Chapter Text
Steve’s knee itches. He takes a deep breath and tries to fend off the urge to scratch it. Of course, now that he’s aware of it, it’s becoming borderline unbearable. His skin seems to buzz under his clothes as he tries to listen intently to the meeting at hand. He can see Agent Hill’s lips moving, he can see red glowing pins on satellite maps projected onto the screen – but none of it registers. His mind is entirely preoccupied by this unsettling urgency. He fights a groan. The entire team doesn’t need to notice the signs of his oncoming… phase. That would be more embarrassment than he can handle right now. As if the modern world hasn’t already been overwhelming enough, there’s now this.
„An unprecedented gene mutation“ Banner had called it. „A goddamn pain in the ass” had been Sam’s choice of words. Steve secretly agrees with the latter. It's been well over a year since the incident, the godforsaken virus that infected earth and unlocked a hidden gene in all adult humans, leaving large swaths mostly unaffected but a considerable percentage settled with, well, a condition.
Steve makes a mental note that he’ll have to take a leave of absence for the next few days. It’s frustrating, to say the least, but luckily there are no life-or-death-missions on the schedule. Of course, those kinds of things rarely announce themselves in advance. Which makes this entire thing inconvenient, on top of embarrassing and miserable.
The itching gets worse. It’s less like a rash and more like wearing a suit made entirely of wool. Which is then naturally accompanied by the very strong urge to take one’s clothes off. Steve’s fists clench underneath the table. He can feel his body heating up by the second, probably starting to pump off pheromones like crazy. Thankfully, the entire building is constantly doused in artificial scent blockers, to preserve some level of professionalism in the workplace. In the early days, people would jump each other on the conference table and Steve would have to force them apart, all while dealing with his own shit. Luckily, thanks to the invention of scent blockers and protective measures in place, society was able to return to some semblance of civility. For the most part, anyway.
Nat raises an eyebrow at him from across the table. Steve ignores her. It’s not like she won’t know soon enough, especially since he’ll have to call in sick. Which is what this is. A sickness. Bruce tried to tell him it’s natural, some ancient unlocked biological instinct to preserve the species. But it doesn’t feel natural. It’s dreadful. Pain bordering on torture. Especially since he refuses to give in to those urges.
Even with all the protocols, the methods that people have tried to establish since the virus, he still can’t fathom it. To just relinquish control over your body, your mind, to some genetic command. Not to mention with another person equally out of control as you? Without limits. Without trust. Without love? Impossible.
Steve clenches his jaw and tries to steel himself for at least 30 hours of withdrawal symptoms. Which aren’t even the worst part. He keeps himself from shuddering, keeps his body in line while he still can. Soon, he won’t be able to.
•••
3pm. Time for your allotted afternoon coffee. You’ve just barely managed to ween yourself off of four cups, so by now you’re tired and cranky and definitely craving caffeine in your bloodstream. You get up from your desk and stretch as you make your way to the cafeteria. It’s actually kind of nice to have the office to yourself today, even though it means your workload is slightly higher than usual. Your colleague had to take a sudden leave of absence, as has been par for the course for months now. It’s awkward, since everyone knows what happens during those days, but you deal with it. The small talk will be particularly forced for a day and then everything will revert back to normal. Sure, there was chaos back in the day, when people suddenly turned feral in the middle of the street. It was confusing and terrifying to go through such devastating physical changes more than a decade after puberty. But you manage. You deal. And now you deserve some coffee for working extra hard while your coworker is fucking her very willing partner into oblivion.
You grimace, trying to delete that mental image from your brain. Luckily, you’ll be good for a little while. Based on the cycle you’ve managed to track for yourself, you don’t have to worry for about another week. Then, however, you will worry. After all, it’s not everyday nature tells you that you’re nothing more than a fertile womb looking for some asshole with a knot to knock you up. But, thank fuck, nature hasn’t accounted for birth control. You’ve been double-checking your doses every day since it happened.
Not that you’ve actually shared your heats with anyone. It’s too… scary, frankly. Why would you give yourself over to someone just because your brain is gooey from hormones? You don’t know any Alphas personally – the term still makes you shudder – and even if you did, a part of you refuses to simply give over decades of independence to whatever weird love drug every mated Omega seems to be on. Of course, there’s no law stating that you’re supposed to stay with an Alpha after the act, but it seems to happen more often than not. And you’re not jumping at the chance to have your brain and life hijacked by a truckload of mating-induced oxytocin.
