Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s impossible to imagine until it actually happens to you, Miles thinks as three-hundred pounds of muscle barrels into him, red eyes wild and a snarl building in Miguel’s throat. They roll on the floor—it’s a scuffle, almost, and Miles does his best to get his hands between him and the Alpha, trying to push him off. It’s no use. Miguel grabs him across the chest and hauls him up until his back is pressed flush to Miguel’s chest, feet kicking uselessly about an inch above the floor.

He’s pinned, and not just a little—it’s like Miguel is trying to crush his ribs with one arm, lips curled back to expose teeth and breath fanning in hot pants over Miles’ neck and ear. There’s a very, very real bulge pressing up against Miles’ ass, and when Miles tries to squirm away Miguel only presses it against him harder .

Peter B skids to a halt in front of them, eyes wide. “Oh crap,” he says, arms spread out as a makeshift barrier between the rest of Spider Society and Miles and Miguel. The hundreds of spider people come to a halt right behind him, almost comically so, and Miles would have laughed in any other circumstance.

As it is, he’s got an Alpha breathing down his neck and shoving his soft cock against his rear—and he knows what that means.

“Miles?” Peter calls out, tentative, and Miguel’s steady growl increases in volume, only stuttering when he breathes in. “You listening, buddy?”

“No,” Miles grits out, trying to get hands against Miguel’s arm and push him off. Miguel’s growl lowers in pitch, until all of Miles’ hairs are standing on end and he goes very, very still, the Omega in him screaming at the imminent danger. “F-fuck. Fine. Yeah. I’m listening.”

“Okay, this is going to sound really weird,” Peter begins slowly, “but what you gotta do is relax . It’s—this is a universe difference thing: we’ve tried, there is no way around that instinct except to work with it.”

Miles shakes his head. “No fucking way!” Miguel is pushing his dick against Miles’ ass. “He’s pushing his—his—I can’t relax, man!”

“I know it’s scary,” Peter says, making de-escalating movements with his hands, “I’ve been where you are, bud, all the way . But you gotta understand that it’s just like this here. It’s in the wiring, and there’s a cheat code. I had to learn it the hard way.”

Miles’ struggles renew. Miguel growls harder, practically grinding his crotch against Miles and threatening his teeth at his neck. Miles freezes.

“Ohh shit,” Peter says quietly. “That’s not good. Miles? Don’t move.”

Miles got that memo. He stays still as a statue, breathing quick and short, eyes squeezing closed.

“Kid, you’re gonna wanna go limp. It’ll trick his brain into thinking he’s won, that you’re submitting.”

Miles doesn’t want to. “I c—can’t—If he bites me—”

“The way to get the least amount of chance to be bitten is to go completely limp. Entirely. He’ll let you go, I promise.”

“ If he bites me—”

“If he does ,” Peter says, eyes wide and imploring, “then it’ll be a false bite. It won’t create a bond—you’ll be fine.”

There’s no such thing as a ‘false bite’. Bites create bonds— everyone knows that. Miles does not want a pack bond with the guy who’s trying to make his dad die.

Miles goes limp.

Miguel’s threatening growl turns softer, a pleased rumble, and his fangs graze over Miles’ neck one last time before pulling back. A hot tongue licks a stripe up the back of Miles’ nape, and then retreats entirely—the crushing grip of Miguel’s arm over his torso lightens, and Miles slides down, landing in a trembling heap at the Alpha’s feet.

Right. ‘Cheat code’.

“…Huh. He likes you. I think."

Miles would like, above anything, to go home.

“I’m coherent, Peter,” Miguel says gruffly. “I’m not an animal.” He grabs Miles by the scruff and tugs him back up. Miles yelps, hands flinching up to protect his neck from an alpha with claws , and begins squirming again.

“Miles—Miles no —”

“Stop moving,” Miguel instructs him softly, dangerously, drowning out Peter’s voice, “Or I will fucking bite you.” His voice is rough, like the growling tore at his vocal cords. Or maybe he’s still growling. Miles doesn’t know anymore.

“Can—can you just let me go?” he whimpers, pinched, shoulders drawn up to his ears.

“You’re trying to break canon, so no.” Miguel lets him stand on his feet at least, still holding Miles’ neck tight, fingers almost meeting at the front, like a collar. “LYLA, do we have anything he can’t disable? Get him into there.”

“Yeah, standard walled holding cell… Sector 2-A. Hasn’t been used in a hot minute, but it’s still up to containment standards. 0012 should do.”

That’s that, it seems, and a few minutes later Miles is trapped inside a five by eight foot box, pacing the length of it with tense shoulders the drying saliva on the back of his neck itching though he refuses to touch it. He wants to pretend it isn’t there. It doesn’t help that he’s completely alone in here, too, and that there’s nothing at all to do. Any longer and he’s going to start going insane.

His head snaps up when the door to the corridor opens and a familiar pink-clad figure creeps in, shoulders dropping when he sees Miles has already spotted him.

“Hey, buddy,” Peter B says awkwardly, on the other side of a thick plexiglass wall. Mayday is not with him—the baby carrier a noticeable absence. Miles’ hands flex into fists, agitated, and he stares determinedly at a spot on the floor. “So… I’m sorry this happened. I wish it hadn’t. Miguel’s gone, it’s just us.”

“Whatever,” Miles mutters.

Peter sighs. “Look. I just wanna let you know what you’re in for, okay, kid? Because it’s a lot of getting used to, and, well…” he winces. “You gotta know this.”

“What’s there to know?” Miles spits. “My dad’s gonna die if he has any say in it, and he licked me.”

“Right. Well. It’s a bit more complicated than that. You know how I asked you to submit to him?”

“To go limp , yeah.” Miles crosses his arms. He didn’t submit to shit.

“...Right.” Peter winces. “Well, it’s a one-way street. Here, in this universe… if an Alpha wins, he wins . You basically signed your autonomy over. Hell, so did I—”

“—WHAT?” Miles cries out, eyes wide. “No! If you’d have said that I wouldn’t have fucking—”

“He would have mauled you, Miles. Seriously. It’s illegal here to kill someone in a power dispute, but it’s not pretty either . He could have really messed you up! You could have lost a limb, or an eye!”

“—I’d rather have—”

“—Miles, please—”

“—My dad is going to die!” Miles cries out, eyes wild, breathing heavy. “And you just want me to sit here and play fucking housewife with—with him?”

“No! No, that’s… he’s not like that. It’s just, from now on, you gotta listen to him. It’s not an unquestioning servitude thing, you can, like, try to talk to him, change his mind, but you can’t disobey him directly and you can’t fight . Okay?” Peter’s throat works, like he’s trying to search for words. “...It’s like a boss-employee relationship. If you disobey the rules, you get fired. In this case, fired means mauled. That’s it.”

Miles makes a choked-off noise, turning away and trying to force back his tears. “Fuck,” he manages wetly, plopping down cross-legged on the floor, his back to the glass. “This sucks.”

Peter chuckles awkwardly, the noise dry. “You can say that again. Just—if it counts for anything, I’ve had… I wanna say a year to learn all this stuff. I can try to teach you about it—the signs, things you might not be familiar with.”

“Yeah, why don’t you just teach him to be normal ?” Miles mutters hatefully, scrubbing at the back of his neck, trying to wipe the memory of being licked there away.

“I mean, define normal,” is Peter’s answer. “Compared to the rest of this universe, Miguel is tame as anything. His authority doesn’t get challenged, like, ever, since people look at him and think better. You were just the first in a long time.”

“What, I got unlucky because I don’t want my dad to die?”

“In essence, yeah. If you wanna call it that.”

"You're not helping, you know," Miles grits out, letting his head drop into his hands. "I just wanna go home."

There's a pause. "I get that," Peter says, softly. "I'll try and talk to him—maybe I can get him to let you... I don't know. We'll figure it out."

He leaves silently. It takes Miles forty minutes to figure out how to escape the cell, short-circuiting the entire complex in the process.

Chapter Text

The sight of three-hundred pounds of muscle barrelling at Miles is familiar, and this time he lets it happen, instantly going limp in the crushing grip of a snarling Alpha, Peter B’s words playing over and over in his head. The Spot has been defeated—his dad’s alive, and his world isn’t fracturing. A weird subservience for his not-boss is fine now that there’s no time limit.

