Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hi everyone, before we start, I need to be really upfront about what this story is.

This is a dark fic. Like, genuinely dark. It deals with a lot of traumatic, painful, and uncomfortable subjects. Please read at your own risk and prioritize your mental well-being before anything else.

Here’s what to expect:
Themes and Warnings include (but are not limited to):

• Rape / Non-con

• Underage sex (12)

• Torture

• Medical Malpractice

• Kidnapping

• Mind Control

• Psychological Conditioning

• Physical and Emotional Abuse

• PTSD / Trauma Responses

• Heavy Angst

Now, for those of you who have read my other works... yes, I know I tend to lean into darker storylines sometimes. Some of my fics are softer, more hopeful, or even a little funny.
This one?
This one’s heavy. Really heavy.

It’s not meant to glorify any of the violence or pain in it, it’s meant to explore What it means to survive, to exist after being broken, and what it takes to find pieces of yourself again when you’ve been rewritten by someone else.

If you’ve been around for a while, you know I’m consistent with trigger warnings.
Whenever a scene or section contains something potentially distressing, I’ll mark it clearly with:
{ TW [specific warning] }
You can safely skip ahead until you see the next TW marker.

You’ll never have to guess where something dark begins or ends.

If you’re in a place where you can’t read something this heavy right now, that’s completely okay. Go take care of yourself. This fic will still be here later.

Thank you for being here, and for trusting me enough to read my stories, even the ones that hurt a little to tell.

See you in Chapter 2.
♡

Chapter Text

Day 935 

935 days since everything went wrong.
935 days since the world burned around me and left me standing in the ashes.
Since I had to grow up overnight, forced to swallow grief and fear like air, until it filled every corner of me and made it impossible to breathe.

935 days without warmth.
Without kindness.
Without anyone looking at me like I’m still worth saving.

I would kill to be human again.
To feel something real.
To remember what it felt like when touch didn’t mean pain.

I miss May’s voice in the kitchen.
I miss Tony’s terrible jokes, the way he always pretended not to care, but did anyway.
I miss Pepper’s calm, her strength,  how she made even the worst days feel survivable.
Hell, I miss everyone at the tower. The noise, the chaos, the laughter that used to fill the halls.

I miss… I miss.
Wait.
What do I miss?

There was a voice.
A woman’s voice. Soft. Kind.
Or maybe that’s a dream.

No, no, don’t let go. Hold on. You have to hold on.
Home. There was home.
There was light. And…

focus, little spider.

What?

Focus. Stay still.

No, that’s not, I’m not-

Breathe in.

I want to go home.

Breathe out.

Please, I just…

Home is my mission.

It’s not little spider.

Emotion interferes with performance.
Emotion is noise.

Stop. Stop talking.

You will forget.

There was something, someone.
It hurts to think about them.
Every time I reach for it, it slips away, like my mind’s bleeding out through my fingers.
They said it wasn’t real.
They said it was weakness.
They said home is wherever they send me.

Pain is correction.
Obedience is peace.

No. I’m Peter.
I’m…

Peter Parker is gone.

No, he’s not, he’s not…

You are nothing.

My head hurts.
My chest, God, I can’t
Stop, please…

Forget.

I don’t know what’s real anymore.
Their voices are too loud.
They tell me who I am, what I am, what I’m for.
And if I don’t listen, the pain comes back.
The light. The screaming.

It’s easier to stop fighting.
Easier when I listen.
When I obey.

The silence feels clean.
It feels good.

Good soldier.

I can’t remember my name.
Was it… Peter?
No. That’s wrong.
That’s not who I am.

Say it.

I am a soldier.

Again.

I am a soldier.

Again.

I am a soldier.

The words come easier now.
Like breathing.
Like truth.

I don’t need a home.
I don’t need a name.
I don’t need the past.

You have orders.

Yes.

You have purpose.

Yes.

You have a mission.

Yes.

And I will complete my mission.

Chapter Text

935 days ago.

“Hey, Tony!”

Tony looks up from the lab table, goggles still perched crookedly on his head. A faint smudge of grease crosses his cheek, but the corner of his mouth lifts when he sees the kid bounding in. “Hey, Underoos. How was school?”

Peter drops his backpack onto the floor with the kind of exaggerated sigh only a twelve-year-old can pull off. “Mid,” he says, dragging out the word. “But bearable. Me and Ned are gonna hit the LEGO store next month for my birthday.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, pretending to focus on the circuitry in front of him even though he’s clearly amused. “Oh yeah? How does it feel to be almost thirteen?”

Peter grins, eyes bright behind his messy hair. “Feels good,” he says with a shrug, like turning thirteen is no big deal, like he isn’t still small enough that his sneakers barely make a sound on the lab floor.

Tony laughs softly, that easy, distracted kind of laugh he does when he’s half-listening, half-working, soldering wires that don’t really matter just to keep his hands busy. He glances up again, just for a second. The kid’s talking with his hands, miming some story about school lunch or Flash or a math test, and Tony finds himself smiling without meaning to.

For all the chaos of the world outside these walls, the Avengers, the press, the constant noise, this right here feels… simple. Ordinary. Maybe even good.

Tony doesn’t realize how young Peter really looks in that light.
Doesn’t think about how fragile twelve still is, how soft.
He just sees potential.
A spark.
A kid who reminds him a little too much of himself at that age, except Peter’s already a hero. Already saving people.

When Tony was twelve, he was tearing apart his father’s machines for fun, desperate for attention, trying to prove something to a man who never looked twice. By fifteen, he was smarter than everyone around him and lonelier than ever. By twenty, he’d buried himself in women, whiskey, and whatever kept him from feeling the hole he’d never filled.

He’d spent so long pretending that brilliance and bravado were enough, until the day the cave reminded him how mortal he was. The day the shrapnel bit into his chest and the sound of hammering metal became a heartbeat. After that, everything changed. The playboy burned out, and what was left wanted to make things right. To build instead of destroy. To protect instead of impress.

