“No-one was ever named ‘hero’
for following the crowd.
Heroes set their own course.”
Jonathan Lockwood Huie
If there was any truth in the world, it was that omegas were soft.
Though this wasn’t a truth as much as it was a stereotype, enforced and ridiculed by alphas and betas alike, it was still considered common knowledge. It was one of the main reasons Peter hated being an omega, even more than the physical differences between him and other, more-alpha super-heroes.
He hated it because he wasn’t weak, or soft, or clingy, or any of the harsher words thrown about and disguised as locker-room talk; he was a person, he was strong--stronger than most--and, more importantly, he was Spider-Man. He was an omega, hidden in plain sight within a community full of alphas. His secondary gender was an embarrassing flaw, a mix-up of nature, and the only secret more carefully guarded than his identity.
If anyone knew that he, Spider-Man, an honorary Avenger, and a crime-fighter, was anything less than a beta, he would be ruined.
Because omegas were too emotional, omegas were too weak-willed, omegas were attention-seekers. Omegas weren’t known for fighting, they were home-makers and peace-keepers. Omegas weren’t stern, they were soft and subservient. Omegas couldn’t do anything but obey their instincts and be parents, which left the harder, and more physically demanding jobs to alphas and particularly strong betas.
From far-away, Peter would seem like a short beta, or an even shorter alpha. His suit had scent-regulators built into it, an invention of his own design. He had manufactured an artificial scent, one that would make him seem more like an alpha or a beta, depending on how much of it he actually used.
Spider-Man: Alpha or Beta? You Decide
The Bugle printed a lot of those kinds of articles, mainly talking about how untrustworthy he was, or how his pheromones were all over the place. To other people, he smelled like a walking, talking jumble of hormones.
Widely, he was considered a beta. It was an assumption that Peter had never bothered to correct, and one that made the most sense. He was a beta that spent a lot of time around alphas, there was nothing more to it. People who looked into it were the minority, or insane-sounding conspirators, and the majority took their opinion with a grain of salt.
The thing Peter hated most about being an omega was having to squash down every urge like they were yesterday’s garbage. Every whine that built up in his throat whenever he stumbled upon a corpse, every instinct that told him to crane his head to expose his vulnerable throat to a larger alpha, even the urge to purr when he maybe, maybe, felt a little bit safe... it all had to be repressed.
Even when he was with a hero he trusted he couldn’t allow himself to fully relax, because that came with the need for comfort.
And Peter took comfort in something alphas just didn’t.
Peter, like all omegas he knew, relied on cuddling as a method of calming down. Chasing shadows from his mind, regulating his breathing, hugging or holding someone--especially alphas, he'd noticed as he got older--did the trick better than anything else. Aunt May had been his go-to, but after she had passed away, he had no-one. Nothing. Spider-Man and his job kept him from getting close to other people that could help him, and it was frustrating that he had to rely on someone else to make him feel safe, or better.
He was Spider-Man; what more did he need from himself?
Trying to hold himself never worked, and wrapping himself in blankets had been a bust the few--actually, many--times he had tried it.
It was just because he was so stressed all the time; it came with the job, and he was normally able to accept that. He saw the dredges of humanity, the worst of the worst, and crimes so disgusting that he woke up at night, ripping at his bed sheets and searching for anyone to squeeze the nightmares away. It was just his body’s response to distress, one that proved the most inconvenient in his line of work.
Especially since he spent most of his patrols in the company of a big, beefy alpha that made the omega in him croon and purr.
He couldn’t help it, okay? Deadpool was the epitome of alpha-ness, the perfect specimen; with bulging muscles trapped by leather and Kevlar, and a deep, rumbling voice that commanded attention without even trying, he was everything Peter wished he was.
He was also everything that Peter couldn’t help but want, desperately.
There was just something about Deadpool and his big, open personality that made Peter want to pin him down and hug him until the sun burned itself out.
“Spidey, love-of my life!” There was also the fact that Deadpool loved to joke about liking Peter. "How are we, on this fine day?"
Well, Spider-Man. And tons of people liked Spider-Man; he was apart of the social media generation as a twenty-two year old, and his personal Twitter account was constantly flooded with thirsty tweets by men and women alike. When he was younger it made him uncomfortable--and, wow, even now some of the things people said made him cringe internally--but now he mostly finds them funny.