“Sorry,” he croaks, hoping the word reaches Miguel in his feral state, emotions finally spilling over as tears fill his eyes. “I had to try.”

Miguel curses under his breath, still growling, shifting his grip so he’s pretty much squeezing Miles’ head against his chest with both hands. It kinda hurts—his nose is being squished, but it feels comforting in another, bigger way, and Miles closes his eyes, tears spilling over his cheeks. He sniffles wetly against Miguel’s chest, letting the desperation and fear he’d suppressed the last two days roll over him.

When Miguel growls again, louder, Miles can’t see what’s happening, still pressed entirely against the man’s chest. It seems he doesn’t need to worry about it—seconds later the growl transforms entirely, shifting to a full-bodied purr . It reverberates through Miles, warming his bones and slowing his racing heart, and he goes slack further, smearing his tears and snot and whatever ick against the Alpha’s suit, letting his wracking sobs subside.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there, but at some point Miguel shifts them, lifting Miles into his kneeling lap until Miles’ head is settled in the crook of Miguel’s neck and he’s got free access to Miles’ in turn, where he begins licking broad, sticky stripes against Miles’ skin. It’s icky, and it tickles, but Miles doesn’t fight it. ‘He likes you,’ Peter B had said, when Miguel licked him before. Miles guesses this is meant to be a soothing behaviour, or affection—maybe both. Like how cats clean each other.

Miguel smells kind of nice. Not very much like the strong, distinct scents of Miles' world, much more… infant-like, before they develop those, but like skin and the sharp overtone of copper and something like scentless aftershave, as well as the clean smell of laundry. Why a molecular suit would smell like laundry, Miles has no idea. It's soothing either way, and he soaks it in, pressing his wet cheek to the fabric. Miguel shifts, licking at his jaw now, and Miles can't help but squirm at the feeling. It's like a big dog trying to give you kisses.

When Miles tries to pull away again, Miguel's purr turns back into a growl, and Miles sighs, going still again. Right. Talk to him. "Miguel? Can I... get up?"

"No," the man replies gruffly, before going straight back to his licking.

"Please?" Miles asks, staring a bit uselessly at the sunny sky. It's a nice day, all things considered, when the destruction of countless buildings isn't occluding the sky with dust and spot holes. "I should probably explain things to my dad."

"Peter can do it just fine."

Seriously, for a guy who acts like he hates Miles, Miguel is being strangely affectionate now. At least, Miles thinks he is. Unless this is some kind of weird power play thing. He doesn't know anymore. Peter isn't here to explain anything, either—Miles thinks Miguel warned everyone who tried to approach off with his growling earlier.

"Why there's a big Alpha refusing to let me go and licking me?" Miles says, even though it's unlikely they'll be seen by anyone but spider people. They're on a rooftop, after all, and there are emergency stairs, but… "I think he won't even hear it from a man three times my age and then some."

Miguel growls again—but it's soft and curt, more like a disgruntled chuff than anything. He moves up, licking messily over Miles' mouth before pulling back. "Fine. But you're not going anywhere out of my sight." He pauses for a moment, muttering something that sounds like 'too many fuckin' people' under his breath. Miles isn't really paying attention, too busy sputtering and wiping his mouth off.

It's how he ends up in Miguel's arms as the Alpha swings through the city, having located Miles' parents through LYLA. Miguel isn't masked—though to be fair, neither is Miles, his face pressed against the man's chest, out of the wind. They land in front of his parents gracefully, and Miles is about to jump off and hug them when Miguel grabs his wrist tight, stopping him with an inscrutable look.

"Miles!" his mother gasps out, her hand clenched so firmly around Jeff's that he's surprised his dad's hand didn't break. "Oh my God, are you okay? It's been hours, baby, where were you?" She notices Miguel, and Miles' dad winces, pulling lightly at Rio's hand. "Who's this? What are you wearing?"

"I'm fine, Mami—" Miles shakes his captured wrist lightly and tries to communicate with his eyes that he would like to be let go, please, so he can hug his parents— and it takes a moment, but then Miguel relents, slowly loosening his grip until Miles can pull his wrist free. He lets out a sigh of relief, then turns and launches himself at his parents, gathering them both into a bone-crushing hug.

He wants to explain everything, but he doesn't know where to start.

"I—I'm Spider-Man," Miles confesses softly, figuring he might as well get that over with when he's wearing his beat-up suit. "Have been for the last… year and something. And—and I… I don't have a cake, but I did just save… the universe? I think? Again?" Taking a deep breath, he turns to look at Miguel, not quite letting go of his parents. "That's... Miguel. He's a Spider-Man from another universe, and he… perfected interdimensional travel. He…" Miles trails off. Came to help? That's a lie. Held me up for several hours? Yeah, right, that sounds normal and not concerning at all. Is a friend? Miles doesn't think that's true. "He's… here to help fix the damage. Dimensional damage, I mean. He's not like… a firefighter." It sounds true enough.

"That's… a lot," His mom says, eyes darting between Miguel and Miles at a rapid pace. "I don't think out here's the right place to talk about this. Are you hurt? Why was… Miguel… carrying you?"

"Just bruises," Miles jokes awkwardly, pulling back at last. His breath hitches when Miguel steps closer again at once, pretty much gluing himself to Miles' back. Miles' dad's eyes narrow suspiciously, and Miles can feel his palms start to sweat. "Haha. ha."

"…Right," Rio says, crossing her arms and staring at the both of them. "You know we're gonna talk about this, right?"

"Yeah, I know," Miles says, trying to surreptitiously elbow Miguel away a bit. "Anyone in need of saving, maybe, so I can prolong that conversation?" Indefinitely?

To his dismay, Miguel steps impossibly closer, baring his teeth. "No chance," the Alpha says. "I made myself clear. You're not leaving my sight."

Miles' mom purses her lips. "Let me guess—you're an Alpha, huh?"

Oh, crap. "Uh, mom?" Miles starts, eyes wide. He makes a sharp motion at his neck. Abort, abort. "It's… not the same. As us. Physically."

Rio tilts her chin up, staring down her nose at Miguel. "Is that so?" Her eyes are sharp. "We're still going to have a talk , mijo. With him. And he'd better get his act together if he doesn't want your dad to chase him off with several rounds of lead."

"It's not like that!" Miles panics. Miguel is annoyingly silent behind him. "It's—complicated, ohmygodcanwenotdothishere?" His voice is pinched, high with panic. "Let's just go home?"

"I like the sound of that," his dad says, eyes wide and eyebrows high, looking shell-shocked. "Let's do that."

It’s not long before they’re home, and Miles lets out a breath of relief at the sight of it, untouched and standing tall, not destroyed by the Spot’s rampage. Miguel is still glued to his back, one hand firmly on Miles’ shoulder, fingers digging in slightly as if he’s worried Miles will run away. Miles is too tired to really care about it.

They pile into the living room, and Miles sits heavily on the couch with a sigh, resolutely ignoring the Alpha standing like a bodyguard behind him. He aches, sore muscles finally making themselves known after almost forty-eight hours of running on pure adrenaline.

“So…” his mother begins, pushing her lips out uncertainly. “Spider-Man, huh?”

Miles nods. “It’s… a long story.”

“We’ve got time,” his dad says, eyes soft. “But probably not before the cleanup. And…” he looks at Miles’ mom. “‘S he still grounded?”

She contemplates it for a second. “I dunno, are you?” she asks, eyes on him and crossing her arms. It doesn’t sound sarcastic…

“I kinda did save the multiverse,” Miles starts, “again. And… I could probably use a break. After that.”

His mom nods. “Sounds responsible,” she says. “Give it a few weeks—maybe let your dad actually do his job for once. He never said it, but I think he was scared Spider-Man was going to steal his promotion.”

“I don’t even work for the police,” Miles chuckles, the same time that his dad says;

“I was not!”

They catch up, after that. Try to figure out what’s happened the past few days, if everyone’s really okay. Miguel stands silently behind Miles, like a guard, and Miles does his best to ignore him in full. When Miles tries to step out to have a one-on-one with his mother, however he’s frozen in place by Miguel’s threatening growl.

“Oi!” Rio snaps out, turning like a whip to bare her teeth toward the man. “I’m warning you, knothead.”

“Miles, do not repeat that language,” Dad informs Miles under his breath. Miles doesn’t have the heart to tell him he’s heard far worse from the knothead in question, so he just nods.

