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.