He just didn’t know those people the way he knew Deadpool.
“Hey, ‘Pool,” Peter said, trying not to sound too glum. It was surprisingly difficult; with his long history of deception, he would have expected lies and mistruths to flow from his tongue like water, but his tone gave him up before anything else could. Still, a lie was a lie, no matter how bad he was. "I'm great, I'm--just, you know. Great. What about you? Seen Ellie, recently?"
Deadpool clucked his tongue disapprovingly, and skipped over to plonk down next to him. He leaned in, the eyes of his masks widening, and Peter had to force himself to lean away, pressing a single gloved finger to the mercenary's--very, very firm--chest. With what had to be the worst mockery of a laugh he had ever forced in his life, he shuffled sideways along the edge of the building, despite his mind whispering for him to just lean in and let Deadpool hold him in the way he wanted.
The way he needed.
Because it was something he needed, especially after the afternoon he had had.
He had run into three attempted rapes, two muggings, and a partridge in a fucking pear tree. In the form of a bank robbery, of course; because who wouldn't rob a ban on a bright, beautiful Tuesday afternoon?
"C'mon, Spidey," Deadpool whined, pressing closer. Peter's finger never wavered, though, and he knew that only made the mercenary more and more enamoured with him. What could he say? Some people got hot for power, and Peter had enough of that stored in his little finger. "Tell Daddy 'Pool what's got you so bothered. Maybe a little hint at what your gorgeous face looks like, too?"
Peter wrinkled his nose at the moniker, and didn't have to force the laugh that bubbled in his chest. "Maybe not right now," he said instead, the lenses of his mask narrowing in a wicked, teasing way. "I mean, never isn't that far away, is it?"
"Not for you, maybe, baby! But, seriously, tell me what's wrong. I'll pay for comfort food?"
The thought of comfort food was a hard one to pass up. Peter, like most young adults, lived mostly from ramen and microwave-dinners that tasted like cardboard. Begrudgingly, he removed his hand from Deadpool's chest, and offered it to help him up. Tacos kind of sounded like the highlight of his shitty, shitty day, and company was always appreciated.
Especially Deadpool, however strange the man might be.
That was how he ended up in a poorly lit taco shop, spilling his woes and worries with a piled plate sat in front of him. Deadpool chewed, nodding sympathetically and making pitying noises low in his chest. He finished talking, and slumped back, folding his arms across his chest. He had almost forgotten that he was clad in his costume, and startled at the red and blue that greeted his vision.
"Well, babe," Deadpool said, and Peter preened internally at the joking nickname. "That sounds really damn shitty, I'm not gonna lie. At least you're a beta, though... when I smell the fear of someone who's being assaulted, I lose it. It must be nice to be nose-blind to it."
Peter stops feeling pleased, and tries his hardest not to feel hurt. Deadpool would smell that pouring off him from a mile away--or not, with the amount of blockers and false-scents he had layered on him. But still; he could feel things! Even if he were a beta, he would still feel bad about how crappy the world was, or the stuff he put himself through. There was no reason for Deadpool o blame his control issues on the way he was born.
If Peter could control himself--no matter how hard it could be at times--then Deadpool could too.
Of course, there was a time and place for preaching about beta rights and letting slip his true biological inclinations, and it was not now. "Yeah," he said, his smile and voice strained. "It must be."
Deadpool put down his half-eaten taco, and pursed his lips. "Spidey-babe, you know I didn't mean it like that-"
"I know."
And Peter really did know. It was just how some people were brought up; alphas were raised to see everyone else as lesser. Betas were raised to resent alphas, and exert what dominance they could over omegas. And omegas... thinking of his childhood, Peter felt queasy at the moments where the main lesson that everyone taught him was to sit down and deal with it.
The system wasn't fair to any of them.