Strangely enough, the sight of his mother going physically aggressive seems to give Miguel pause, and he tilts his head for a moment.

“I’m just gonna be in the other room,” Miles says in the ensuing quiet. Talk to him plays on repeat in his head. Talk to him, talk to him, talk to him. “Five minutes.” His mother gives him a look, arms crossed. “...Ten minutes. I’m not leaving the house.”

Miguel’s eyes glint strangely. “...Fine,” he says, posture changing into something… oddly relaxed. “Don’t let me catch you anywhere you’re not supposed to be.” It’s a threat, and Miles nods.

Rio stares with piercing eyes at Miguel even as she drags Miles by the wrist into his bedroom and only breaks eye contact when she firmly closes the door. Then she turns to Miles again.

“Alphas like that,” Miles’ mother says, face pinched, “Don’t give them an inch, okay?”

“It’s different, for him,” Miles says. “He comes from another world, remember? His instincts are just… different. Scent’s different, too.”

“You been smelling him?” Mami interrupts flatly, pinning him with a dead stare.

“No,” Miles denies at once. “...I mean… like… sorta?”

“Bah,” she sniffs, but her face relaxes. “I’m teasing you, papa. We’re not Victorian.” She sighs. “And, baby… even if he’s from another world with other norms and other… needs, and I need you to remember this: that doesn’t mean you automatically have to forfeit your rights, okay? You’re a person too, not a prop.”

Miles stays quiet for a minute, digesting that. It’s… different to what Peter B told him. Maybe he can find a sort of middle ground. He says that part out loud.

“I’m sure you can,” Rio says, smiling warmly at him. “You’re the smartest guy your dad knows; I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Just don’t budge if you’ll think someone will try to walk all over you. It’s like tailgaters—if they try it on you, slow down instead.”

“You don’t even drive,” Miles chuckles.

“Mothers just know these things,” she informs him with a smile before it drops again. “Oh, and don’t let him touch you. You’re fifteen. He looks old enough to be a father.”

Miles jerks. “Mami!”

“I don’t know what that smell on you is—like, sweat? But—”

“—Mami no, that’s another, um, dimension thing,” Miles hurries to explain. “It’s… I’m not sure. But it’s common to scent mark there if you like someone, I guess—doesn’t need to be romantic or familial. There’s absolutely no way he likes me like that.” Fuck… how did Peter describe it again? “It’s like a boss-employee thing. In my case.”

“And the whole controlling aspect?”

“That’s… biology, sorta. I… lost a fight to him, and in his dimension, that basically means you’re beneath them on the hierarchy. Omegas aren’t as respected there, either, so it’s just… double up for me. In his dimension that gives him the right to tell me what I can and can’t do.”

“Like a really bad contract?” Mami asks him. Miles sighs in relief.

“Yeah, that. Just a really crappy contract that I can’t get out of without fighting him again.”

“And I saw you… appeased him, earlier. Your middle ground.”

“Like a crappy contract,” Miles repeats, smiling wryly. “Boss has final say, always, but I can try to change his mind.”

“You should be getting paid,” Rio says, lips pursed. “Sounds like a hassle.”

“And a half,” Miles agrees.

There’s a moment of silence. “I’m serious, though, Miles,” his mother says then. “Don’t let him do anything you don’t want him to. And if you need help, we’re always here for you. Your dad’s a big softie at heart, but he’s got instincts too. You’re our first priority, always.”

Miles can’t help but smile at that. “Thanks,” he says, stepping forward to wrap his arms around her. “I love you.”

Rio sighs with clear affection, hugging him back. “Love you too, mijo.”

Chapter Text

It takes about a month and a half for Miles to both feel ready and be allowed by his parents to go back to being Spider-Man. Meanwhile Miguel has been… generous, Miles could call it, enough to send occasional shifts of Spider-People to Miles’ world so everything doesn’t fall into chaos like in 42.

It’s hard to admit he has nightmares sometimes. Claws digging into his shoulders, making him watch as buildings collapse against each other like giants falling to their knees. A little girl in a red shirt, a large, shadowed figure painting the sky into a black hole. It’s hard to admit he wakes up shaking and crying sometimes, convinced he was too late.

Often his mom hears him, and she creeps into his room, hair mussed and eyes red with exhaustion, crawling into bed with him and hugging him until he calms down. She smells so much of dad in those moments that it always helps, the scent always fresh, never stale. She also stole some of his dad’s favourite clothes for him to add to his nest, which obviously made Miles cry. In a good way. From the way his dad finds them curled up together in the mornings, watching from the doorway with warm eyes, Miles figures he doesn’t mind.

Of course, when he finally talks with them about being ready to go back (and they agree, which takes a little longer) and steps foot outside for the first time in weeks in his spider-suit, naturally the first thing that happens is that a portal opens next to him and big hands close over his shoulders before pulling him in.

He lands hard with his face in Miguel’s chest, nose smarting from the abrupt impact with tense muscles.

“Son of a—” Miles curses under his breath, pushing off and cradling his nose. “What the hell?”

“We need to talk,” Miguel says, head tilted authoritatively. Miles didn’t know people could do that, but he guesses there really is a first time for everything.

“You didn’t have to pull me into a portal out of nowhere,” Miles complains. “I think you broke my nose… You could have just come up to me like a normal—”

He’s halted by a silver and orange object being presented to him. Miles blinks, trying to focus. Is that—?

“A watch. Wear it. Don’t take it off. I want you to check in with me here, in person, every other day.”

Miles blinks fast. “What? But—I thought—”

“Then stop thinking,” Miguel says gruffly, turning away again. “1610 is your dimension, 928 is my dimension, that’s all you need to know. Every two days. I want to keep an eye on you.”

“But—I have stuff to do.” It comes out weak. “I can’t just drop everything to—to come chat.”

“We’re not chatting,” Miguel says sharply, “I’m keeping you in line. Find time. If you don’t, I’ll drag you here.”

Miles wants to protest, but he knows a losing battle when he sees one, so he just sighs, rolling his eyes and putting on the watch. “Fine. Timer starting right now?”

“Don’t get smart with me.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry.” Miles presses a few buttons on the watch, trying to figure out how to get back. He manages it fairly quickly—it’s kind of intuitive, which is nice. The portal behind him whooshes back to life, turning lazily in the air. “Two days. Got it.”

It is therefore naturally less than twenty-four hours that Miles sees Miguel again, courtesy of a rogue Prowler glitching his way through Brooklyn—the very same one Miles had secretly admired back at HQ.

“Hi again,” Miles says just before he webs the Prowler in the mask, trying not to sound too flustered. “How’d you end up here?”

“Good question,” the Prowler replies in a drawl, tearing the webs off with his claw before slinging himself onto the next building in an interesting display of muscle.

“Any chance I could convince you to come with me without fighting?” Miles calls after him. Staring a bit too long before setting off in pursuit. “Pretty sure the glitching’s causing rapid cell death; I dunno if you’re looking forward to getting cancer or like, gangrene, or…”

“Beats being locked in a holographic cell for several days,” is the man’s response, interspersed with the occasional sound of exertion as he climbs up the side of a building. He stops, static shivering over his skin, and turns to look at Miles. “Weren’t you being chased down by that entire institution not even a month ago?”

Miles fumbles, slowing as well. “I… uh… we worked it out.”

“What d’you even do, piss in the boss’s coffee or something?” 

“No,” Miles blurts, half horrified at the thought.

The Prowler clicks his tongue, tilting his head playfully. “Should have,” he says, before snapping his head over to where orange streaks across the sky, the pulsing sound of an activating portal rolling through the air. Miles gets a sudden, intense feeling of doom. He didn’t call for backup—and there’s only one person who shows up unannounced with a portal sound quite like that .

True enough, Miguel comes streaking through the air, fangs bared and a snarl ripping free from his throat as he, in equal measure, rips through the side of the empty building the Prowler was traversing, pinning the man against the floor with one clawed hand crushed over his face and the other held up threateningly.

“Daddy’s come to impose curfew, has he?” the Prowler drawls, smirking.

Miles swings in through the Miguel-shaped hole in the building’s facade, coming to a careful halt at several arms’ lengths. “What happened to ‘two days’?” he asks, crossing his arms, deliberately not getting in the way.