And then there’s Peter.

A twelve-year-old Omega who’s smarter than most of Tony’s grad students and brave enough to throw himself into danger without hesitation. The kid is extraordinary, brilliant, gifted in a way that’s both effortless and terrifying.

Once, Tony might’ve written that off. Might’ve seen “Omega” and filed it away somewhere between delicate and distracting. He used to chase Omegas for the thrill, the validation, the control, never realizing how deeply the world had wired that kind of thinking into him. But Pepper changed that. So did countless others, Omegas who could command a room, run an empire, build a world from the ground up. And Peter… Peter rewired him completely.

Because this kid doesn’t fit into any of those old molds. He’s too sharp, too kind, too damned good.

Tony turns back to his workbench, the soft click of metal on metal filling the silence between them. “Don’t spend all your birthday money on LEGOs, kid,” he says without looking up. “Leave some for college.”

Peter laughs. “College? Dude, I’m still in middle school.”

Tony smirks again, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, time flies.”

He doesn’t know yet how fast it really will.

See, back when Tony first met Peter, it was different.

He didn’t think much of it then.

Didn’t think much of him.

Just another recruit. Another spark of potential in a world that wouldn’t stop burning. Spider-Man, the kid with the quick mouth and quicker reflexes. A name on a file, a blur in the footage, someone bright enough to keep up with him, cocky enough to try.

He’d seen the suit, the web-shooters, the shaky phone footage of Spider-Man taking down carjackers and holding up buses. He saw potential the same way he saw it in his prototypes. Something raw and unpolished he could fine-tune, turn into something world-saving.

He thought Spider-Man was just… small.
Young, maybe. But capable. Brave.
Old enough to handle himself if he could swing across New York and take a punch.

He hadn’t known.
Not really.

Not until the night everything went to hell.

The invasion had come out of nowhere,  some alien faction from a planet even Thor hadn’t heard of, ripping open the sky above Manhattan like a wound. The air had been electric with smoke and screams. Buildings collapsing. The Avengers scattered across the skyline like sparks in a storm.

And Spider-Man,  his kid recruit, had swung straight into the heart of it without hesitation.
Fearless. Reckless.

“Hey, Mr. Stark, you seeing this? Think I can hit that one… oh crap, nope, nope, I’m good!”

Tony had rolled his eyes then, a smile tugging at his lips. “Watch your six, kid.”

Kid. He hadn’t even realized he meant it literally.

Then one of the aliens got too close.

Tony remembered shouting through the comms, telling him to pull back. He remembered static. Then the sound of breathing, sharp, panicked, labored… before the line went dead.

When they found him, it was bad. The kind of bad that freezes your blood.
The mask was half torn, and when Tony peeled it back, it wasn’t some hardened vigilante staring back at him.
It was a child.

The blood.
The trembling hands.
The way his voice cracked when he whispered, “Mr. Stark… it hurts.”

A scrawny little boy with baby fat still soft along his jaw, freckles dusted across his nose, eyes too big for his face.

Tony thought he was maybe twenty-two. Twenty-one at the youngest. Hell, even twenty would’ve been too damn young.
 

Eleven.
He’d been eleven.

And Tony had sent him into a war.

Tony had sent an eleven-year-old into a war.

The next few hours blurred together, blood, panic, medics shouting. Peter barely conscious, whispering apologies like he’d failed them, not the other way around.

When the dust finally settled, the others were silent. The scent of antiseptic and iron hung in the air as medics rushed past with equipment. Banner stayed behind with Dr. Choi and the other medical staff, their voices low but urgent as they worked to stabilize the boy. Eventually, the rest of the team was ushered out of the medbay.

Outside, the silence felt heavier than the battle had.

Steve stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his eyes tight with worry. Natasha sat nearby, her hands clasped in front of her face. Clint paced. Thor lingered by the wall, unusually quiet.

Finally, Clint broke the silence. “How old is he?” His voice cracked halfway through the question. “He looks like a kid, but, God, I thought he was older.”

Steve shook his head slowly. “You didn’t know?”

Tony blinked, staring through the glass at Peter’s small, blood-streaked frame on the table. “No,” he said. The word came out hollow. “I didn’t know he was that young. I thought maybe twenty. Twenty-two, tops.”

Clint’s jaw tightened. “He’s not even close to that. My daughter’s nine. My son’s thirteen. He looks… he looks like my kid.”

Tony said nothing. His eyes didn’t move from the medbay. His mind kept replaying every sarcastic comment, every late-night lab session, every time he’d told Peter to “man up” or “handle it.” God, he’d been treating a child like a soldier.

Natasha reappeared then, her face pale, voice steady but strained. “I found the kid’s records. His family. His aunt, May Parker. She’s his guardian.”

Natasha’s eyes flicked up from the tablet. “He’s eleven.”

The word hung there, like a live wire in the silence that followed.

Steve blinked, expression tightening. “Eleven?”

Thor’s brows furrowed, confusion twisting his usually calm features. “He is but a child?”

Natasha didn’t respond, she didn’t have to. It was all there, on the screen: the birthdate, the school name, the guardianship forms. May Parker, listed as next of kin. Peter Benjamin Parker, age eleven.

Then she hesitated, glancing back toward the medbay before adding softly, “Tony… he’s an Omega.”

It hit like a shockwave.

Thor straightened. Steve’s head snapped toward her. Clint froze mid-step. Even Vision, who had been silent until now, looked up sharply.

Tony’s breath caught. “You’re sure?”

Natasha nodded. “His genome results just came through. He hasn’t gone through a heat yet.”

The implications hung in the air, this boy, this child, not only gifted but powerful beyond understanding, was also vulnerable in ways none of them had imagined.

Steve finally said, “An unbonded Omega that young, fighting alongside us…” He trailed off, looking sick. “How did we not see it?”

