Chapter Text
When you're the most feared assassin in the international spy world, who happens to also be an omega, it's not exactly easy to scrounge up a willing partner. After all, everyone assumes you're an Alpha based on your size and generally grumpy nature. And then the organization Bucky worked for went tits-up in a massive overthrow by fucking Captain America of all people, which, okay, they’d been secretly Nazis and needed to go, but he no longer has access to the high-powered suppressants that kept his scent and heats in check.
Bucky had been in deep cover in Brazil when it had all gone down. By the time he’d made it back to the states, it was clear that the government and SHIELD were of the mindset of ‘lock them all up and ask questions later,’ and thanks, but fuck you, so he’d gone to ground. Hiding in plain sight in a city of nearly ten million people was fucking child’s play for him, especially when you didn’t have expensive tastes and were so fucking paranoid because of your job that you had a secret safe house and lots of money and different ID’s stashed at various bank vaults like you were fucking Jason Bourne.
This is fucking ridiculous, he thinks, as he scrolls through the website in a heat-induced desperation. It's supposed to be highly confidential, and at this point he doesn't even care about that. All he wants is a cock in his ass instead of the giant dildo he's riding. He can't endure another heat alone. Instead of once every three months, he's had five heats in as many months since running out of suppressants, as if his body was trying to make up for lost time. Or it's another lovely side effect to the serum they'd given him, and something in there had heightened his Omega needs in addition to enhancing the rest of him. Either way, scent blockers and filters did only so much to dissipate the stink of his den, and normal suppressants barely made a dent in his hormones.
“Might as well call this site ‘Mail Order Mates’ and stop beating around the bush,” he grumbles. “Call a spade a spade.” The website is an online matching service that seemed doubtful to his skeptical mind, but it was also the best one out there based on a million reviews—both from their own site and several other Omega chat boards and blogs. He’d checked out both the Omega side of the site as well as the Alpha side, because being thorough was his fucking job and what had kept him alive to see his thirtieth birthday come and go two years ago.
There’s even two types of membership: one for those only looking for heat/rut partners, and one for those looking for a mate. He doesn’t see what the fucking difference is. Your designation wouldn’t let you fuck someone whose scent didn’t agree with you, which, at least in Bucky’s mind, makes everyone a potential mate by default. His thumb hovers over the mate button for a moment before he taps on partner. He has no interest in dragging someone into the hot mess that is his life, and really, he’s not exactly mate material anyway.
The questionnaire is annoyingly long and detailed, but he answers it honestly—probably far more honestly than he would if he wasn’t in heat—and submits everything. He doesn’t expect an answer any time soon. He’d been extremely blunt about his own build and personality, and not many Alphas, at least in his experience, were interested in a male partner built like a fucking tank. Not to mention the fact that he wasn’t on any suppressants, and had included a statement about having frequent cycles, more often than the average Omega. And while you’d think that a monthly booty call sounds like fun to most Alphas, who seem to think only with their dicks, it’s work, and no Alpha has that kind of stamina or flexibility of scheduling. He’s hoping that maybe he’ll get lucky and can match with a few different people, so they can at least get a break every other month. He’s not that selfish, after all.
*****
Things go well enough, considering that beggars can’t really be choosers. Bucky gets a handful of potential matches, and after exchanging scent samples, he doesn’t recoil in disgust at two of them, so they go forward with information exchange. They’re not an ideal scent, either of them, but he can get past that for the cock they are willing to give him. One goes by the name of Brock (he thinks it’s a fake name, but then again so is the name Bucky gave him—Shawn) and is a bit more rough than he’d prefer, but it’s only every other month, so he puts up with it without complaint. He can defend himself if needed, even with a knot stuck in his ass.
Brock smells like old smoke, like the kind that comes from a campfire when you extinguish it. Which…it’s not terrible, but the moment he’s through the worst of his heat, Bucky kicks Brock out and lights several scent neutralizers to clear the air because there’s just something about it lingering in his space that gives him anxiety.