Miguel rises to his feet, casting a trapping device at the Prowler, who sighs, rolling his eyes as the orange holographic walls of the portable prison cage him in, even in his supine position. Miguel scowls at him.

“Change of plans.”

The gruff response just makes Miles frown. “I had the situation under control,” he says, the words ‘success in progress’ flashing painfully through his head.

“Uh-huh, sure,” Miguel says, tapping dismissively at his watch. “He outclasses you in regards to strength, you know.”

“—I’m right here,” the Prowler mutters, going entirely ignored.

“I didn’t—” Miles begins to argue, but he’s stopped by Miguel holding up his hand dismissively, already half turned away. I didn’t ask for backup. He bites it back, not wanting to start shit with Miguel right now.

“I’m not going to argue with you about this. Tomorrow, my office, two PM.”

Miles groans, and the Prowler gives him a sympathetic look from within the hologram-cell.

“Knotheads,” he offers.

“You’re an Alpha too,” Miguel growls, baring his teeth just a little as he punches in the code for 928. 

“Glad you noticed,” the Prowler drawls. “Aw, do you feel intimidated? Don’t worry, Spider-Man Zero here looks like my nephew anyway—”

“Shut it,” Miguel snaps, hand flexing at his side as if to mimic forcing the Prowler’s jaw shut manually. “Why don’t you stay in your damn universe already and stop escaping .”

“Where’d be the fun in that?” the Prowler asks. Miles can hear the smirk in his voice, moments before he’s thrown into the portal like an oversized package, prison and all. Miles stares at the portal, eyes wide. He didn’t even realise you could do that. He’s learning a lot of things about people these past few days.

“Miles,” Miguel snaps, and Miles turns with a jolt, straightening up as he faces the Alpha. 

Miguel doesn’t say anything for a long second, so Miles stands there with growing confusion, before;

“Eyes on your surroundings.” The man’s eyes narrow. “Tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

He’s gone, portal shrinking closed behind him, before Miles can protest. He’s not entirely sure what that whole exchange was about, either.

Tomorrow at 2PM is kind of shifted around a bit, because apparently there’s a time difference between 1610 and 928 of about one hour and three minutes, and Miguel meant his time when he referred to the time, naturally. Miles thanks LYLA in his head for notifying him about a quarter of an hour in advance, otherwise he would have missed it by a long shot and have to face Miguel’s wrath, again.

The Alpha sure has no shortage of it.

As Miles walks up to the lab, the proper way this time—not having been yanked into a portal unannounced—he has to fight the urge to curl into himself at the eyes that linger on his form. It’s the first time he’s been in HQ since the whole prison thing.

He spots Gwen from the corner of his eye, kind of hiding away in a dark spot, her mask’s eyes big and searching, following him. Peter B stands next to her, Mayday in her carrier, less subtle about his staring but equally hesitant to approach. Miles is fine with that, for now. He’s here for one reason and one reason only. He can leave the complicated talks for another time. 

“Incoming,” LYLA’s voice echoes through the lab, and Miles turns the corner just to see Miguel turn away from his desk to face him.

“Oh good,” the man says, dropping down from his platform in a smooth motion, “You’re here.”

“You told me to be,” Miles says, shrugging through the sudden discomfort at the familiar scene. He holds still as the Alpha stalks closer, circling him with intent. It’s not subtle at all, the way Miguel leans in close to breathe him in, analysing his scent, but Miles supposes then again that he doesn’t have to be.

“And you obeyed,” Miguel murmurs, coming to a halt. He tilts his head. “That’s a first.”

Miles ignores the jab. He thinks that’s what it is—he’s been perfectly well-behaved when the lives of his family and friends weren’t at stake. “So,” he says instead, rolling on his heels nervously when Miguel backs off a little, “check-in? And such?”

Miguel snorts, but it doesn’t sound all that amused. “You’re sure in a rush, huh? ‘Nother canon event to interrupt?”

“No,” Miles says quickly, eyes wide. “I just…”

Miguel waves his hand dismissively then walks back over to his platform—which has since lowered entirely to the ground. He stands behind the desk, leaning both palms on it. “Come here.”

Not willing to test Miguel’s shockingly unpredictable temper, as Miles is beginning to find out, he does as told, trailing obediently toward the desk and coming to stand a reasonable distance away.

“No,” Miguel says, frowning. “Here.” He points at a spot right beside him, in front of the screens. When Miles swallows his anxiety and steps into the indicated spot, Miguel turns back to the screens. “What do you see?”

Miles stares at the orange holographic text floating in front of him, and for a long, long minute, he’s unsure what he’s looking at. It moves, occasionally—not the rapid speeds Miguel spends his days staring at or that LYLA undoubtedly deals with. Frowning, Miles looks closer. It’s a puzzle, almost, and he wants to know the answer. In occasional spots there are spikes of numbers. It’s not binary, strangely enough, but something else that works in tens instead: zero to nine.

It’s not an algorithm. An algorithm, to Miles’ knowledge, doesn’t look anything like this. It’s not just a data stream of—

In the distance, a portal whooshes open, and echoed chatter fills the lab for a moment before it fades away again. Before Miles’ eyes, the numbers spike.

“A dimensional data stream,” Miles mumbles before he can stop himself. But not everything, just—

“Close.” Miguel turns his head to face Miles, red eyes calm and curious. It’s a new look on him, one that Miles hasn’t seen before. “To be specific, it’s the data generated by breaches, natural or otherwise, of the dimensional barrier—so to speak—of this world. It records portals and their coordinates here, on my Earth.”

“For… security,” Miles guesses. “You’d want to know if anyone else—someone unauthorised—made a portal, maybe with the same technology you did.”

“Precisely.” Miguel doesn’t look surprised, per se, but certainly pleased with Miles’ response. Miles wonders, absently, about the implications this has for privacy. Then he remembers who he’s talking to. “Now, a more practical question; do you know how to use a soldering kit?”

“Soldering what?”

Miguel doesn’t answer that; just mutters something that vaguely sounds like ‘practical school’ before shaking his head lightly. “Doesn’t matter yet, I suppose you could just learn—does your electricity power automatically absorb shocks, like a reflex, or do you need to actively focus on draining the electricity?”

“I… have no idea,” Miles admits. “I don’t remember being shocked since I got bit, but…”

“Hmm.” Miguel types something in, then swipes a screen away. “Touch this.” He points at a small metal box on the desk without looking at it.

Miles hesitates, then slowly reaches out. When an inch of distance between the box and his fingers does nothing of note, Miles relaxes, and lets his fingertips skim the surface.

“That answers my question,” Miguel says after glancing at Miles and the box. “That box is currently not grounded. It’s not a fatal shock, should you touch it, but it’s enough to disrupt my suit locally.” He raises his hand for demonstration—the fingertips of his suit are knitting themselves back together slowly.

“H—hold on,” Miles protests, yanking his hand back. “You just—what if it had shocked me?”

“I would have realised, and as I said, it’s not a fatal shock.”

“For you maybe!” Miles cradles his hand to his chest, glaring daggers at Miguel. “You’re like—four times my size!”

“Glad you noticed,” Miguel says, voice lowering to a threatening drawl. It’s enough to make Miles shut up fast, ducking his head just a little. Unfair.

A silence falls between them, and Miles tries to get himself to cool down, chewing at the inside of his cheek and picking aimlessly at the fabric of his suit.

“So…” he starts after a minute. “Why… all this?” He gestures loosely toward the box and the datastreams still scrolling past. Surely maybe-almost frying someone to death isn’t part of any standard checkup.

“I’d like you to come work here,” Miguel says, in a tone that makes it very clear that he’s not asking.

Miles does a double take. “What,” he says, baffled. “I have school, though.”

“I’m aware,” is the Alpha’s response. “Summer holiday starts in July, right?”

“Yeah, it’s…” Miles hesitates. “July twenty-first ‘s my last day.”

“Three weeks,” the Alpha acknowledges. Miles has a niggling feeling in the back of his head that Miguel already knew that very well, but just tried to make it look like he didn’t.

“...Right,” Miles says slowly. “So… that’s it, then? Three weeks and then I start here?” Honestly, seven weeks ago he would have jumped at the chance to work full-time as Spider-Man in a team full of people like him. Now, though?

“In effect, yes.” Miguel’s red eyes regard him unreadably. “You’ll start on July the twenty-second.”