Tony didn’t answer. His mind was spinning. He thought about all the times he’d mocked Alphas who got protective over Omegas, the jokes he’d made, the arrogance that came so easily when he thought he was above all that. He’d had his share of Omega flings, shallow and thoughtless. He’d never thought twice about it.

But now, seeing Peter like that, small and pale against the white sheets, something cracked inside him. This wasn’t some stereotype. This wasn’t about hierarchy or biology. This was a child who had bled for them, who had saved them.

And Tony had failed him.

Natasha spoke. “We need to tell his guardian,”

Tony had nodded numbly. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

But when May came, storming through the med bay like a hurricane, he realized she already knew. Or maybe she’d always suspected.
She wasn’t mad at them. Not really.
She was mad at him.

At Peter.

For lying.
For sneaking out, for risking everything, for pretending to be someone older, stronger, untouchable.
And Tony couldn’t blame her. Because how do you stay mad at the adults when the truth is, none of them had asked?

They’d seen a mask, not a kid.

After that day, everything changed.

The team changed. The tower changed. Tony changed.

When Peter finally woke up, groggy and disoriented, hooked up to more machines than any kid ever should be, the relief was instant and overwhelming, but so was the fight.

They all gathered in the medbay, an unspoken decision that no one was leaving until Peter understood: Spider-Man was done.

Steve did most of the talking at first, his voice calm but firm. “You’re eleven, son. You shouldn’t have to do this. You shouldn’t want to do this.”

Natasha crossed her arms beside him. “You’re lucky you survived. No more suits, no more rooftops. You’re a kid, Peter. You get to be one.”

Even Thor, usually one to cheer on bravery, looked troubled. “There is courage, young one, and then there is madness. You are far too small for war.”

Tony stood behind them, silent. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Every word tasted like guilt.

Peter, of course, didn’t take it well. He sat up too fast, the IV tugging at his arm, glaring at them through tears. “You can’t stop me. People need help. I can help them.”

“Not like this,” Tony said finally, his voice low, raw.

“Yes, like this!” Peter’s voice cracked, but he didn’t back down. “You can’t be everywhere. You can’t save everyone. But I can save somebody. That has to count for something.”

It turned into an argument that lasted for days. They grounded him, locked the suit, set every possible restriction, and still, a week later, Spider-Man videos started popping up on YouTube again.

Natasha found the first clip. Clint found the second. Tony found the third.

Each one showed the same thing: a tiny red-and-blue blur helping people, pulling civilians from car wrecks, webbing up thieves. Never reckless, never violent, just there, doing good.

Then they started seeing the headlines.
Spider-Man Saves Bus of Schoolchildren.
Masked Hero Foils Robbery in Queens.
Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man Returns.

There was grainy phone footage of him swinging through the city again, bruised but smiling.

Tony nearly threw his tablet across the room.

By the time Peter walked into the tower the next day, sheepish and covered in soot, the entire team was waiting.

“Alright,” Steve said, crossing his arms, “new plan.”

So they compromised.

Peter could go back to being Spider-Man, but under rules. Lots of them.

He trained with Steve every morning, nothing combat-heavy, just movement, strength, endurance. “Kid drills,” Steve called them. Things that made Peter laugh instead of wince.

Natasha supervised every patrol route personally. “If you’re not back by curfew,” she said, “I’m hunting you down myself.”

Clint taught him how to aim, how to breathe through fear. Bruce designed a compact monitor for his vitals and stress levels. Thor promised to be the emergency backup if Peter ever called.

And Tony built him something new.

A sleek black watch, designed to blend in with street clothes, linked directly to the Avengers’ comms. All Peter had to do was press the button, and every tracker, every alarm, every failsafe would activate. Tony called it the “distress signal.” Peter called it the “parent alarm.”

He had to wear it always. That was the deal.

For a while, Peter wasn’t allowed to go out alone. He patrolled in pairs, Steve, Natasha, sometimes even Tony himself. It took months before they let him handle anything solo, and even then, no big criminals, no high-risk missions. Just street-level rescues and neighborhood patrols.

And still, every time Tony saw him suited up, his stomach twisted.

Because no matter how many upgrades he made, no matter how many promises he whispered to himself that he’d keep the kid safe this time, he couldn’t forget the blood. The shaking. The voice that haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

Mr. Stark… it hurts.

That was the moment that never left him.

It still echoed, even now.

It’s been 935 days.

935 days since everything went wrong.

He’d been perched on the stool beside Tony’s workbench, tongue poking out in concentration, tinkering with a pile of old circuit scraps Tony was about to throw out.
“Mind if I?”
“Knock yourself out, Underoos.”

Two hours later, he’d built the smallest, dumbest little robot Tony had ever seen. It could barely stand on its own legs, made this pitiful whirring sound when it tried to move, and all it did was pick up trash. But Peter had grinned like he’d just built Iron Man himself.

“Look, Mr. Stark! It can recycle!”

Tony had laughed. Really laughed. “Yeah, kid. You’re gonna save the planet one soda can at a time.”

Peter had beamed, holding that little robot like it was made of gold. Then he’d packed it gently into his backpack, waved goodbye, and headed home.

That was the last time Tony saw him.

Two hours later, his phone rang.
Aunt May.

Her voice was shaking, panicked in a way Tony had never heard before.
“He texted me an hour ago, said he was five minutes away from home. He never showed up. Tony, he never came home.”

At first, Tony told her to breathe, to calm down, to give it a few minutes. Peter was always losing track of time. Always taking detours to help someone. That was just who he was.

But by the time he hung up, Friday had already pulled traffic cams.
And there was nothing.

No sign of him. No signal from his suit. Nothing but static.

Within an hour, the Tower was in chaos. The Avengers assembled, SHIELD on high alert, satellites rerouted. Every resource Tony had ever built was thrown into finding one kid. His kid.

And then they found it.

An alleyway, four blocks from Queens.
The suit, torn, burned, tossed aside like trash.
His shoes, his backpack, his watch was cracked and thrown against the wall.
And blood.