When you reach the end of the hallway, you see the elevator doors just about to close. If you hurry up, you might make it. It may seem silly, but there’s only one of them in this part of the building and all too many people with places to go. And you’re way too caffeine-deprived to take the stairs.
„Hold up“, you call, and manage to sneak your arm into the closing metal doors. They open immediately and you step in, only to almost stumble back out again when you make out the large frame of the person already occupying it.
•••
This is bad.
With the scent-blockers working at full capacity, Steve can’t quite smell you, thank god. But he’s not blind. Even without going through the living hell simmering in his veins, he would be able to tell how pretty you are. To notice that, based on how your eyes widen, your pupils dilate at the sight of him, you don’t seem disinterested. He would still be able to appreciate the soft curves under clothes that might be deemed professional, but look all too enticing to him right now. To see that shy, polite little smile and want to lick it off your lips–
Jesus Christ. He needs to get a grip. And get out of this elevator. Steve swallows back the saliva suddenly flooding his mouth, tightens his jaw, his arms, his legs, whatever he can to keep himself rooted to the spot instead of letting himself off the leash to devour you. The effort makes him sweat, and it doesn’t help that, with his already enhanced senses, he can feel your body heating the air around you as well. He unwittingly takes a deep breath, his body craving your scent, demanding to know whether you’d be a responsive mate.
You’re not. You can’t be, won’t be. He doesn't know you, not really, but in one capacity or another you work here at the compound with him. Not to mention that you’re a fucking human being, not some sort of prey for him to chase, to conquer. At least that’s what the functioning remainders of his brain are trying to hammer home. No matter how much his arms are straining to press you back against that elevator wall, bury his face in the crook of your neck, scent blockers be damned, shred your clothes apart to find you warm and slick and–
He almost chokes on his breath and you send him a worried frown. Luckily, he smells nothing but artificially clean air.
•••
You’ve been staring at your computer for an hour straight without getting any work done. The astronomical numbers in Stark’s expense account make even less sense than usual and you can’t concentrate for shit. Instead you’re sweaty and antsy. You pull at your sleeve, then at the other one, before you finally give up and take off your sensible work blouse. It’s not exactly appropriate to wear a spaghetti-strap cami in the office, but since you’re the only one here, you don’t really give a shit.
You don’t understand what’s happening. Or maybe you do, but you don’t understand why. You were supposed to have at least another week before dealing with this shit. And you’ve been regular until now, thanks to birth control. So why the hell is your body being forced through what feels an awful lot like an oncoming heat?
Your groan is interrupted by your wristwatch beeping quietly to confirm your suspicion, as well as gently reminding you to get yourself into isolation at your earliest convenience. Great. So much for making use of the empty office today. Is heat-syncing a thing? You haven’t quite figured this shit out yet, but you’re more than willing to blame your colleague.
Only… that’s not it, is it? You know already, but the truth is scary and… just plain weird. Based on the face that keeps popping up in your brain, you have a very unwelcome idea about what exactly triggered you to go into an early heat. It’s not supposed to happen. Not with top of the line scent blockers in every single inch of this facility. But based on the way you were practically salivating in that elevator, those things haven’t been adjusted to superhuman pheromones quite yet. To super soldier Alpha pheromones, specifically.
Your gut twinges painfully and you curse out the entire holy family at once. Going through heat is hell at the best of times. But your body kicking itself into fertility-gear without warning is gonna suck.
You pack your things and call it a day. You don’t bother going home, instead making your way straight to the custom suites available to all employees - perks of working for a billionaire. It’s not like you’ll need clothes, and this way you get to take advantage of room service at the very least. It’s only when the heavily scent-proofed door finally clicks shut behind you that you start wondering when, exactly, the thought of taking time off work to masturbate for three days straight became an unwelcome one.
•••
Steve paces the length of his bedroom. Again. And again. For the 89th time, actually. But neither counting nor pacing take his mind off his most depraved instincts, thrashing to be released. He hates this. If this… condition were something he could punch his way out of, he’d already be cured. His fists are clenched at his sides and he can feel a snarl building in his throat. It takes a lot of conscious effort to swallow it back. If it was just the… urges, maybe he would be better able to handle it. But it’s this underlying pent-up aggression. This need to physically dominate that bothers him the most. Steve might fight for a living, but he’s never considered himself a particularly violent man. Not until this sickness unlocked a primal part of him, told him he’s no better than an untamed animal.