“That’s a Saturday,” Miles says, eyes wide. It’s the first protest he can think of.

“You’re lucky it’s not Christmas,” Miguel says, turning away and going back to his screens.

He means it, Miles realises. He’s dead serious about the entire thing. And Miles isn’t going to change his mind on this.

“I… uh.” Miles starts, then stops. “Vacation days?”

Miguel stops and looks over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “Why on Earth would you need those?”

“Okay, then, like, sick leave. Or something.”

Miguel scoffs, waving a dismissive hand and turning back to his screens. “I don’t expect you to show up when you’re sporting a fever, or about to spread some interdimensional plague. Just let me know.”

“...Right,” Miles says. “Okay. Noted. Am I free to go now, or..?”

Miguel shoos him without a word, not even looking back around. Miles sighs, casting his eyes to the dark, wired roof of the lab, then types in his home coordinates and steps through. 

Three weeks of not-quite peace before… whatever the hell he’ll be doing, then. He can’t wait.

Chapter Text

It’s been two weeks since Miles has started working at HQ, and so far he’s settled into a routine. He shows up at about 10am local time—which, annoyingly, means waking up at 8 in his own dimension, he’d thought he’d be done with that but no—and heads pronto to Miguel’s lab. Entry portals are restricted to the elevator, so it’s quite a walk every time, and Miles can’t help kind of despising the way people just keep looking at him.

His status as subordinate to Miguel O’Hara is public knowledge; Miles isn’t surprised, since it happened in front of half the damn Spider Society, but still. It happened almost three months ago; he wishes people would let it go already. He’s not exactly enjoying being regarded as someone’s million dollar show dog; all look and no touch. Gives him the creeps.

“You’re late,” Miguel growls at him as Miles makes his way into the lab.

“Elevator was slow,” Miles says, shrugging, ignoring the fact that he’s late by maybe half a minute at most. “Won’t happen next time.”

“Make sure that it doesn’t.”

Considering… everything, Miles has it really good. He’s learning so much; it’s like a summer internship, almost. Definitely unpaid. But if the physics work the same in his world, which they might, Miles could probably revolutionise his field before the end of high school. Not that he wants to piggyback off the eighty-something years of research people have been doing in 928. That’d be like inter-dimensional plagiarism. Yuck. 

Unfortunately however, Miles can already tell he’s going to have trouble dumbing down his exam answers.

He jerks when a warm, big hand covers his shoulder, Miguel’s nose digging itself into the space just underneath his ear.

That’s also part of the routine. Miles shows up, gets smelled, and then gets licked. That goes on for a solid two minutes, before Miguel steps away again and goes back to his business and leaves Miles to figure out futuristic schematics so he can repair volatile, high-voltage or static-sensitive things in peace.

“You smell weird,” Miguel says, audibly baring his teeth.

“That’s because you keep licking me,” Miles says, rolling his eyes. “And get those teeth away from my neck.”

Miguel’s growls softly, then presses his tongue to Miles’ neck and licks a broad stripe over the majority of Miles’ nape. “I don’t like that smell,” the Alpha warns quietly.

Miles has got an idea of what ‘that smell’ entails. Ganke came to visit to hang out, namely, an appointment they’d had longer than Miguel’s whole indentured servitude thing. 

“I’m in contact with people, you know,” he says, shivering at the feeling of saliva drying on his skin. He yelps when Miguel starts on his ear, too, shoulders shooting up to knock him away. “Hey!”

“Don’t get smart with me,” Miguel scoffs, squeezing his hand still on Miles’ shoulder in warning.

“I’m just stating factual information,” Miles complains. “As it happens, I live in a society. And in a society, people have to interact with other people. In my society, those people have scents that are strong enough to be noticeable on someone else with like, a handshake.”

That’s one thing that has changed, though; Miguel is tolerating Miles’ shit a lot more. It’s a pleasant change, all things considered. It means Miles doesn’t have to be on high alert all day because of an ill-timed retort. Miles’ best guess is that Peter B put in a good word for him, but it could also just have been Miguel getting used to it, or something. It’s definitely more pleasant this way, so Miles is certainly not complaining.

The tradeoff, unfortunately, seems to have been Miguel getting even more handsy. 

But it’s fine; Miles can handle it. It’s nothing worse than has been done before, just in greater frequency.

So far, a voice whispers into the back of his brain, but Miles does his absolute best to disregard that thought. He doesn't even want to entertain it.

Today he’s working on yet another piece of static-sensitive equipment, Peter B entertaining Mayday over in a corner instead of doing his work, which is purely administrative. Miles doesn't envy him; he’s seen the reports they have to hand in to Miguel after a mission when the man doesn't fuck off to do his own thing and instead sticks around, and they all look like multiple-hour jobs.

The sliding door opens with a quiet hiss. Miles catches the sound, but he’s too busy trying to arrange an array of wires that he doesn't really care to look who it is.

Miles twitches when a nose buries itself into his nape, and realises exactly who it is when he feels Miguel’s tongue dragging heavily over the skin of his neck.

“Miguel, I’m working,” he says, trying to shrug the man off, suitably distracted that he only notices his suit’s top is being lifted when the Alpha’s warm palm spreads over his stomach, and the smell of something almost earthy, bitter and warm, reaches his nose. “What the—”

There’s liquid clinging to the skin of his stomach when Miguel’s hand retreats, one drop gathering and trailing slowly down to his waistband. Miles elbows Miguel off, ignoring the man’s grunt when he catches him right in the solar plexus, and looks down. It’s off-white, viscous and a little clumpy. Miles’ brain short-circuits for a minute, and then he whirls to face Miguel, eyes wide.

“Oh Jesus,” Peter B says somewhere out of sight. “Miguel, seriously? He’s fifteen!”

Miguel just stares back at him, imperious, looking by all accounts completely unaffected. “Don’t wipe it off,” he says, then turns on his heel and leaves. Leaves.

Miles stands there, hem of his suit still in hand, frozen. He looks at Peter. “What do I do.”

“Uh,” Peter says, fumbling, “I have no idea.” It’s clear he’s never actually has this happen to him, as much as he seems to know what it means.

“Will he be mad if I wipe it off?”

“My guess? Maybe. Probably.”

“So…” Miles swallows thickly, still awkwardly holding his shirt up, “what does this mean? I think you know what it means. I’ve got an idea to what this means but I really don’t want to say it out loud.”

“In all honesty, I don’t want to say it out loud either,” Peter says, staring at Miles’ stomach with apprehension. “But that is exactly what you think it is.”

Miles groans. Gross. He looks around, desperate for some kind of tissue or—or something, but there’s nothing. “LYLA?” he asks, and she pops up, head tilted and spinning slowly on her axis. “How do I get rid of this and not make Miguel mad? Or just make him like, mad in a way that me going completely boneless the second he looks at me will fix?”

“If you get rid of it he’ll just do it again when he notices,” LYLA informs him cheerily. “If you wipe it off, leave some—I dunno, on your suit or something. It’s about the smell, not the fluid itself.”

“Gross,” Miles says again, out loud. At least it doesn’t smell that bad… Just kinda neutral, like skin, with an undertone of Miguel’s own scent. It’s probably way more noticeable to people from this world, though. It just feels… well, yeah, he doesn’t need to repeat himself.

Still he does as instructed, carefully smearing some over the hem of his suit—on the inside so the stain isn’t that noticeable, gross—and wiping the rest off with the nearest piece of fabric he isn’t wearing, and then tossing that piece of fabric in the incinerator. He’s not looking forward to explaining that to his mom.

(“Mijo,” Mami says, wide eyes meeting his as she holds up his Spidersuit top from his laundry basket. “What is this.”

“A… new development,” Miles says slowly and exaggeratedly, averting his eyes. “I’m… Actually, I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“I know what Alpha spunk smells like, believe it or not,” she says, narrowing her eyes. Miles grimaces. “Is it that Miguel guy again?”

“Nnnyes.” Miles sucks at his cheek. “But it’s, uh… A. His universe thing.”

“Saliva, I can understand,” Mami says, throwing it into the washing machine with a scowl. “Sweat, I can understand. But in what world is—is this acceptable?”

“His, apparently,” Miles mumbles, and promptly ducks out of the way of his own hoodie being slung at his face.