Alphas walked around, breaking laws and everyone else respected them too much--their right to do what they wanted--too much to say anything. Beta cops wanted to be in their good graces, and alpha cops saw themselves in the criminal. Omegas weren't hired for much of anything, aside from babysitting and the other more homely jobs. Betas had inferiority complexes, the lot of them. They wanted to be bigger, and stronger than alphas, and they tried to prove as much to whatever omega or lower-ranking beta they could. Omegas were dull and empty in comparison; never encouraged to continue their education, never given the opportunity of a life outside of babies and spouses.
"I should probably go," Peter said, standing abruptly. He was getting closer and closer to heat, and his hormones were playing games with his mind. "I've had a long day, and I'm sure you have too."
His suit needed to be washed, and soon--he had known he would regret cutting corners in when to go wash it, in order to save a little cash, and he hadn't been disappointed. Blockers could only do so much, and fake scents could be overpowered. He knew that for a fact, a horrible, horrible fact.
"I could talk to you no matter what," Deadpool said, voice strangely vulnerable in a way that made Peter want to stay. "Are you sure you're okay, Spidey? You've been getting more and more stressed with things. It doesn't take a genius to notice--I could always kill someone for you! I work especially well with ex-girlfriends, if that's your worry."
"If I had an ex, it would be an ex-boyfriend," Peter said, his arms held defensively over his chest. Deadpool was pretty open about his sexuality; man, woman, alpha, beta, omega, it didn't matter to him. But there was still a niggling doubt left over from years of harassment and comments. Being open with anything was almost an invitation for some people and, even though he knew Deadpool wasn't like that, it left him worried. "And no killing anyone, remember?"
"Oh, please tell me you're in the market for a boyfriend. A mate, maybe? I'm in the mood for commitment."
Peter actually laughed at that. For all his teasing and flirting, and his occasionally (and unknowingly) insensitive comments, he was a good friend. An accepting one at that.
The familiar sinking feeling that settled deep in his stomach with every lie he told came back with a vengeance as he shook his head. "I... like someone. But I'm lying to him about a lot, and I don't think he likes me the same way."
Deadpool nodded wisely. "About being Spider-Man?"
No. "Yes. Yeah."
An itch ran through his body, tickling at the nerves under his skin. A whine built up in his throat, tiredness and sadness and loneliness growing overwhelming. He could just reach out and touch...
...But then Deadpool would know who he was. What he was. Loyal or not, Deadpool was a blabbermouth, and he wasn't exactly known for being a brilliant secret keeper no matter what. Tony Stark's weapon plans? Sold within five minutes. His own secret identity? He barely had one to begin with. Peter didn't think there was anything that Deadpool would keep a hold of, if the price was right.
Then Peter's gender, his identity, his livelihood would be gone. Like smoke in the wind, a feather on the breeze, it would all fall away and he would be left with nothing.
Maybe that was why he couldn't fully trust Deadpool, no matter how enamoured he was with him. He could love him all he wanted, want to take comfort in him all he wanted, and he would never push for more. Because, at the end of the day, Deadpool was used to serving himself first. Peter couldn't fault him for it--he knew the bare, hollow bones of his life story, after all--but it made things harder.
He stepped away.
He couldn't push this on Deadpool, and expect him to understand, or make him keep the secret. That wasn't fair. It wasn't right.
"Bye," he said, taking another step back. Deadpool opened his mouth and, before he could get a word out, Peter fled; a thank you and sorry flung over his shoulder.
He didn't go back to his apartment.
It was too empty, and too cold, and too devoid of life for comfort. The city wasn't much better, but it was something; he found himself lounging on the same roof as before, his mask and suit missing, and his real face and scent bare to the cold air. The city bustled with life. It was full of it, people talking and laughing, cars honking, a pleasant buzz of work and play. But there was a disconnect from it all, because of who Peter was.
He saved these people.
He wasn't one of them, though. He wasn't someone who walked amongst others with his own life and plans on mind. He didn't spill his secrets, confide in others like they did. He couldn't do what they did; ignoring the people around them, stepping over the homeless, pointedly keeping their eyes fixed on the path or phone in front of them rather than the person slumped in an alleyway.
He spotted the alphas, with their broad shoulders and haughty faces. He saw the betas, their chins tilted high to make them seem taller. He saw omegas, hunched in on themselves, shying away from particularly crude cat-callers.