An animal that could’ve easily cornered you in that elevator. Your strength would have been no match for his, even if you’d decided to fight back. He groans and almost hits himself across the face for that thought. This. This is what he hates so much. How can Bruce, how can anyone, call this condition natural , when these are the thoughts running through his mind? The virus switched on something that never should’ve been revealed, Steve is sure of it.
Though there are other thoughts, too. By now, he’s imagined defending you against several dozen nonexistent foes. Pictured caring for you, guarding you from anyone or anything that dares to harm you. He doesn’t mind those thoughts so much, but he does wonder why his mind is latching onto you so strongly. After all, he’s never even really met you before. You must work in admin, or accounting or one of the other dozen company branches he’s never stepped foot in and the fact that he doesn’t know this makes him feel even more guilty for thinking about you this way. It’s probably just because you’re the last person he saw before going into isolation. The last incredibly attractive person. The last incredibly fertile looking–
Anyway, that’s probably why he’s instinctively projecting all of these weird visions onto you. It’s strange and uncomfortable, but it’s not like you’ll ever know. And it’s not like he’s actually pleasuring himself to the thought of you.
Although–
The intercom chimes and Steve is saved from his next thought by Natasha’s usual snark coming over the speakers. Only now, the sound of another Alpha’s voice suddenly makes the hair on his neck stand up.
„How goes the suffering, Rogers?“
He scoffs. Ripping the speakers out of the ceiling suddenly seems very appealing.
„What the hell do you want Romanoff?“
„Oh, a bad word! You must be getting close then.“
Of course she knows. She probably recognized the symptoms as soon as she spotted his frustration in the conference room.
„Nat–“
„Relax, Steve. I just wanted to check in and see if you needed anything.“
Steve’s shoulders ease ever so slightly. Despite her ill-timed sarcasm, Natasha is a reliable friend. And one of the few people to know what he’s going through.
„I’ll be fine, Nat, thanks.“
There’s a beat of silence and Steve sighs, already knowing what will follow.
„You know we have rooms for times like this, don’t you?“
Of course he knows. Everyone does. The isolation rooms are part of office protocol. They can contain especially volatile Alphas, in order to protect the rest of the complex from damage.
„Don’t worry. I don’t need the cage quite yet.“
His voice is dry, but he can’t keep the anger out of it. There’s a sigh on the other end.
„That’s not how I meant it, Steve. Though clearly it can’t be that bad yet, if that’s the first thing your mind goes to.“
The second she says it, his mind jumps to the other purpose of those very rooms and he scoffs again.
„I can’t do that, Natasha.“
„Why not? That’s why we have them.“
He hates the way his body responds to the mere idea of it. To go into one of those darkened rooms means giving up. Surrendering oneself to nothing but base urges. Nothing but animal instinct. To spend hours in a sweaty, writhing, frenzied mess of bodies–
Steve groans just as he reaches the far end of the wall and presses his forehead against the cool reinforced glass. He can’t actually get a fever, but his body seems to have forgotten.
„I can’t just do that to someone.“
His guilt and self-hatred festers with every second the silence on the other end drags on.
„Steve. Mating isn’t something you do to someone. It’s what you do with someone. They’re only in there if they’re willing.“
He laughs humorlessly.
„How willing can they really be if they’re in pain?“
„How bad can it really be if it eases their pain?“
Steve rakes his hands through his hair, silently shakes his head even though Nat can’t see it. She means well, he knows that. And for some people, what she says may even be true. But he can’t let himself believe it, because a part of him, that part of him, is all too eager to give into the idea that allowing his despicable urges to claw their way free would be… helping someone in need. It would be so easy to let go. To let desire burn up his frustration, turn his need for frantic violence into a need for–
No. This is why he can’t do it. He can never ever let himself go. He’s too strong, too… much . If he lets himself off the leash, he’ll be a danger to anyone else. So he’ll get through it. He always does.
Always.