“You tell this guy to back off, or I will,” she says seriously, chin tilted up just a little with authority. She looks scarily like Miguel in that moment. Miles shivers.

“Look, I… I’ll do it,” he lies, badly. “Just don’t know if he’ll take it that well. Also,” he adds, possibly to his own detriment, but seriously—“please continue pretending you’re the virgin mary from now on.” He smiles nervously at her. “Please.”

She clicks her tongue. “Miles, it’s a normal part of life—you’re old enough to be talking about these things…”

Miles promptly turns and marches away, trying very hard not to hear anything else she says.)

“So, like,” Miles begins the next time he’s at work, casting a surreptitious glance around to make sure nobody’s in hearing range before facing LYLA’s hologram again. “What does that kind of… scent marking even mean?”

“What kind?” LYLA asks, unhelpfully. Miles stares at her, deadpan, until she figures it out. “Ohh, that kind.”

“Yeah, that kind,” Miles grumbles.

“Well, it depends,” LYLA begins. “It really varies from person to person, so it’s hard to define, but in your case… Probably something along the lines of warning off potential competitors. Generally it’s also used as a sign of affection between mates.”

Miles blinks at her, mildly scandalised. “I’m not his mate.” Never in a million years, if he has any say in it. “And what competition? I don’t even want to date anyone. I have enough problems already.” Like being Spider-Man. And thinking about his academic future. And trying not to get grounded every time he gets hurt fighting a villain, now that his parents know about him being Spider-Man.

LYLA shrugs. “It’s to dissuade people from approaching you, not necessarily the other way around.”

Miles frowns. “I can protect myself.” He’s just as much Spider-Man as the rest of them; just as capable.

“Different kind of protection.”

“I’m plenty protected both ways!” Miles snaps. “I beat everyone aside from him, so there’s no reason for him to—to—”

“I’m not the person to persuade, here,” LYLA says.

“Aren’t you his secretary, or something?” Miles asks. “Pass a message, maybe?”

“Pass a message about what?” Miguel asks, strolling into Miles’ space, unmasked. Miles jumps and stares at the Alpha’s hands suspiciously, taking a small step away, though he relaxes when he spots the crossed arms.

“That I can protect myself,” Miles mutters.

"From what?" the Alpha asks. "And no," he continues before Miles can even open his mouth to answer. "You can't."

"Yes, I can."

Miguel's upper lip starts to rise in a recognisable snarl, and Miles swallows, though he stands his ground. But strangely—Miguel stops, then, and straightens up, expression going blank. A clear dismissal. Miles bristles.

"I'll let you get back to your work," LYLA announces happily.

"Hey, no, wait—" Miles protests, but she disappears, and then he's left alone with Miguel in their big, empty lab.

"I didn't realise you needed my AI to do your job," Miguel says, though it's without any bite. Probably a joke, then.

Miles scowls anyway, a displeased noise coming from deep in his throat. "You know I don't."

"What is it, then? Afraid to be alone with me?"

Miles closes his eyes for a moment, begging some deity he doesn't believe in for strength. "Can you move? You're interrupting my flow."

Miguel looks at him for a long minute, red eyes deceptively dark. It's probably the surroundings, the low light of the lab—whatever it is, the effect is that Miles can't read him. Miles swallows, turning away. He sucks at his teeth.

"You're getting cocky," Miguel says then, tilting his head a little, his eyes flashing as he moves. "Watch the tone."

"Yep," Miles says, turning to face the workbench again, nodding jerkily once. "Will do."

The Alpha scoffs softly, immediately coming closer and sniffing at Miles' neck. "You reek."

"I just showered, so that's unlikely." Neutral tone, neutral tone.

"Oh, very funny. Uh-huh." Miguel's breath fans over Miles' nape as he shifts, nose bumping Miles' scent gland under his suit—and Miles jolts, surprised at the way his stomach clenches. "There's something strange. I don't like it."

Miles inhales, then exhales, very purposefully. "I can't do much about that, if showering doesn't help."

MIguel hums dismissively in return. "Just stay still."

The licking that comes after is almost familiar, tickling at the short hairs on Miles' nape. It's familiar territory, and before Miles realises, he's relaxing into it, head tilting just a little like he's trying to give the Alpha better access. The soft, pleased rumble Miguel produces in return doesn't help, either.

"Wait—" Miles protests, ripped out of his near-doze when Miguel plucks at the collar of his suit, baring Miles' scent gland. "Miguel—"

Miguel, predictably, ignores him, and the firm stroke of the Alpha's tongue on the skin over his scent gland makes Miles falter, hand shooting out to stabilise himself on the workbench when his knees go suspiciously weak. His breath comes out shaky, warmth blooming in his chest, lower—

Miles pulls away, slapping a hand over his scent gland, the suit snapping back to its original position. Saliva still sticks there, but Miles isn't really worried about that compared to the implication of his body's reaction. Heat's risen to his face, too, and Miles clears his throat, averting his eyes.

"It's sensitive," he says quickly, to mitigate potential disaster. "I'm ticklish," he elaborates uselessly, a white lie. "Sorry."

Miguel's throat works like he's savouring the taste of something, and he stares at Miles like he's some enigma. A puzzle to be solved.

Miles forces a fleeting, awkward smile. "I think I'm gonna go to the bathroom," he says quickly, already webbing himself away before the Alpha can reply.

The nearest bathroom is unoccupied, thankfully, and Miles locks himself in with shaky hands, chewing at his lips. He counts in his head—and sure enough, the symptoms should start appearing any day now. Pre-heat. It's not really a problem, Miles can work just fine during it up until the real thing, but… he'd never noticed how sensitive his scent glands are around this time. Maybe he'd attributed it to general skin sensitivity, which is true, but…

Miles lets out a breath, scrubbing at his face. The drying saliva sticking his skin to his suit itches, and Miles rubs at the spot absently, poking at it curiously. Fingers—at least, his fingers—don't evoke the same reaction.

Maybe it's just the threat of teeth.

Miles pivots his thoughts one-eighty degrees at that, shaking his head. That's one thing he most certainly doesn't want to entertain right now. How he'll get Miguel to stay clear with his big, scary fangs and overly scent-happy habits is another matter; one that he'll get to when he gets to it.

Miles washes his hands, just to keep up appearances, then makes his way back to the lab.

Chapter Text

The morning of his heat, Miles wakes up whining, covered in sweat and slick—and has just enough sense to think I'm not going to HQ like this. His mother comes in at some point, smelling of warmth and safety, and strokes over his sweaty forehead. She makes sure he eats and drinks, that he takes his pills, and reminds him where the heat aids are, pressing her wrist glands against his jaw in several sure strokes. She kisses his forehead before she leaves again, and Miles takes a minute to bask in her lingering scent before trying to go back to sleep.

Sleeping through the heat is easier and faster than masturbating through it, but Miles knows that three days of sleep is… a stretch.

Still he dozes on and off until the need becomes unbearable. The sun's high in the sky at that point, though the blackout curtains do an admirable job of keeping Miles' room dark and cool. Miles vaguely remembers trying to crawl into his parents' closet to nest a few times, before they had the curtains installed, because it was the only place dark enough for his liking. Thankfully they'd been understanding and not too upset.

Miles gropes for the box of heat aids blindly from his shoddy nest—he should fix it, honestly—and pulls it closer, staring into the box uncomprehendingly for a second before his brain kicks into gear and he grabs for his go-to; a gentle pink knotting dildo.

The relief when it's in is—palpable. Tension falls from Miles' shoulders, and he lets out a breath, eyes opening lazily to scan his surroundings. He hasn't worked the knot in yet, but that's meant to come later anyway. Until then, he figures he might as well get some homework done. He drags his laptop to a safe, dry place just outside his nest, and gets to work.

Occasionally rocking his hips helps keep the edge of heat off, quieting the itch whenever it becomes distracting, but after some time even that doesn't help. Miles finally gives up when his eyes refuse to focus for more than three seconds at a time, his cunt twitching at the slight increase in girth just before the bulk of the fake knot, which is pressed snugly against his opening.

"Ugh," Miles whines to himself, turning his laptop off and dropping his head into his arms, rocking uselessly back against the knot as he keeps the base of the toy in place with the heel of his foot, desire growing exponentially in his belly every time the thickness of it presses up against him. "Stupid fucking heats."

