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There’s distant sirens coming from the open window, Brooklyn in disarray without their vigilante around to save the day. The Spot hasn’t returned home yet, if he will at all — he only seems to want Miles’ respect, and Miles isn’t home to withhold it.
Miles’ home (his universe, Earth-1610) is quaint to Miguel, but it would seem familiar to most Spider-People. To the contrary, the voices seeping under the door of Miles’ bedroom — dialogue from a telenovela Rio is watching in the living room, the woman unable to sleep as she worries for her son — is more familiar to him than the average Peter Parker.
Miles’ room is a shrine to adolescence. Action figures on the shelves, brightly colored drawings on the walls. There’s hints of maturity in the college-level physics textbooks piled near one of the box speakers on his desk, but the room still reeks of adolescence, and the sight has Miguel pissed all over again. At himself, mostly, for letting a child slip away.
As Miguel’s eyes scan Miles’ room, he’s looking for an excuse. Something to blame for Miles’ escape, something to explain Miles’ ambition. Instead, he finds a solution peeking out of Miles’ unzipped backpack.
Miguel grabs the blister pack, it’s small between his thick fingers. He doesn’t need to read the label to know what type of medication is inside. Miles is a teenage Omega, it isn’t hard to put two and two together. The gears in Miguel’s brain tick, he considers his options now that he knows Miles’ is without his suppressants. That fact combined with the scent in the air — mostly faint sweat, but there’s an undertone that reminds Miguel of the honey and spiced candies he grew up loving, a clear indication of a suppressed pre-heat — a path forward presented itself.
Miles would be going into heat soon. In a foreign universe. Weakened and needy, he’d hardly be able to think, much less fight. Miguel would be able to neutralize the threat he posed before returning the Spot to Earth-1610 and allowing the canon events to take place as necessary.
When Miguel returns to HQ in Earth-928, he doesn’t brief Jess or any of the others on what he discovers, or what he plans to do. He’s had enough arguments and challenges to his authority lately, and he’s sure this will work, even if some of his colleagues might not agree with the ethics of it.
He needs to find Miles before his heat starts to ensure everything else goes smoothly. The kid’s slippery, his suit’s invisibility made him difficult to track — but once his heat started he wouldn’t be able to mask the scent of it. Who knows what he’ll end up doing to the brat once he does find him, but he can deal with the consequences later, he has a multiverse to save, Miles will just have to face the reality of being one insignificant life.
He breathes in and out, he can still smell the bedsheets in Brooklyn, honey and sugary spice, Miles.
He punches 42 into his watch.
“Do you want back-up?” Lyla asks, loud in his ear, but uncharacteristically hesitant.
“Don’t need it,” Miguel growls.
-
After blasting out of the chains, Miles spends several hours playing cat and mouse (he’s the mouse) with his alternate self and uncle. He learns it’s quite difficult to outrun yourself, because the other Miles seems to use the same hiding spots around Brooklyn, so every time Miles stops in one to catch his breath, the Prowler tracks him down with ease.
Miles ends up in an abandoned warehouse that wasn’t a warehouse back home — apartments, he thinks, he doesn’t really go to this part of town often, and he’s hoping the same goes for his Prowler-self. He collapses inside it, exhausted not only from the chase, but the stress of everything he’s learned, and the uncertainty of how the hell he’s going to get back home.
Someone will find him. Gwen or Peter B. or Hobie or Jess or—
Miguel. He hopes it won’t be Miguel. Right now, he’s too exhausted for another scuffle with Miguel.
Miles pulls off his mask — there’s no real need for it here, in a universe without Spider-Man. He inhales dust and dirt and polluted air. It almost smells familiar. He presses his back to a wall, sliding down to the ground.
Motionless and adrenaline fading, he registers the sting in his shoulder again, from Miguel’s claw shredding his suit and skin alike. He doesn’t have anything to treat it now, he’ll find something in the morning.