So much blood.

That was all.

No body. 

 When Nat knelt down and brushed her fingers over the wall, she went quiet.

“They dragged him,” she whispered.
There were fingernail marks, desperate, jagged scratches trailing down the alleyway, the kind you make when you’re trying to hold on.

He’d tried to fight.
He’d tried to climb.
He’d tried to get home.

And then he was gone.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.
All of SHIELD, all of the Avengers, every ally, every informant, no leads. No ransom. No sightings. Just silence.

Aunt May stopped calling after a while.
She’d run out of words.

She stopped leaving the house. Stopped smiling. Stopped answering when Tony came by.
He’d stand outside her apartment door, the guilt choking him, knowing he couldn’t look her in the eyes without breaking.

The Tower changed too.
No one said his name, not out loud. The laughter stopped.
Steve kept to himself. Nat trained until she collapsed. Even Thor went quiet.
And Tony… Tony just kept building.

New drones. New armor. New scanners. None of it mattered. None of it found him.

935 days.

And the only thing that remains is the faint echo of a voice in the workshop, bright and young and proud:

“Look, Mr. Stark! It can recycle!”

He keeps the little robot on his desk now, the one Peter built that day.

It had been smashed to pieces in the backpack they found. Bent legs, broken sensors, wires hanging like veins. Most people would’ve tossed it.
Tony couldn’t.

He rebuilt it instead. Slowly. Carefully. Every cracked piece soldered back together by shaking hands and sleepless nights.
It doesn’t really work anymore, it can barely move, just wobbles in a circle and bumps into the same table leg over and over. But sometimes, when the lights flicker low, its sensors blink red and it gives this faint little chirp.

Peter’s chirp.
That same sound he’d made to show Tony how proud he was of it.
Look, Mr. Stark! It can recycle!

Tony swallows hard every time he hears it.

He’s rebuilt entire suits in a night. He’s crossed galaxies. Out-engineered gods.
But he can’t find his kid.

Every trail’s gone cold. Every lead ends in nothing. SHIELD’s archives,every alien file they’ve got,  nothing.

There’s no proof he’s dead.
But there’s no proof he’s alive either.

So Tony keeps building. Keeps checking. Keeps hoping.

The others have stopped asking. The world has moved on. But Tony can’t.

He looks at the tiny robot on his desk, one bent arm still twitching, trying to pick up imaginary trash, and whispers to the empty room, voice breaking like glass:

“Where are you, kid?”

Silence.
Only the faint whirr of the little machine, circling aimlessly, never finding what it’s looking for.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part
it’s just doing what its creator taught it to do.

Keep searching.
Never stop trying to make things better.

Even when everything’s broken.

Chapter Text

Day 1

Peter woke to a pounding in his head so loud it felt like his skull was splitting open.
Everything hurt. Every breath burned like fire, every muscle trembled as if he’d run for miles.

He tried to move, just a twitch, a stretch, something.

His arms didn’t budge. Neither did his legs. His throat strained uselessly when he tried to turn his head. Metal cuffs bit into raw skin, and something cold pressed against the back of his neck.

That’s when he saw them.

Tubes.

Thin, clear lines running from every vein, every artery, threaded into him like he was some kind of machine. He followed one with his eyes, chest tightening as he saw the faint shimmer of glowing blue liquid pulsing through it.

“What… the hell…” His voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper.

The fluid moved faster when his heart rate spiked, like it knew. It burned,  searing its way through his bloodstream, making every muscle tremble. His veins lit faintly under his skin.

He tried to remember how he got here, but his brain felt foggy, heavy. Pieces came back in fragments.

The fight.
Dark alley.
Fifteen, maybe more, grown men, armed, coordinated. He’d taken out four before they overwhelmed him.
Hands grabbing. Boots slamming into his ribs.
He’d reached for his watch, tried to hit the distress button…

Then the cloth.
Pressed hard against his face. Chemical burn in his lungs. His body going weak.

The last thing he heard before the world went black was a man’s voice, low and distant.

“He’ll do well.”

Then…
nothing.

Now he was here.
Trapped.
Chained.
Bleeding from a dozen small punctures, body screaming, mind spinning.

He wanted to yell. To fight. To break free.
But the restraints only rattled weakly, the sound too small against the hum of machines.

He didn’t know where he was.
He didn’t know what they wanted.
He only knew one thing.

Tony would be looking for him.

He had to hold on.

Day 3

It’s hard.
He hadn’t seen anyone since they chained him here. No voices. No footsteps. Just the hum of machines and the steady drip of water somewhere in the dark.

It’s cold.
The kind of cold that crawls under your skin and settles in your bones. The floor is damp, and the air smells like rust and chemicals. Every breath feels heavy, stale, recycled through the same vents over and over.

He’s hungry.
So hungry it hurts. His stomach twists and growls, but there’s nothing to eat. The tubes feed him something, but it doesn’t help the emptiness. It just makes him feel more like a lab rat.

And then there’s the shame.
He doesn’t want to think about it, but it happened. At some point between the pain and the cold, his body stopped cooperating. He’d lost control of his bladder. He’d cried without meaning to, the humiliation hitting harder than the physical agony.
It’s dry now, but it stinks. He hates the smell, hates himself for it, hates that whoever did this to him hasn’t even come back to look.

He whispers into the silence, voice raw and small.
“Please… someone…”

Nothing answers.

He closes his eyes.
He imagines May’s cooking, the warmth of the Tower, Ned’s laugh, MJ rolling her eyes. He imagines Tony’s voice, that sarcastic, tired drawl.

“C’mon, Underoos, you’re tougher than this.”

Peter swallows hard. His throat aches from thirst.
“I’m trying,” he whispers. “I’m trying.”

Then came a voice, deep, smooth, and carrying a faint Russian lilt.

“So,” the man said, stepping into view, “what are you trying to do exactly, little one?”