•••
Not even three hours after you noticed the first symptoms, you’ve given up on clothing. You tried, deluding yourself into prolonging the inevitable, but it’s simply not possible. You’re hot. So hot. Your skin is sweltering with sweat, and even though that's supposed to cool you down, it only serves to make you more uncomfortable. You guzzle down water by the gallon, trying to take care of yourself as much as you’re able to, even when every single cell in your body screams for you to give up. Give yourself over to the care of… someone else.
But if you’re being honest with yourself – this isn’t working. You’re blowing through the few activities that usually bring you comfort during heats. You’ve already tried guided meditation, relaxing music, blasting underwater documentaries. Because if you give in to your physical needs too soon, you’ll just spend that much longer wanting something you shouldn’t. You are, however, fast approaching that point.
It’s exhausting. You’ve barely gotten used to this new part of you and now it’s already changing up again. You groan into the pillow. Toss and turn when the materials feel at once too rough and too soft against your skin. Nothing feels right. Nothing will.
Well. Not nothing .
And then you want to scream your frustration into the mattress, because it finally becomes too much. Too much unbridled need overwhelming your body all at once, bulldozing your mental restraints. Nothing matters but your need to get fucked into oblivion.
It’s only now that you notice warm, sticky slick already coating the insides of your thighs, and only then that you realize you’re on your knees already, presenting yourself to no one at all. You would barf in disgust if your thoughts weren’t so preoccupied with trying to recreate every single second of that moment in the elevator. A moment that wasn’t sexual at all.
And yet.
You remember his eyes roaming over your body, wild with so much intensity you could almost feel his gaze against your skin. His wide chest rising and falling heavily. You remember hearing him breathe in, trying to scent you. Remember how, for just a second, you wanted the scent blockers to fail. Wanted to know how he’d respond to you. Wanted to know just exactly what he would do. There was no doubt about who he is. About what he is. You remember the glint of his bared teeth before he got a hold of himself. Remember those dents in the metal railing he left behind after racing out as soon as the doors opened. Remember wanting to stay in that elevator longer than necessary, just to bathe in a scent you couldn’t even smell.
The next muffled sound you hear is your own moan, your hands moving of their own accord, your body losing itself to pleasure. It’s not enough. The sheer and utter lack makes you frantic with need. Moans morph into whimpers, into unaddressed pleas, into unrestrained begging and sobbing until you don’t know whether your mattress is soaked with tears, sweat, or slick.
You’ve never needed relief so desperately and you’ve never failed so completely at drawing it out.
It’s while you’re shaking, holding your cramping middle in a tired, hopeless hug, that the soft chime of the compound's intercom momentarily manages to distract you.
„Miss, your core temperature is dangerously elevated. Would you like me to call for medical attention?“ FRIDAY asks.
Despite the heat, your teeth almost chatter as you consider the offer. The only medical help for going through heats is sedation. Which would bring a much needed respite, if only your stupidly volatile Omega instincts wouldn’t make your body convulse in fear and disgust at the thought.
„N-no, thank you. Could you just turn off the lights p-please?“ At least that way you won’t have to look at the pathetic mess you’ve become.
„Of course, Miss.” There’s a slight pause, which is strangely uncharacteristic for the compound’s main operating system. „If I may suggest enacting the Omega protocol? It was very much designed for predicaments just like this one.“
You hate that you know what that is. And you hate even more how tempting you suddenly find the offer. It would be so easy. So good. But by the grace of whatever shred of indepence you can still scrounge up, you manage to decline.
„Just the lights… the lights will be fine. Thank you, FRIDAY.“
„Certainly, Miss.“
The room turns dark. You can’t see the TV, the windows or the bed underneath you. You can’t see yourself and despite the agony, that helps. All of that fear, that shame seems to matter less in the dark. And suddenly, without the visual reminders of the modern world, the normal world, this thing you’re going through doesn’t seem so foreign. The last remnants of your control are slipping, your most primitive instincts taking over, but you don’t fight it any longer. Your body knows what to do. What you need.
•••
It’s bad. So much worse than it's ever been before. Steve doesn’t understand. This body may have been given to him by science, but until now he’s never had a problem submitting it to his mind. But this? This bone deep, blood boiling want shreds every sliver of willpower he has left.