A soft knock at his door snaps Miles out of it, and he's growling at the shadow behind it before he can control himself, teeth bared, barely refraining from hissing like a caveman.

"Miles?" Mami asks, thankfully not even trying to open the door. "You need anything?"

"'m fine!" Miles manages, trying to settle himself again. "Just a bad spike. And annoyed I can't focus on my homework."

Mami tsks in sympathy. "Oh, Papi… don't worry about that. Your health goes first, okay?"

"Okay," Miles says, closing his laptop screen. "Some privacy now, please?"

"Of course, I'll go. Remember to drink water." Mami doesn't wait for a response before her shadow vanishes from behind the door and Miles can relax again.

Immediately his brain goes back to the knot, demanding he gets it in immediately. That he gets bred, pupped up. Miles' pills, thank god, allow him to at least discard that last thought, so he rolls his eyes, pushing his laptop a safe distance away before he reaches underneath himself for the toy, letting his feet drop again. Pleasure spikes inside him as Miles begins pushing, the pressure building and building—

The watch on his nightstand buzzes, then lights up, a series of messages popping into view in the hologram that materialises on its own above the little device.

[Where are you.]

[Morales, answer me.]

[If I don’t hear from you in the next hour I’m coming to find you.]

Miles is kind of occupied whining into quiet air and rutting himself back on his toy, trying to get it in as deep as possible.

He gasps as the knot pops inside him and liquid spills against his insides, trembling as he goes still aside from hard, milking clenches of his cunt, trying to pull every drop of fake cum into him. The haze of his heat clears for a moment, and it’s just in time for another buzz to come from Miles’ watch.

[Morales. Last chance.]

Miles squints at the small letters, thighs quivering from exertion, and realises what’s going on with a scowl.

[Good luck coming over here,] he types back sloppily, probably filled with typos. [My parents will maul you at the door.]

[Why haven’t you answered?] Miguel texts back immediately, apparently just ignoring Miles’ statement.

[In heat, asshole,] is the best Miles can come up with at the moment. [You can survive without me for a few days.]

Miguel doesn’t text back after that. All the better for Miles, because he’s already desperate again, testing at the knot with sharp rocks of his hips.

The rest of his heat passes in an agonizing haze. At some point Miles wakes up, exhausted, to light falling into his room from the small peek his door has opened, Mami looking through it worriedly.

"You alive, baby?" She asks, keeping her voice low.

Miles nods tiredly, barely cognisant to try and cover himself with a gross blanket, pretty sure he's covered in all sorts of gross fluids. Mami, clearly emboldened at the lack of hissing and growling, opens the door a little further, creeping inside to help Miles out.

It's embarrassing. But she's been helping ever since Miles' heats started when he turned twelve, and Miles does appreciate it, so he doesn't protest.

"Heavy heat, huh?" Mami asks, stroking his sweaty forehead gently when Miles is covered in a mostly clean sheet. Miles nods again, closing his eyes. "Thought so. It's been almost four days… you're probably starving. Dad'll get you a bath ready, and I'll strip your bed, okay? Do you still need the nest?"

"Nuh," Miles manages, face smooshed into the mattress. "'M fine." Then his brain starts working. "Four days?"

Mami chuckles a little, but her scent tells Miles she's worried. "Yesterday evening you hissed at me so hard I was worried you'd fry your throat." She goes quiet for a second, and Miles turns on his side to tiredly blink up at her. "Maybe it's a good idea to make an appointment with your dynamician."

"Too tired to think," Miles complains, though he thinks he agrees. A full day extra of heat is… not exactly a great sign. "Can I use your bathrobe?"

"Of course," Mami agrees. "I'll give your dad the A-O-K."

She comes back a few minutes later with her bathrobe, which is covered in her warm scent. It smells like home, and Miles wants to bury himself in it. Mami wraps the thick fleece gently around him, then helps him up, mindful of his shaky legs, and helps him toward the bathroom.

Miles stays in the warm water until he's one big prune, and relaxes as Mami helps him untangle his hair when she comes back from changing his bed, carefully working it back into the curls he fights so hard to take care of. He's barely awake when she's done, and doesn't really remember much else aside from brushing his teeth, peeing and falling back into bed, instantly falling asleep.

“You were in heat,” is the first thing Miguel says when Miles shows up the next day, tired and sore but refreshed enough.

“Yeah,” Miles says, bending over a panel, which is showing errors—three of them, to be precise. Great. His eyes ache, but he’s kind of pressed to get back to work. “Shocker, right?”

“...You’re fertile?” Miguel asks, and Miles closes his eyes, praying for patience.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” he manages, keeping his eyes strictly on the tab in front of him. “That’s a normal remark to make, whatever.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then; “Answer the question.”

“Can we—can we just not do this now?” Miles sighs, turning to face the Alpha, one hand on his hip. “I’m tired and I’m sore, and I’m still working here, so just give me a break, okay?” Sure, he has heats, but they don’t indicate fertility, per se. Just means his hormones like to try and kill him once a month. 

“It’s important,” Miguel says, stepping closer. “For the safety of everyone here.”

“I don’t know what me being fertile has anything to do with safety,” Miles snaps. “Yes, I have heats. Once a month, usually. I know when they’re going to happen, I’ve got symptoms several days before without fail, and I know how to handle it. Happy?”

The Alpha narrows his eyes. “Watch your tone.”

Miles struggles not to scoff. “Yeah, yeah, sorry,” he mumbles, turning away again.

“Inform me in advance next time,” Miguel says.

Miles has trouble not cracking the delicate circuitry he’s holding with the force of his grip. He says nothing as the Alpha finally fucks off, slowly unclenching his hand and inspecting the damage. Salvageable.

Naturally, that isn't the end of it. It's like a switch has been flipped in Miguel's stupid knotbrained head, and suddenly he's always there. Where before the Alpha had only occasionally popped in to bother Miles with his stupid 'scenting' stuff, now it seems there's nothing Miles can do without supervision. Working with wiring? Miguel's there, next to him. Sitting at the cafeteria? Miguel's there, ensuring everyone leaves a six foot circle of space around Miles. Trying to portal home at the end of his work?

Well.

"Where are you going?" Miguel demands, gripping Miles's wrist tightly.

"Home," Miles says, rolling his eyes. He points at the digital display on the screen. "It's almost five. I've finished everything. I'm going to do my homework."

Miguel stares at him. "It's summer," he says, like that negates everything Miles has just said.

"And I have summer homework," Miles tells him nicely, tugging uselessly at the Alpha's grip. "Deal with it."

That earns him a threatening growl, which Miles should have predicted. He tilts his head out of habit, annoyed. The growling, predictably, stops. "It's not five yet," Miguel says then, imperiously. "You're not leaving."

Miles stares at him, nonplussed. It's four fifty-seven in the afternoon. "This has literally never been an issue before."

"I'm making it an issue," Miguel growls, pulling Miles back toward his desk, away from the waiting portal, which is slowly closing.

"Oh good," Miles sighs as he's pulled along, staring wistfully at the portal as it vanishes. "I'm glad we're in agreement about that."

Miles lounges around for some time, doing nothing of note, kind of expecting to be released at five o'clock sharp—but the time comes and goes, and before long, it's closer to six in the afternoon than five, and Miles is starting to get antsy.

"Can I go?" he asks, for the twelfth time. "I'm hungry."

"No," Miguel says, not even looking at him. "I'll get someone to get you something from the cafeteria."

"I don't want cafeteria food, I want something edible. Dinner. My mom's dinner."

"No."

"Dude," Miles says, sitting up from where he's lying haphazardly across one of Miguel's many workspaces and staring straight at the Alpha. "You can't just keep me here."

Miguel glances at Miles dismissively, then looks back at his work. "Watch me."

Miles bristles, just about to try again with his own portal, damn the consequences, when a sudden, piercing screech of an alarm sounds, the entire room bathed in flickering red and orange.

LYLA's voice, robotic instead of lively, intones calmly across the speaker system: "Warning: anomaly breach detected. Location of threat: Go Home Machine. Heading towards Sector 1."

Sector 1 is Miguel's lab. Before Miles can even finish the thought, the Alpha has launched up and out of his chair, pulling Miles closer with a firm hand around his arm, a threatening growl already starting up in his chest—or maybe annoyed? Miles can't really tell the difference. Either way, Miguel looks pissed.