His eyes droop, chin resting in his palm, elbow on his bent knee. He shouldn’t sleep, but he needs to rest. His Spidey-senses should alert him if anyone comes near. He can close his eyes, just for a bit…
Miles isn’t sure how long he’s out, but when he wakes there’s sunlight coming through the broken windows and his nervous system’s ringing, alerting him that he’s being watched. A cursory glance around doesn’t tell him who, he assumes it’s the other Miles. When Miles moves to stand, his entire body resists, achy and bruised, and he has to catch himself on the wall to keep himself from tumbling to the ground again. His injuries and the awkward sleeping position were making everything hurt, inside and out.
Miles takes a moment to check his shoulder, finding his skin well on the way to recovery. The pain he’s experiencing puzzles him, his muscles haven’t ached like this since before he was bitten. His body’s good at bouncing back, but it’s also never been through this sort of stress. It doesn’t matter now, he’ll recover later.
Then he tries to take a step forward, and his entire body seizes up, freezing in place, and his chances of getting out of here through physical means seem to be dwindling. He can reason with his alternate self, maybe they can work together, maybe that’s exactly how he can get home—
Another step, and he ends up kneeling on the ground, teeth gritting through the pain.
“If you stop moving, it will stop hurting,” a voice says.
Miles flinches, looking up in the direction of the sound. He doesn’t spot the source of it, but he doesn’t need to, he recognizes the voice and his heart’s already racing with the realization of who’s in the warehouse with him.
“What did you do to me?” Miles asks, brows furrowed and shoulders back, even though he knows he can’t put up a good fight in his current state.
Miguel leans into view, the sunlight revealing where he sits up on one of the rafters. He isn’t wearing his mask, his face abnormally casual. The guy’s had a stick up his ass ever since Miles met him, and it’s unnerving to see him any other way. “I didn’t do anything to you,” Miguel states. “Except the scratches.”
Miles glares as he stands back up. He doesn’t believe anything Miguel says anymore.
“It’s tricky at your age,” Miguel says, expression cryptic and blank. “Go just one day without your suppressants…”
When Miguel trails off, Miles’ quick mind fills in the missing pieces, and it all makes a horrifying jigsaw. It’s been well over a day since his last dose of suppressants — he barely remembered, he’d only presented a couple months ago, shit, he should’ve brought them with, he’s going into heat, shit shit shit, and Miguel knows.
Miguel’s still staring down at him, watching and waiting for Miles’ reaction.
“You gotta take me home!” Miles exclaims, arms flailing on both sides and, shit, that hurts just as much as walking. “I won’t do anything— I won’t mess with the canon or whatever, but I need to go home now!”
Miguel’s eyes narrow. “You expect me to believe that? After the stunt you pulled?”
Miles tries not to visibly falter, keeping his eyes wide and moving his hands frantically no matter how much it aches. “C’mon, man, this is— I mean, what could I even do, like this?”
“Don’t make the same mistake I made when I underestimated you, Miles,” Miguel replies, cold and unflattering. “You could still manage a lot of dimensional damage with a late dose of suppressants.” He punctuates his statement by jumping from the rafter, landing on his feet with a thud. There’s enough distance between them for Miles to try running away or swinging through one of the broken windows. Miles considers his options in silence, wary of leaving his eyes anywhere too long to relay his plan of escape.
It isn’t until Miguel inhales through his nostrils, deep and loud, that Miles considers what kind of true danger he might be in.
“So what— you want me to go back with you to HQ? Lock me up until my dad dies?”
Miguel takes a step forward and Miles has to fight every cell in his body to keep himself from flinching. “Not exactly.”
As Miguel continues moving forward, Miles keeps his feet planted firm, but ready to spring into action towards the nearest window. “You gonna kill me?”
Miguel halts. There’s enough distance between them for deniability. It’s still far too close for Miles’ comfort. “You’re naive, Miles,” Miguel tsks. “But not that naive.”