Peter froze. His heart jumped into his throat. He wanted to sound brave, like the Avengers would, like Tony or Steve.
But his voice cracked when he spoke. “W-Who are you? Where am I?”

The man smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Questions, questions. Such a curious boy.” He moved closer, the metal of his boots scraping the floor. “You may call me Skip.”

Skip. The name didn’t fit the voice, didn’t fit the sharpness in his gaze.

Peter swallowed hard. “What do you want?”

Skip tilted his head. “What do I want? Oh, no, little spider. This is not about what I want. This is about what we want.”

Peter’s chest tightened. “We?”

Skip smiled again, this time showing teeth. “Hydra.”

The word hit him like a punch. Hydra.
He knew that name. Everyone did.
Steve had told him about them once, about the experiments, the soldiers, the pain. About how they were the reason Bucky died.

His stomach turned cold. “No… you’re supposed to be gone. Captain America, he destroyed you!”

Skip chuckled softly, circling him like a predator. “Ah, Captain America. Always the hero, da? But heroes… they never finish the job.”

Peter tried to lift his chin, tried to glare, but his lip was trembling. “You can’t… you can’t use me.”

“Use you?” Skip said. “No, no. Honor you. You are Spider-Man. I watched your fights. So clever. So fast. So” He leaned close, his breath hot against Peter’s ear. “young. When I learned you were just a cute little boy under that mask, an omega at that, I knew you were perfect for us.”

Peter’s breathing hitched. His chest hurt. Every instinct screamed to fight, to run, but the restraints didn’t move. His pulse spiked until the serum lines in his arms began to glow faintly again.

Skip noticed. He smiled wider. “See? Even your blood knows it belongs to something greater.”

Peter shook his head, voice shaking. “You’re not gonna win. Tony will find me. The Avengers-”

“Ah,” Skip interrupted softly. “The man of metal. He searches, yes? Always searching. But he will not find you, little spider. You are ours now.”

Peter’s throat closed. He blinked hard, trying not to cry, but it didn’t matter. A tear slipped down his cheek anyway.

Skip straightened, his coat brushing the floor. “Rest now. We start soon.”

The door hissed shut again, leaving Peter alone with the hum of machines and the quiet sound of his own heartbeat hammering in his ears.

He turned his head toward the wall, whispering into the dark:
“Tony… please hurry.”

{TW}

The door hissed, boots hit the floor, and suddenly there were too many footsteps,  heavy, uneven, echoing through the cold room. Before Peter could even lift his head, a rough hand grabbed his chin.

“Hold still.”

Something slipped over his face. A blindfold. Thick, coarse fabric. The world went dark in an instant.

Peter sucked in a breath. “W-What are you doing?”

No one answered.

He could hear them, though, eight distinct voices, all carrying that same Russian edge. Some deeper, some clipped and impatient. They were arguing.

“I get him first.”

“Nyet, you don’t.”

“No, the alphas should be first, the omega needs to know his place.”

“I found him. That means he’s mine.”

Peter froze. The restraints were still there, biting into his wrists and ankles, but the blindfold made it worse, made every sound sharper, closer.

He could hear them moving, pacing, circling like vultures. The tension in the room felt like static.

Then one of them spoke again, voice low and amused. “I am going to сначала трахни его, он мой.” (fuck him first he’s mine)

A pause. Then laughter, cruel and short.

Peter’s breath hitched. What does that even mean?

The words made no sense, but the tone made his skin crawl. His body stiffened, waiting for something, a hit, a cut, a needle, but nothing came.

He wanted to scream, to tell them to stop, to ask why, but his throat felt locked. His heart hammered so loud he swore they could hear it.

One of them stepped closer, close enough that Peter could feel the man’s breath on his cheek. “Look how still he is,” he murmured. “Like a frightened animal.”

The others laughed again, overlapping voices in a language he couldn’t fully understand.

Peter clenched his jaw. He didn’t want them to hear him cry. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

He told himself to think of home. Think of May, Tony, Ned, MJ. Think of warmth. Of sunlight. Of anything but this.

But all he could hear was their boots moving around him and the sound of his own shallow breathing.

And in the dark behind the blindfold, Peter thought,
Please don’t touch me.

Hands grabbed at him, rough, impatient. Cold air hit his skin where the restraints didn’t cover, and panic surged through him.

“What are you doing? Stop!”

No one answered. One of the men hushed him. “Quiet, little one. It will be done soon.”

Poor, poor Peter was pushed down, hands covering him while the first man pushed into him.

The pain was indescribable, a searing agony that ripped through him like shards of glass tearing into his flesh. He bucked and thrashed against the unyielding restraints, desperation lending him strength he didn't know he had. Tears streamed down his face, soaking the blindfold and dripping onto the cold metal below.

"Stop, please stop! HURTS, GET OUT" Peter choked out between agonized cries, his voice raw and broken.

 But the brutal invasion continued, each merciless thrust driving the air from his lungs and blurring his vision with fresh waves of pain.

Their mocking laughter echoed around him, a sickening symphony of sadism and cruel amusement. Peter wanted to scream, to beg, to plead for mercy, but all that emerged was a strangled whimper. He felt violated, defiled, stripped of any semblance of dignity or humanity.

Tears poured freely now, his entire body shaking uncontrollably as he sobbed and shuddered beneath the relentless assault. The burning ache in his core intensified with each passing second, spreading through his limbs until he felt branded by suffering.

In that moment of utter despair, Peter prayed for unconsciousness, for the blessed relief of oblivion. Anything to escape this waking nightmare. But cruelly, mercilessly, his mind remained painfully clear, forcing him to endure every excruciating second.

He was a child lost, alone and afraid, helplessly trapped at the mercy of merciless monsters. The Spider was gone, leaving only a terrified boy drowning in anguish and humiliation.

They took their time, each one determined to stake their claim on his broken body. Hands gripped his hips hard enough to bruise, pulling him back onto their cocks again and again. Moans and grunts filled the air, mixing with his own choked whimpers.

