his chest softening somewhat as Peter administers some TLC on his neglected, full tits.
It’s not long, nor unexpected, before the warmth and wetness coaxes Miguel’s tits enough that milk finally spills freely, a relieved whine leaving Miguel’s lips as he grinds against Peter, who dutifully alternates between the two tits. Distantly, Miguel knows he should feel some sort of apprehension that an alpha he’s never bonded with is doing for him what an alpha bonded to his omega would do, but the thought vanishes as soon as Peter licks the last drop from his tits, his mouth red with his efforts and his lips shiny from saliva and milk.
“Don’t pump regularly, do you, baby?” Peter asks casually, like this is knowledge he should know, but he barely waits for an answer before he’s flipping them over so that Miguel is on his back, thighs still splayed around Peter’s hip. He’s reminded not to underestimate Peter with the ease in which he switched their positions, something only another spider-person could do, only to be distracted by his more pressing conditions.
Such as the way Peter is spreading him out now, with his back flat against the bed and his thighs flexibly pushed up against his chest, hands on his sides and feet in the air. He barely has time to question it before Peter is diving in, going straight for Miguel’s throbbing nub and sucking. He moans like he’s been shot, panting like a rabid dog and seizing up every time Peter licks into him and plays with his clit. He relishes the added burn of Peter’s scruff, scratching against the thick curls of his cunt and soaking the entire area even more with every movement of Peter’s mouth.
It feels like hours, days even, as Peter eats him out with a dedication and determination you could only find in a man like him. He’s attentive to what Miguel likes, like the way he sucks hard on Miguel’s clit before laying his tongue flat against it, rubbing up and down before repeating the cycle. It’s hell mixed with heaven, his pleasure drawn out to searing lengths while his brain melts into a soft slush in his head as Peter drives him to the brink of insanity, before he finally slips two wet fingers in.
There’s no warning for how fast Peter was going to fuck his fingers in and out of him, so it completely sweeps him off his feet when Peter’s fingers drill in and out of him, mouth still working on overtime around his clit. It takes him by surprise, and he moans and whines before he finally comes, a little more explosively than usual, drenching Peter’s hand and chin in a violent spray. It does nothing to deter the man himself though, even as Miguel whimpers and thrashes as Peter fucks his cunt with nothing but three fingers and a tongue latched onto his clit, ending with another shattering orgasm that leaves him gasping, half-spoken and barely coherent moans tumbling out of his mouth.
Dazed as he is, it doesn’t stop him from reaching out to Peter, clinging to his waist in a silent plea for more. Peter laughs goodnaturedly, burying his nose into Miguel’s collarbone as he rubs his cock against the omega’s thigh. “Still need more, huh?” Peter asks, kissing and sucking on the softened, sensitive skin of Miguel’s less-swollen chest, eliciting a desperate whine. “Don’t worry, pretty boy, I’ve got you. You’ve been so good... so good.”
Miguel blinks his eyes open, taking account of his surroundings. He’s holding his thighs up with his arms locked around them now, spread wide and open for Peter. The latter is holding his cock at the base, long and of average girth, before lightly slapping it down against Miguel’s ruined cunt. It’s almost immature and playful, the way he does it, but there’s no time for Miguel to react as he watches, enraptured, as Peter pushes the tip of his cock into him, entirely raw.
The idea of fucking raw, skin on skin with nothing in between, had always appealed to the animalistic side of Miguel. Admitted only to himself, he’d always wanted to see a cock sinking into him without a rubber, leaving his cunt streaked with white and spilling even more into the sheets. Fear, disgust, and self-loathing had always stopped him from asking this of anyone, but he’d known that no matter what, he would always desire this in some way.
Seeing it now, as Peter groans softly as he thrusts into Miguel in one slow stroke, is enough to get him close enough to the edge that Peter only needs to pull out slightly for his walls to clench and for his eyes to roll back into his skull, unbelievably full and still wanting for more. “Shit, shit,” he hears Peter moan as he clenches, feeling the tight grip Peter leaves on his thigh. “You liked that? You like it raw?”
Miguel, too far gone to muster up some kind of false confidence or indignation, nods enthusiastically as he moans with every thrust of Peter’s cock inside him. The position somehow makes it even more intense, like he could feel Peter all the way up his gut, going impossibly deep and coming out nearly all the way before shoving his way back in. He could feel something beginning to tug against his walls with every increasingly rapid thrust, and it’s there that Miguel remembers that Peter is an alpha, whose knot is a surefire way to getting himself knocked up.
In the cacophony of his whines and whimpers and Peter’s needy groans, he decides he cares very little for the consequences and releases his thighs, pulling Peter close to inhale his engorged scent gland. Peter mutters a choked-off curse, hips beginning to stutter and his knot beginning to inflate, before desperately asking, “Can I—”
“Please,” Miguel whines, and it’s enough to send them both over the edge in just a matter of seconds. Peter shallowly thrusts a few more times before he finally spends inside of Miguel, filling him to the brim as his knot finally grows to the proper size inside of him. Miguel only moans tiredly, his entire body exhausted from the romp and his mind demanding rest, as much as it wants to baulk in horror over the fact that he just slept with Peter.
Peter senses this–because of course he does–and gently kisses the skin around Miguel’s own scent gland, slowly deflating as the worst of his heat begins to pass. “You think too much, dude. Let yourself rest for a little while, at least until this goes down.”
“Please don’t call me dude when you’re inside me,” Miguel replies, deadpan. He’s spent, body lax even as his thighs remain pushed up against his chest. “And I will, if you let me get my legs down.”
“I’m not stopping you! Look, here—”
The knot tugs inside of him, causing the both of them to groan in sensitivity. The sober moment makes them look at each other for a little while, contemplating, before Miguel decides to swallow his pride and lean in, kissing Peter as gently as he could with the fangs in his mouth. When they part, Peter has a soft smile on his face, the kind Miguel has never seen directed at him.
It’s... nice, a tad domestic, but enjoyable. He could get around to liking this.