Miguel begins to reach for him, and despite every muscle in his body screaming otherwise, Miles runs for the window, hand outstretching to fire a web. He almost makes it, his face breaching through the opening only to be pulled back inside with one sudden, violent tug. He ends up pinned to the ground for his efforts, face down, the full weight of Miguel on his back.
“Let me go—”
In a panic, Miles lays his palms flat on the ground, ready to blast his way to freedom again. Miguel takes notice, grabbing both of his wrists. His hands end up pulled above his head, palms facing away from each other, his forearms uncomfortably bound together with Miguel’s red webs.
“I tried to tell you, Miles,” Miguel breathes, hot against the nape of Miles’ neck. “You were never meant for a life of heroics.”
Even while hopelessly immobile, Miles squirms and kicks, desperate for any leverage. His instincts fight against him, all too aware he’s in heat and an Alpha is demanding physical submission.
“But I can show you what you were made for,” Miguel whispers behind the shell of Miles’ ear. “You’ll understand— I think you’ll finally accept your place in the universe.” There’s a strange sound, then, and it takes Miles a moment to realize it’s the sound of Miguel’s claw ripping through his clothes.
“Stop, Miguel—!” Miles shouts, wriggling violently again. It backfires, the movement causing the claw to catch Miles’ skin, shredding it along with the fabric. A shuddery gasp escapes Miles’ lungs, body freezing under the sharp pain.
“Stop moving,” Miguel warns. “You’re hurting yourself. And wasting energy.”
Miles feels his clothes being pulled off his body, bare skin shivering against the air. “You can’t do this,” Miles mutters, mostly to himself. “It’s wrong. You’re supposed to be a hero, Miguel. I’m a—”
“Kid?” Miguel throws the word back at him with venom. Miles’ past words — stop calling me that — seem to echo between them, dooming his fate.
All of his clothes are gone now, shredded and tossed away to the side. Miles stares blankly at them, at a loss. He doesn’t know what he could possibly do or say to get out of this. Miguel is motionless on top of him, and Miles doesn’t know what to anticipate next. He wonders if Miguel can hear how hard his terrified heart is pounding in his chest.
A hand presses to Miles’ back, near the fresh cut. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then just let me go!” Miles’ desperation is evident in the way his voice cracks.
“And it doesn’t have to hurt,” Miguel continues, as if Miles said nothing. “All you have to do is lie there and obey.”
“Miguel,” Miles pleads.
Before Miles can even register what’s happening, he’s being flipped over. The ground hurts against his raw back and he tries to kick at Miguel, but Miguel’s big hands have already locked onto his legs, forcing them apart as he settles between them.
“Look at you,” Miguel says, heavy-lidded eyes looking over Miles’ body. It makes Miles feel warm and he tries in vain to close his legs, thighs squeezing around Miguel, whose claws faintly dig into the muscle, a subtle warning not to move too much. “You’re so small, it’s a wonder you’ve presented already.”
The past year, Miles’ growth spurt had given him a few inches in height, and broadened his shoulders enough to get him some attention from some of the girls at Visions Academy. But he knew he was still slight. At least, where it mattered for this sorta nightmare scenario.
“Do you think you can take a knot?” Miguel asks, matter-of-fact.
The question makes Miles want to thrash and kick and yell. The question also sends a bolt of heat down his spine, makes him throb between his legs. He lays dumbstruck and frozen, his body and spirit at odds with each other.
“Answer the question, Miles.”
“I don’t—” Miles pauses, swallows, decides on an honest answer. “I don’t know.”
“But you want to try, don’t you?” Miguel asks, but it’s rhetorical this time. He leans over Miles as he continues, “You’re so curious, and brave, and stupid. You’re a reckless little thing. You’d want to try something even if it hurt.” He buries his face against Miles’ neck, inhaling again. “You smell so delicious, Miles.”
Miles winces when he feels Miguel’s tongue against his skin, one of the fangs too, and the sensation has Miles holding back a scream somewhere between guttural fear and an urge he doesn’t want to name.