 The pain was blinding, all-consuming, and yet still they kept going.

Peter lost track of how many there were, how many times they used him, passed him around like a toy. 

His mind went hazy, drifting in and out of consciousness. The only thing that anchored him was the unrelenting ache between his legs and the knowledge that it would never end.

At some point, they flipped him over, pushing him onto his stomach. He could feel the cool concrete beneath him, pressing into his skin raw from the abuse.

 Someone grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back as they drove forward, forcing him to take every brutal inch.

"Fuck, he's tight," one of them growled, punctuating the words with a sharp thrust. "Gonna ruin this ass, da."

Peter sobbed brokenly, snot and drool mingling on his chin. He wanted to beg them to stop, but his voice was gone. He had nothing left, no fight, no defiance. Only the dull acceptance that this was his fate now.

They used him until they grew bored, until their own needs were sated, Peter was barely conscious, curled on his side in a puddle of his own fluids. His thighs trembled with the effort of holding himself upright. Every breath sent bolts of pain lancing through his ravaged body.

Finally, with a final brutal thrust and a guttural groan, it ended.

Exhausted, traumatized, and physically wrecked, Peter lay limp and broken, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. Silent sobs wracked his battered body as the sickening reality of what had happened crashed over him.

{TW}

They had taken something from him, violated the very core of his being. He felt dirty, ashamed, forever changed. And as the men finally released him and untied the blindfold. 

They left laughing.
Their voices faded down the corridor until only the sound of the door hissing shut remained.

And then there was silence.

Peter lay still, shaking. His throat hurt from holding back screams, his chest from breathing too fast. He didn’t even know what they’d done, only that it hurt and that it made him feel small in a way he’d never felt before.

His wrists ached against the restraints. Every nerve in his body buzzed with fear.

He cried until his eyes burned. Quiet, broken sobs that no one heard.

Why me?
The words circled in his head, over and over. Why me? What did I do?

“I want Tony,” he whispered to the empty room. “Please… find me.”

But there was nothing.
No Avengers.
No May.
No Tony.

Just the steady hum of the machines and the cold, wet air pressing against his skin.

Peter turned his face away from the light and shut his eyes.

I’m scared.

Chapter Text

Day 4

The door opened again. Skip.

He stood in the doorway like he’d never left, hands folded behind his back, eyes calm.
“How was your night, little spider?”

Peter lifted his head. He didn’t answer. Every part of him ached, dark marks blooming across his skin.

“Why are you doing this?” His voice cracked. “Please. I just want to go home.”

Skip smiled faintly. “Home? No, no, little one. You're so special.”

He gave a low whistle. Doors opened. More soldiers entered. Peter didn’t fight; he couldn’t. 

Peter flinched as the machines around him powered down and the tubes detached. The sudden emptiness made his veins burn cold.

“ugh”

before Peter could process what was happening, he was being dragged down a corridor lined with flickering lights. His feet barely touched the floor.

They brought him into a vast, sterile lab that smelled of ozone and metal. Wires dangled from the ceiling, machines humming on every side. In the center stood a heavy steel chair, fitted with straps and cables.

Peter's heart pounded. "Please, I do not want this." Rage swelled through him, raw and hot. "Stop. When Tony comes, you will regret this."

They forced him into the chair and strapped his arms down. A technician fumbled with the console while Skip stood beside him, serene as ever. At Peter's words, Skip's smile widened into something cruel and hungry.

A small device clicked into place by Peter's face, a smooth metallic mouthpiece. "Bite down," Skip said, his voice soft. "It will help."

Peter hesitated, trembling. He didn’t want to obey, but the look in Skip’s eyes told him there wasn’t a choice.

Then the lights dimmed. Voices spoke rapidly in Russian, the same words over and over, patterns Peter didn’t recognize. His head swam with the rhythm of them, orders, commands, fragments meant to stick.

He tried to hold onto English, to Tony’s voice, to his name. But the words slipped through him like sand.

God the pain.

Please i want to go home.

When it was over, he slumped forward, dizzy and shaking. Skip’s voice was distant, almost gentle.

“Very good, little spider. We will make something beautiful out of you yet.”

They pulled him from the chair when it was over.
His legs barely worked. Every muscle in his body felt heavy, drained. He didn’t fight when they dragged him down the hall, he couldn’t. The world tilted and blurred, sounds echoing too loudly inside his head.

He just wanted to sleep.

The guards didn’t say a word as they shoved him into another room. The floor was hard and cold when he hit it, chains rattling behind his back as his wrists locked together.

He tried to sit up, and a sharp pain shot through his spine. His body screamed in protest, every muscle trembling with the effort. His lower back throbbed, joining the dull, familiar ache that lived everywhere now. It was humiliating, how weak he’d become, how much it hurt just to move.

The lights were dim, flickering faintly from somewhere above, and the air smelled like dust, metal, and oil. The floor was cold against his palms, the chill biting into the bruises along his wrists. His throat burned when he swallowed.

For a long moment, he just sat there, breathing shallowly, trying not to let the small sounds echo too loudly. The chain connected to his ankle rattled when he shifted, a sharp reminder of where he was, what he’d become.

He had never hated being an Omega. It had always just been a fact of who he was, another part of the mess that made up Peter Parker. But now, sitting here trembling, too weak to stand, he felt pathetic. Fragile. Like every stereotype he’d ever rolled his eyes at was suddenly true. He hated that he wasn’t strong enough to fight back, that no matter how hard he tried, his body still betrayed him.

He pressed a hand to his stomach, forcing his breathing to steady. You’re fine. You’ve been through worse. 

That was a lie. 

The truth was peter was raped.

He is scared.

And he was going to bury that deep down.

Something shifted in the corner of the room.

Peter froze. His whole body went rigid. For a second, he thought it was his mind playing tricks on him again, just shadows moving. But then he saw it: a faint glint of metal catching the low light.

An arm.

Not just any arm, silver, polished, gleaming faintly in the darkness.