The door to the lab is briefly darkened by a purple-clad figure dashing inside, who then promptly skids to a stop.

It's the same Prowler that broke into Miles' dimension.

"Oops," says the Prowler, looking completely unsurprised at the way Miguel has bodily put himself between the Prowler and Miles. "Wrong turn." He stares at the two of them, a single eyebrow raised—almost judgementally. "I see you've made up, if you're spending time together after hours. Alone," he adds, like an afterthought.

Miles begins to splutter protests—but before he can form a coherent sentence, the Prowler has taken off again. Miguel's chest is puffed, his shoulders tight and proud, like he's preening. What the hell? There's no time to think about it too hard, though, and Miles starts to give chase—

Fingers close around his scruff and pull him back, and Miles gasps for air at the unexpected movement.

"What the—" Miles manages, trying to wrench himself out of the Alpha's grip, to no avail. "Hey! Shouldn't we catch him? He's getting away!"

"We are not doing anything," Miguel growls, fingers tightening across Miles' nape until, with one last struggling twitch, Miles is forced to go slack. "You are staying here, with me. There are plenty of Spider-People in this facility who can handle one measly little Prowler." Miguel spits the word like it's venom.

"Dude!" Miles manages, trying to twitch out of the scruffed hold Miguel has him in. It's not getting him very far, but he tries nonetheless. Miguel, displeased, tugs Miles onto his lap, positioning him like a ragdoll while Miles can't move. "Scruffing is—is not cool, man." It's playing dirty, for one—and secondly, Miles despises the feeling of all his limbs being forcibly shut off like they're falling asleep.

Even his mother has only scruffed him twice in Miles' memory. Once after he'd gotten lost at the zoo, and the other time when he'd acted out shortly after being enrolled into Visions and skipped school to hang out with Uncle Aaron. He'd been scruffed for the entire lecture after so he couldn't run away, and it had been the worst experience of his life.

Somehow Miles ends up with his face smushed up against Miguel's neck, nose filling with the stale scent of sweat and copper there, along with something else—something strangely Miguel underneath. Miles isn't sure how to describe it. It almost distracts him from the Alpha pulling aside Miles' suit to attach his mouth hotly to Miles' neck glands.

"Dude," Miles repeats, a little nervously. He puts his hands on Miguel's pecs, prepared to use the Alpha's firm body as a springboard should Miguel get a little too toothy up in his neck. "Watch the teeth."

Predictably, the knothead ignores him, soft clicking, rumbling noises emitting from the man's chest as he gets all up in Miles' business. On one of Miguel's screens LYLA is broadcasting the high-speed chase currently happening throughout sector 4, but all Miles can focus on is the way Miguel keeps gently dragging his teeth over parts of Miles' neck like he's trying to satiate himself of the urge to bite down without actually doing it.

It's—nowhere near okay. And when Miles thinks he feels even a hint of fang, he panics, palms crackling with electricity.

He's shoved off by the force of the Alpha's suit shorting, pushing the man and his chair out from under Miles' body. Miles tumbles to the floor, the wind knocked out of him.

Two palm-shaped disruptions in the strange, hologram-esque fabric of Miguel's suit remain, flickering for a long several seconds before the suit begins to knit back together.

Miles pushes himself up, wincing at the ache where he landed a little too hard on his knee. He stumbles to his feet, casting a nervous look at Miguel.

He's met with crimson eyes and bared teeth, a guttural, growling hiss drowning out the crackle of circuitry. For a moment everything stands still, as Miles is sure he's going to get tackled to the floor, pinned, forced into submission, something—but Miguel stays in his seat, face twisted in something almost resembling pain, underneath the blind rage.

"A-Alpha," Miles tries, the word unfamiliar in his mouth. He deliberates stepping closer. Decides against it. Considers running. Peter B's words flash through his mind. Disobey the rules, you get fired. Fired means mauled. Running seems like a bad idea when faced with something primed to give chase, so he tries again. "Miguel?"

"You," Miguel manages, one hand coming up to cover the disrupted tech of his suit. His eyes flash, and the Alpha begins to rise out of his chair. "You," he repeats, "are a bad Omega."

Miles backs away, barely an inch at a time, holding his hands in front of him defensively. "Not the first time I've been told that," he says, aiming for levity and falling horribly flat. Miguel doesn't even acknowledge the comment, instead stalking his way toward Miles like a huge, hulking predator.

Miles' back hits the console, and he freezes up. Miguel doesn't stop approaching.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay," he starts, eyes darting for any means of escape—his mind's gone blank. "I didn't mean to. Maybe you—you should get some first-aid? I figure that's gotta hurt."

Miguel ignores his questions, beginning to crowd in on Miles, eyes still red, when—

A familiar shape crashes into Miguel's lab. It's swiftly followed by approximately five-hundred Spider-People, all yelling and scrambling over one another to catch the intruder. Thankfully, this breaks the Alpha's focus, and Miguel turns to see what the hell is going on.

When Miles does, too, his eyes find the Prowler from earlier. Either he'd been herded into Miguel's lab, or he'd baited half of HQ into the lab—but Miles swears he could kiss that Prowler.

Miguel growls under his breath, jaw clenching. In the blink of an eye, two lazer-red webs shoot out from his wrists, snagging the rogue Prowler around the waist and swiftly turning the glitching anomaly into a tightly wrapped, squirming mess. After a second, several Spider-People pile on top of him, some of them crowing in victory.

"Do none of you know how to catch that pest?" Miguel barks, the fangs still heavy in his mouth giving his words a dangerous edge. Snarling curtly, the Alpha mutters, "Where's that punk when you need him?"

"I slipped," the Prowler calls from underneath the Spider-Mass, apparently still extremely affronted at the assumption that Hobie caught him in any capacity.

"You didn't slip just now," Miguel retorts bitingly, clearly getting worked up again. Before Miles can think to book it, though, Miguel glances back at him, eyes narrowed. "You," he barks at Miles. "Go home."

"Me?" Miles asks, then mentally kicks himself for it.

"Yes, you," Miguel growls at him. "Portal out, right here, right now. And I don't want to see you back here until I give the all-clear for all anomalies. Comprehende?"

Miles doesn't have to be told that twice. "Yessir!" he chirps, stomach growling eagerly at the thought of his mother's cooking. He swiftly types in the coordinates of his bedroom, and makes his way through the summoned portal before Miguel can change his mind.

"Mijo!" Miles hears when he lands on his bedroom floor, the portal swiftly closing behind him now it's empty. Mami peers into his bedroom with worried eyes. "Where have you been? Usually you're back earlier."

"Oh," Miles says, then half-lies: "Just a small emergency at HQ. It's all good now, though. Nothing to worry about."

Mami eyes him, clearly not entirely satisfied with his explanation, but doesn't interrogate him about it. "If you say so," she says, before turning to head back to the kitchen. "Dinner'll be ready in twenty minutes. Call your dad, too, he's upstairs on the roof—maybe hoping he'll catch you swinging in, or something."

"Dimensional travel is more convenient than that, thankfully," Miles snorts, following her out and kissing her on the cheek. "I'll get him. I love you, Mami."

"Love you too," Mami says with an earnest smile, pinching his cheek softly. "And so does your dad."

"Oh yeah, I know that," Miles groans. He lowers his voice, imitating his father. "'You gotta say I love you back.' I'm still getting comments about it!"

Mami laughs at that, wholeheartedly. "C'mere," she says, holding out her hand to him. "Gimme your arm."

Miles rolls his eyes, but does so without complaint. Mami pushes up his suit sleeve, revealing a constellation of bite marks—some stretched and faded, some fresher. Right smack-dab in the middle of his forearm is a big, gentle-looking bite mark, clearly made when Miles was no more than a young child.

"See that?" Mami says, brushing over it with affection. "That's your proof he loves you."

"And on my stomach's yours," Miles says with a smile. "That one did hurt, you know."

Mami pouts. "You were a baby! You don't remember a thing from then."

"I remember being born," Miles lies shamelessly, unable to contain his shit-eating grin. "A long tunnel and then a white light…"

"Are you sure you didn't just dream you died?" Mami asks, unimpressed, and pulls Miles' sleeve down again. "Vamos. Go get your dad."

"Yes, Mami," Miles says, running his fingers over the small, baby-teethed bitemark on the ball of her thumb before he pulls away. "See you in a bit."