“So sweet,” Miguel groans into Miles’ ear.
One of Miguel’s hands moves, his thumb grazing the inner crease where Miles’ thigh meets the rest of his body. For some reason, it’s all Miles can feel, even as Miguel’s mouth moves down to nip at his chest and stomach. The general ache of his body has centralized between his legs. His heat was so tangible now, completely undeniable. The small rational part of his brain was still functioning, still considering the ways he could get away — as soon as Miguel’s claws are away from his skin, he can still run with his arms tied, but where? He’s naked, in a growing heat, in a very different version of the Brooklyn he knows and loves, he’d be alone again (and for some reason, that thought is almost as terrifying as what Miguel has planned for him).
Miguel’s head hovers above Miles’ abdomen, looking up and down his body again. His hands flex against Miles’ legs and then their eyes lock. He pushes Miles’ legs up so his knees press against his chest, and Miles hates how much his body enjoys the position, how clearly he’s presented to Miguel like this. With obvious, slow caution, Miguel removes his hands from Miles’ legs, testing to see if he’ll stay in position.
A beat passes. Miles kicks Miguel in the stomach and tries to scramble away.
The blow doesn’t even knock the wind out of Miguel. He just sneers, fangs glinting, and wrestles with Miles all over again. Miles’ noncompliance earns him another string of red webs, this time around each of his legs, to hold him in place. With no way out, the reality of what’s happening starts to sink in.
“Stop pretending you don’t want this,” Miguel says, pressing the bulge in his suit against Miles’ bare cunt, setting Miles’ senses ablaze. “I can see how wet you are.”
“I’m in heat,” Miles deflects uselessly. “It doesn’t mean I want—” His words falter when Miguel’s suit starts to dissipate. He looks bigger, somehow, without it. Even more dangerous. So much of his skin appears rough and scarred, he’s so much older than Miles, has so much more experience as Spider-Man. Miles doesn’t know why he thought he stood a chance against him.
“It means I have every right to take care of you.” Miguel pulls his cock out from the bottom of his suit, the sight of it causing Miles’ pulse to skyrocket. The size of it matches the rest of Miguel’s bulk— thick, long, heavy. Miguel lets go of it, and it bobs down, the cockhead grazing Miles’ cunt.
Miles isn’t ready for this. He’s barely pressed his own fingers inside himself — on the rare days he hasn’t wasted all his energy on Spider-duties and when Ganke’s out of the dorm. But he’s never seen his pussy look so wet and puffy with excitement, and he can’t deny the pure agony of every second that passed without Miguel just getting it over with and pressing inside Miles.
“This is right where you belong, kid,” Miguel says. “Spread like a slut.”
“Miguel,” Miles pleads, one last time. Even to his own ears, it doesn’t quite sound like he’s begging for mercy.
Miguel doesn’t dignify Miles’ plea with a response, instead he lines up his cock and starts to push.
Overwhelmed, Miles squeezes his eyes shut, as if the darkness behind his eyelids could will away Miguel and the blunt, searing pressure from his cock. He lets out of silent shout, throat dry and eyes stinging, and he doesn’t want to let Miguel see him cry, but it fucking hurts, and he tries to twist and bend away. It does nothing, he’s helplessly caught in Miguel’s webs, and even with the pain, his insides welcome the intrusion, his toes even curl. The inches feel endless, Miguel slowly sliding deeper and deeper inside until he finally bottoms out and Miles feels like he’s going to explode.
Seconds pass and Miguel doesn’t move. Miles isn’t sure if he wants him to move, even to pull out. The thought of anything this big moving fast and sudden inside him is petrifying, and he feels his pussy trying to tighten around Miguel’s cock to hold him in place.
Distantly, he hears Miguel panting. “Look at you,” Miguel exhales, ragged. “You’re perfect. Open your eyes, Miles. Look.”