Someone was there.

His heart started pounding so hard it hurt. His first thought was that it was one of them, another Hydra operative or worse, one of their enhanced enforcers. He held his breath and strained to listen. Is he going to ra- hurt me?

There it was, slow, steady breathing. A man, slumped against the far wall, head tilted forward, chest rising and falling in a rhythm too calm for anyone awake.

The metal arm caught the light again, and Peter’s breath hitched.

An Alpha.

He could feel it, the heavy, quiet hum of Alpha pheromones in the air, faint but unmistakable. It made his skin prickle and his instincts scream danger all at once. He hated how his body reacted before his brain could. Every nerve lit up, every muscle tensed.

But this Alpha didn’t feel like the others. Not like the Hydra guards with their sharp, predatory scent that filled the air with fear and control. This one was different. Faded. Muted. There was something exhausted in it, something that didn’t feel threatening.

Still, he didn’t want to risk it. Not yet.

Quietly, painfully, Peter dragged himself backward, inch by inch, until his back hit the opposite wall. The chain clinked softly against the floor, and he froze again, terrified that the sound would wake the man.

Nothing. The Alpha didn’t move.

Peter curled in on himself, trying to make his body as small as possible. He pulled his knees to his chest, pressed his forehead against them, and tried to breathe through the shaking.

He didn’t know who the man was. Didn’t know why there was another prisoner here, or if he was next on Hydra’s list. But something deep in his chest, the quiet, aching part that still hoped for good things, whispered that this one might not hurt him.

Peter rested his head against the cold wall. Why me? Everything ached, his body, his mind, his heart. I just want to go home. And if I can’t... His voice cracked as he whispered into the empty room, “Mom… Dad… will you come get me?” His breath hitched, trembling as the silence answered him back.

He didn’t mean to cry, but he couldn’t stop. The sobs came soft and muffled against his arm, barely sounds at all, just broken breaths in the dark.

Eventually, exhaustion won. His eyes closed, tears still drying on his cheeks.

That was how he fell asleep, cold, chained, and whispering to himself,
Tony, please. I want to go home.

Day 5

When Peter woke again, the room was quiet except for the soft hum of the overhead lights.
Something felt different. He wasn’t alone.

In the far corner, the man from the night before was awake, watching him.

Peter froze. His body tensed on instinct, trying to shrink into the wall behind him. Every part of him ached, his ribs screaming when he moved, his wrists raw from the chains. The man’s eyes followed him, calm but unreadable, the faint shine of a metal arm glinting in the low light.

Peter swallowed hard. “W-Who are you?”

No answer. The man just tilted his head slightly, studying him.

Peter tried to push himself up, but pain shot through his back like lightning. He hissed and dropped down again, gasping.

“The pain will subside eventually,” the man said at last, voice rough, quiet, carrying an accent he couldn’t place. “You’ll get used to it.”

Peter blinked through the blur of tears. “Where are we? I… I want to go home.”

The man gave a humorless breath that might have been a laugh. “Hell if I know, kid.”

Peter hesitated. “What’s your name, sir?”

The man’s brow furrowed, as if he had to dig through fog just to find the answer. After a moment, he shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Peter’s chest tightened. “Mine’s Peter. Peter Parker.”

“Peter,” the man repeated quietly, testing the name on his tongue. Then, softer, “How old are you, Peter?”

“Twelve.” His voice cracked. “I really want to go home.”

The man’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly. “Sorry, kid,” he murmured, eyes turning toward the floor. “I doubt that’s gonna happen.”

Peter felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes again, but he blinked them away. The man didn’t look cruel, just tired. 

Peter whispered, “Um… sir, can I ask you a question?”

Bucky looked up slowly. “What, kid?”

Peter hesitated, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “What were all those tubes filled with? They really hurt.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked toward the faint bruises on Peter’s body, the fading marks where the tubes had once been. “Something to make you strong,” he said, voice low, resigned. “Look, it’s best if you just… play along. Do what they tell you. Everything’ll be easier.”

Peter frowned. “Easier? But they won’t…” He trailed off, his voice catching. “I don’t even know what they did yesterday, but it hurt really bad.”

That made Bucky still.

Something in Peter’s tone, the confusion, the fear, hit him harder than he expected. He’d seen too many kids hurt in too many ways during the years he couldn’t remember. But hearing it out loud, from this trembling twelve-year-old with eyes too wide and a voice still trying to be brave, it broke something in him.

Peter had been raped, and he knew it. He tried to pretend he didn't see the boy's appearance, but he did. He saw the blood on his thighs. His chest tightened, and his voice softened. “Hey, kid… you wanna come sit over here?”

Peter blinked, uncertain, but the warmth in the man’s tone made him nod. He crawled carefully across the cold floor, each movement slow and shaky. When he reached Bucky, he hesitated again before leaning against his shoulder.

The man didn’t flinch. He just shifted slightly, letting Peter rest there. His metal arm stayed still, but his other hand hovered awkwardly, unsure if it was okay to comfort him.

Peter’s voice was small when he finally spoke again. “Do you think they’ll give us a blanket? It’s really cold.”

Bucky gave a humorless chuckle. “No, kid. They won’t give us a blanket.”

Peter sighed, curling up tighter against his side. He looked down at himself for the first time in a while and frowned. His pants were gone, replaced by nothing but the oversized shirt hanging loosely off his small frame. It was familiar, faded from hundreds of washes, the sleeves swallowing his hands.

And there was blood, lots of blood dried on his thighs he decided to look away and focus on something else. anything else… please think of something else. 

The t-shirt, there we go. Aunt May had bought him this shirt two years ago. He’d begged for it in the store, grinning up at her with every bit of charm he could muster.

“But it’s way too big, Pete,” she’d laughed.

“I’ll grow into it, Aunt May! I need it! It’s Star Wars!”

He’d won, of course. He always did.