His other semi-match is an absolutely gorgeous mountain of a man named M’Baku who loves to dote on Bucky and always brings him gifts when he arrives. Bucky lets him stay the extra day through the end of his heat, even if he does feel smothered by the time he leaves. M’Baku smells wild and exotic, like some sort of flower Bucky doesn’t know the name of, and always gives him a soft kiss on the cheek when he goes—Bucky has a strict no kissing policy, but M’Baku is sweet and gentle enough that he allows that small concession.
All in all, though, it works out pretty well, and having the guys is definitely better than trying to deal with it alone. Neither of the Alphas knows that Bucky’s heats are actually only one month apart, and think that they’re his only lay. He’s pretty sure that M’Baku would be fine with it, but he just knows that Brock would cause problems. Brock definitely gives off possessive vibes, and M’Baku gives Bucky the feeling that he’d like to make things more serious between them. If Bucky were to keep an Alpha around, he’d have to be a combination of the two men—not as posturing as Brock, but not so clingy as M’Baku.
Bucky is mid-way between heats, about two weeks out, when he gets a notification from the website about a potential new match. He’d happily replace Brock, so he opens it up and looks at the guy’s profile. Grant. Bucky snorts. What is this guy, some sort of rich preppy douchebag?
“Strong Alpha in search of a strong Omega. I have a larger build than many Alphas, and am very strong due to my line of work (retired Army, now work private security). I do not want to hurt anyone, so if you have a slight build *please* do not reply. If you are under 5’6” and weigh less than 200lbs I can assure you, I will not be interested.” Well, give the guy points for bluntness, at least. That was a feature Bucky could appreciate. “Seeking: heat/rut partner. My ruts tend to be intense, hence the hard rule about body size. They typically last longer than the average, so you must be able to endure that. On the other hand, I am happy to assist someone with equally taxing heat issues (frequency, duration) as I understand the frustration of not being fully satisfied.”
Bucky sat back and stared at the rest of the profile. The guy lived close, in Manhattan, so that was convenient. Bucky was on the edges of Hell’s Kitchen. Also a “no kissing” policy, as well as a disclaimer that he was happy to receive oral if the Omega desired, but would not perform it—someone thinks awful highly of themselves, Bucky thought. Private security could potentially lead to Grade-A Assholes, especially retired military, but Bucky had a sense of earnestness to the overall tone of the man’s responses, in that he wasn’t trying to be a dick, but was exhibiting an overabundance of caution (hello, mirror). Grant reminded him of himself, and his own desperate need for help. Before he could overthink it, he hit send profile and scent sample.
Two days later, he had a message from Grant in his inbox. “Shawn—your profile is intriguing, and I must admit, your scent is intoxicating. I hope you enjoy mine and we can move forward with meeting. Can’t wait to hear from you! -G.”
In the afternoon, a courier package arrived with a single scent vial in it. When he’d signed up for the program, they’d had him provide a dozen such similar vials. You’re supposed to scent them and then return them to the company, and after a few uses, they’re destroyed because they lose their potency. When you get down to five, they ask for more. Grant had recently joined, according to his profile, so these were nice and fresh, which meant Bucky didn’t need to take a few minutes to clear his nose so he’d get a good read on Grant. Bucky settled on the couch, legs crossed, coffee and laptop at the ready to reply.
He gasped at the first whiff of scent, goosebumps racing across his skin, as he lifted the lid. Bucky moaned as he fell to his side curled around the vial. He was hard from the scent. He practically shoved the vial up his nose because he couldn’t get enough of it. Jesus. He reached forward, pawed for his laptop, and in a fog of hormones typed out a reply one-handed. “Holy fuck YES Jesus Christ you smell amazing oh my god.” He included his private phone number, which he never did, not even M’Baku had that after nearly a year of regular hook-ups, and returned to whimpering as he clutched the vial. He’d never had such a visceral reaction to someone’s scent before.
Grant smelled like fresh air, and earth, and corn fields, and hay, and the hot pavement after a thunderstorm. Grant smelled like home. He smelled like long-forgotten memories of a childhood spent on a farm in Indiana before his parents and only sister had died in a car accident on the way home from a dance recital. Bucky had been sick, in the early stages of puberty and his designation presenting. His grandfather took care of him so his parents could go. He’d never felt more guilty for being a weak Omega in his entire life. That moment was the one that had led him to joining the experimental program he’d seen Hydra offering at the fair the summer after high school.