Miles does, for whatever reason — curiosity, fear — and he can’t believe what he sees. He follows Miguel’s hungry gaze to his own stomach — usually flat and toned, but now there’s a slight bend from Miguel’s cock nestled deep inside him.
Miguel lets out a low rumbling groan as he bends over Miles, his mass blanketing Miles from all sides. He starts thrusting shallowly and Miles’ lungs catch. “You’re gonna look so beautiful with my children inside you,” Miguel murmurs into the top of Miles’ head.
Miles shivers at the admission. This wasn’t just a power play for Miguel, a twisted punishment for Miles’ butting against his authority. Miles’ was a means to another end — a replacement for the child he lost. Miguel was willing to tie his life to Miles so permanently, he wanted to, he wanted Miles, and it was frightening to be wanted by someone like Miguel, but Miles could also feel himself melting thrust by thrust, his body thrilled to be used for his heat’s natural purpose.
Miguel’s hand slips down between them, fingers rubbing around Miles’ stretched cunt and his cock moves in and out. “This is all your good for, Miles. Not any brains or brawn. Just a tight little sleeve for my cock.”
Miguel’s words seem to spur him on. He starts moving faster and Miles has to bite down on his bottom lip. Then the hand between them moves, one of Miguel’s fingers catching Miles’ clit — and he whimpers.
“Yeah?” Miguel growls, rubbing more insistently. “Take it, kid. Knew you’d fucking love this.”
Miles feels his mind start to go blank, like it sometimes did when he carelessly swung around Brooklyn to destress, or during the clashes with a villain of the week that made him into pure adrenaline, when he had to focus solely on the physicality of the fight to overpower his opposition. This shouldn’t feel like that — this is giving in, this is tipping over the edge, falling and falling and never reaching the ground, never being able to throw a web to catch himself. This is lying there and taking it, punch after punch.
Miguel scraps his teeth against Miles’ neck. Unthinking, Miles’ head tilts, presenting more of his neck to Miguel, because it feels nice and Miles is just gonna take what he can get. If Miguel wants to claim him, there’s nothing he could do. Maybe it’s just ’cause Miles spent so many months alone. He’d never have to be alone again.
But Miguel doesn’t bite Miles, just continues to pant into his skin. His hips move faster, rougher, the sounds of their bodies slapping together echoing in the empty warehouse. The initial pain had completely subsided, Miles unable to hold back short gasps of pleasure. He feels scorching hot — from his heat, from embarrassment, from Miguel all over him.
“Gonna take my knot, kid,” Miguel hisses, his pace starting to falter. “All the way, I know you can.”
Of course, just when Miles starts to get comfortable, Miguel’s knot starts to push inside. The feeling of his cunt being stretched to its limit is intense, his legs starting to shake and his lungs huffing. The panic is short-lived, he’s so wet and fucked open, welcoming the knot easily, once it’s inside he feels his body milking it as Miguel trembles on top of him. Miguel lets out a string of curses that somehow manages to scandalize Miles further, unaccustomed to his mother’s language being used so filthily, Miles whining in response.
Locked in place, Miguel collapses on top of him, almost suffocating Miles, but the warmth filling his insides feels so good and right he can’t be bothered by it. He lies there dazed, enjoying the electric shocks of pleasure shooting through his entire body.
Eventually, Miguel lifts his head to ask, “How’s it feel?”
Miles’ voice is gone, so he whispers, “Full.”
Miguel chuckles and pets at the bulge in Miles’ stomach. “Good.”
Much later — when Miguel pulls out, Miles’ pussy feeling sore and sloppy, and he’s so exhausted he doesn’t even move as Miguel unties him — Miguel turns his attention to the watch on his wrist. “Time to go home, kid,” he says, a portal appearing. Miles doesn’t know which he means — Earth-1610 or Spider Society — but he lets Miguel pick him up, rests his head against Miguel’s shoulder, and doesn’t even consider which he’d prefer.