Now the memory hurt. The shirt hung on him the same way, too big, but somehow he felt smaller inside it. 

So much for distraction.

He pressed his face against Bucky’s arm, eyes stinging. “I really miss her.”

Bucky looked down at him, his expression softening. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Whoever she is… I bet she misses you too.”

Day 30-31.

The door clanged open and Peter stumbled inside, limping hard, blood and spend dripping down his thighs. Remnants of the horror Peter was growing accustomed to lingered all around him. His body was wrapped in bandages, a cruel reminder of the last failed and excruciating experiment. The sterile scent of antiseptic did little to mask the stench that clung to him Blood, Cum, Sweat.

The guard shoved him forward, and he caught himself on the wall with a soft grunt. When the door slammed shut again, the room fell back into its usual dim silence, dust, oil, and metal thick in the air.

Bucky lifted his head. “Hey, kid,” he rasped, voice rough from disuse. “You okay?”

Peter gave a little laugh, breathless but bright. “Define okay.” He eased himself down onto the floor near Bucky’s corner, careful not to jostle his body. Then he looked up, eyes glinting with something soft. “Hey, guess what?”

Bucky arched an eyebrow. “What’s up, kid?”

“I overheard them talking,” Peter said, lowering his voice like it was a secret. “It’s Christmas tomorrow.”

Bucky blinked. “Christmas.” The word felt strange on his tongue. He hadn’t said it in years.

“Yeah,” Peter said, nodding eagerly, the motion making his curls flop into his face. “So, I was thinking, maybe during dinner, if we just don’t eat, we could have a really big breakfast instead. And then, you know, we can pretend it’s Christmas morning. I mean, it is Christmas, but like, we can celebrate it. Sort of.”

Bucky just stared at him for a second. The kid’s voice was trembling with excitement, like this was something he’d been holding onto all day.

“I know there won’t be any lights or tree or gifts or anything,” Peter continued, his hands twisting in his lap, “but it could still be fun. We could, I don’t know, tell stories or something. Maybe make the bread rations into, like, pancakes.”

Bucky couldn’t help it, he laughed. Really laughed. The sound startled even him. It was rusty and broken, but real.

Peter’s face lit up at that, like the laugh itself was a gift.

Bucky shook his head, still chuckling. “You’re something else, kid. Making Christmas out of this.”

Peter shrugged, smiling shyly. “Well… Might as well make the best of it.”

That hit harder than Bucky expected. He looked at the boy, thin, bruised, but still somehow glowing from the inside out. Warm. He hadn’t felt warmth like that in years. Not from the cold steel walls, not from the guards, not from the fragments of memories that used to be his life.

Every once in a while, when the kid smiled just right, Bucky would get a flash, just a flicker of someone else. A little blonde kid laughing in the Brooklyn sun, chasing a ball down a narrow street, blue eyes shining with stubbornness and love.

But the memory slipped away every time he tried to hold it.

He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. “Alright, kid. Christmas breakfast it is.”

Peter’s grin widened. “Really?”

“Yeah. We’ll make a feast outta whatever sludge they give us. Maybe even sing a carol or two if you promise not to make me regret it.”

Peter laughed, the sound light and clean in the dusty dark.

Bucky closed his eyes and let it wash over him, the warmth, the laughter, the faint echo of something human.

Bucky woke to a soft nudge at his arm and a whisper in the dark.

“Merry Christmas.”

Peter was crouched beside him, shivering, his curls a mess, his smile small but genuine. There was a glow in his eyes that didn’t belong in a place like this.

Bucky blinked the sleep from his eyes and managed a tired smile. “Merry Christmas, kid.”

The words felt foreign, distant echoes of something good and warm, something he couldn’t quite reach anymore. But hearing them come from Peter’s mouth made them real again.

They sat together in the dim light, sharing the meager food the guards had dropped off earlier. Peter had arranged it carefully between them like a real meal, half-stale bread, a dented metal cup of water.

“See?” Peter said proudly. “Feast.”

Bucky chuckled. “Best breakfast I’ve had in a long time.”

Peter grinned and launched into stories while they ate. He told Bucky about his friends, MJ with her sarcastic jokes, Ned who could talk for hours about robots and superheroes. He talked about his school, about how he used to build gadgets in his room and sneak out at night just to test them. His voice was bright and fast, filling every corner of the cold cell.

Then, slowly, it faded.

He stared down at his hands, frowning. “I could have sworn…” He trailed off, brows knitting. “I guess… never mind.”

Bucky watched him quietly. The boy’s shoulders slumped just a little. Then Peter straightened and forced a smile. “It’s Christmas. Let’s just have fun, right?”

“Right,” Bucky said softly. “Christmas.”

No one came for them that day. No guards. No shouting. No pain. The silence was almost merciful. They sat and talked until their throats were dry, laughing about stupid things, trading pieces of stories and ghosts of memories.

When the dim lights finally flickered low, Peter curled up beside Bucky. His head rested just under Bucky’s shoulder, the chain at his ankle glinting faintly in the dark.

“Hey, Bucky?” Peter whispered.

“Yeah, kid?”

There was a long pause. Then, softly, “I’m forgetting things.”

Bucky turned his head. “Yeah, kid. I know.”

Peter’s voice trembled. “It’s really scary. I don’t understand why I can’t remember everything, but it’s like… their faces are starting to disappear. I can remember little things, MJ’s hair, Ned’s laugh, but not their faces. I don’t want to forget.”

He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.”

Bucky’s throat ached. He put his metal hand over Peter’s shoulder, the gesture clumsy but careful.

“I swear, kid,” he murmured. “One day, I'm gonna get you home.”

Peter nodded against his arm, his breathing slowing. “I really hope so.”

“Yeah,” Bucky whispered. “I promise.”

After a while, Peter’s voice came again, small and fragile. “I don’t like those men.”

“I know, kid.”

“They hurt me.”

Bucky’s hand tightened slightly. “Yeah, kid,” he said softly. “They hurt me too.”