He pulled himself up until he was sitting on the very edge of the building, his fingertips glued to the cement to keep him from slipping. He took in a deep breath, and smelled the petrol from the roads, the smoke in the air. He smelled everything addictive, warring for his attention; cigarettes, alcohol and alphas.
His eyes fluttered shut, like if he avoided confronting it, it would go away. He held his breath, and he heard Deadpool sigh behind him.
He doesn't know it's me, Peter comforted himself, tilting his head higher. He doesn't know.
"Hey, little omega," Deadpool rumbled, his voice deep and soothing from behind Peter. "Are you okay? Do you need some help?"
Peter laughed a little, and shook his head. He didn't open his eyes. He didn't want to see Deadpool, not when he was out of costume. He didn't want his lives to collide with him like this, have him mingled with both of him.
"Why don't you climb down, love?" Deadpool moved closer, and Peter tensed slightly. He wasn't--he wasn't whatever Deadpool thought he was. He didn't need his advice, or to listen to his stupid, nice voice. "I'd hate it if you were hurt, or fell. Why don't you come down and talk to me?"
The rational thing to do would be to listen. To smile prettily, and thank Deadpool. Leave. To go home and pretend the situation never happened; of course, that was the rational thing, and Peter was feeling anything but. He didn't want to listen to the alpha, and push aside what he wanted to do in order to appease him. He was safe, he was fine, and he didn't need Deadpool's approval to be alone.
"Go away," it came out like more of a hiss than Peter wanted. A growl. "I don't have to listen to you. You don't own me!"
Deadpool crooned, like he was amused, and Peter whipped around with an insult on his tongue. It died before it was fully born, because Deadpool wasn't smiling. There was no self-assured smile, no easy-going grin. He almost lost his balance and, before he could right himself, Deadpool swooped in with a gentle hand on his wrist. And Peter could have broken free.
He could have pulled away but Deadpool was tugging him closer, and he fell into his chest-
Deadpool was warmth, and contentment, and safety, and protection, and Peter melted. How could he not? He had waited for this for so long, for something to crack and for him to satisfy the uneasiness that rested within his very soul. He inhaled, a deep breath that flooded his senses; he could almost feel his pupils dilating, blowing large like Deadpool was a drug that he couldn't keep away from.
He wrapped his arms around Deadpool's middle, and held him tight. Deadpool hugged him back, his arms a heavy weight against Peter's back, the height difference made short by how Deadpool hunch over. "That's what you needed, isn't it?" Deadpool said, pulling just a little until they both fell to the roof; Peter nestled in Deadpool's lap, and Deadpool sprawled out on the dirty concrete. "I'm Wade. What about you, pretty?"
"Peter..."
"Alright, Petey-Pie, are we feeling better?"
Peter was feeling much better, but admitting as much would just make Deadpool (Wade, Wade, Wade) let him go. He shook his head, and pressed it into the crook of Deadpool's neck.
"Okay," Wade said, his voice a comforting purr that made Peter croon in response. "I'll talk to you for a while, okay? I'm friends with Spider-Man, you know, and this one time we were taking down these baddies in some abandoned warehouse. I know, I know, it's so cliche, but the truth is-"
Peter could drift off to Deadpool's voice. He hadn't ever expected him to react to an omega like this; he was normally somewhat protective of omegas, but only when they ran into them being assaulted. Otherwise, they never really interacted with them. That was one of the perks with such a dominated field, Peter supposed. He made a decision, high out of his mind on hormones and pheromones, because how had he been so stupid?
This was Wade. This was Deadpool. He could have given Peter up long ago, but he hadn't, and they worked together. He could have hurt Peter, or stalked him, but he didn't.
He also gave amazing hugs. That had to count for something.
"'M sorry for running out," he mumbled. "Didn't want to waste the tacos, but I jus' wanted to leave." He felt Deadpool stiffen slightly, a gloved hand pressing down on his curls slightly.
"Fucking shit," he heard Wade whisper. "Holy fucking shit."
They would need to talk about it, but all Peter wanted to do was rest. The world could wait for a second, the dramatic reveal could wait for a moment. All he needed was Wade, and the comfort that change could follow them.
And it would follow them. Later.
For now, Peter could sleep.
*
The End.