He’s angry. Furious with himself for not being able to control it. But the rage makes it even worse. His body is brimming with it. This vicious energy simmering in his veins, ready to unleash on anyone who pisses him off. Ready to throw any rivalling Alphas through the fucking wall if they even so much as look at his mate.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
„Don’t have a mate. Don’t have a mate. Don’t want a mate“ he keeps muttering. Literally willing his body to get the message. Not that that exercise does anything about his eagerness to mate. He’s been hard for half the night now, and there’s absolutely no way he’ll be able to sleep. Not when every cell of him is primed for other things.
So far he’s been able to keep his hands off himself. He’d like to attribute at least that bout of resistance to his discipline, but if he’s honest, really honest, it’s merely the fact that his own hands feel nothing like the hot, slick-drenched relief he craves.
Not that he would know. He’s successfully abstained from any sort of physical relationship since the virus. If he can’t even control himself, why would he put that on anyone else? Though just the thought of it has his cock throbbing at the swelling base.
With the blood still left in his brain, and god knows it isn’t much, Steve tries to reason his way out of this situation. Only the more he thinks about it, the deeper he sinks into this fog of hormones, the more there seems to be no way out but through. He’s endured this before, sure. Though since it’s never been this bad, maybe he does need to take the edge off a bit.
But the second he grasps his painfully hard length, his entire body shudders. He groans, unsure if from pain or unfulfilled desire, which are starting to feel quite similar. His palm slides down to cup the base of his cock, the part of him desperate to knot. He’s surprised at how sensitive his skin is. It might feel good, if he were capable of being gentle with himself. But he’s not. He’s strung too tight, too much aggression sparking off him. His grip is too tight, all wrong and with a frustrated growl, yes a goddamn growl , he lets go again.
He’s about to head into his fourth cold shower of the night when the intercom announces itself yet again. He fights the urge to throw a chair at it.
„Captain Rogers.“
„What is it, FRIDAY?“
„I apologize for the interruption, Captain. But based on your genetic data sample, I am required to inform you that the Omega protocol has been initiated. Would you like to engage?“
Steve freezes in his tracks. Did Nat orchestrate this somehow? This has to be her doing. The protocol barely ever gets activated. Never while he’s been at the compound. It was supposed to be an experiment. Something thought up by an Omega scientist, trying to make heats as painless and straightforward as possible. Take out all the thinking, all the complications that sudden sexual intercourse with coworkers would usually entail. All the romance too, if there even was any to begin with.
„I–“ is all he manages to get out. No is the word he’s looking for, and yet it’s the only one that eludes him.
„Captain Rogers? How would you like to proceed?“
He can’t do it. He knows all the reasons he can’t. But none of them come to mind anymore. All he can think of is his Omega– this Omega, alone and suffering. In pain and in need of him.
„Captain, please respond. I have registered one other engagement.“
His sheer and utter panic doesn’t last a full second before it’s replaced by unbridled rage once again.
„Who?!“ The word comes out so mangled, it barely sounds right to his own ears.
„Our privacy policy prohibits me from sharing this information. I can tell you that all available, unmated, heterosexual team members with the Alpha gene have been notified as per protocol and one of them has responded. Should you choose to engage as well, the Omega will be given the opportunity to choose her match by scent samples from out database.“
He barely grits out his answer. It’s not a choice anymore. Not when another Alpha is involved. Not where you– no, not where an actual Omega is concerned. He waits and waits, but he can barely see straight with all of this impatience and fury consuming him. He’ll never admit it, but by the time he hears the chime of the speaker, he’s broken two chairs and ripped apart a couch cushion.
„Captain Rogers, please proceed to isolation chamber 4A.“
An eerie kind of calm washes over Steve. It’s disorienting after all of that searing rage and jealousy, but the change is not at all unwelcome. She picked him.
He’s barely aware of his body moving as FRIDAY guides him to the chamber, avoiding all common areas to maintain as much privacy as possible. Still, he walks past the elevator that plagued his memory all afternoon. But if he's going to do this, he needs to forget about you. It wouldn’t be fair to this Omega, the one who picked him, to think of anyone else. So when he finally reaches the chamber, he does his best to push you out of his lust-riddled mind.
Unlocks the door. And takes a deep breath.
Her scent hits him like a freight train. Like ten shots of adrenaline straight to his heart. It’s no longer lust he feels. It’s raw and basic need. And then a wave of possessiveness so brutal, it would knock a lesser man to his knees.
Mine.