Chapter Text
1. nightmares
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The world is pretty fucking horrible.
No, really. It’s terrible. All around suck. Nightmares pale in comparison. Deadpool’s nightmares pale in comparison, and Deadpool’s been tortured and maimed and blown up and cut in half, plus there was that time with the hell dimension and the brief affair with Lady Death, who’s got quite the horror kink, and every bad dream he’s ever had ends up with him shooting himself in the head for a break, so yeah. The world is pretty fucking horrible.
He’s been to a couple other alternate Earths, and he’s pretty sure his is the worst one out there. The other Deadpools don’t even know how good they’ve got it. Not sure exactly how it got to be this way. Not sure who fucked up their timeline and turned the world to shit, and if he did know he’d totes be time traveling and ganking that asshat, but here it is anyway. The world in all its shitty glory.
Sometimes he’s determined to help. Pitch in and save some people. (Kill some people)
Other times, he’s too depressed to function. Those days are spent naked in bed with the covers drawn up over his face, with the voices so loud in his head that it drowns out the noise from the world outside. He both hates and loves those voices. Hates them for being assholes to him from sun up to sun down, loves them for being so loud and overpowering that they can in fact make him forget about how shitty the world is for a few blissful minutes at a time. It’s pretty sad that the best times in his life right now are when Yellow and White are yelling at him about how fucking ugly and gross and useless he is. Ah, but those are indeed the good times.
Because every time he ventures outside, reality hits all over again.
This world is fucking horrible.
Honestly, he’d fuck off to an alternate Earth forever if he could. But getting access to alternate Earths isn’t easy, and it’s even harder to convince the molecules of his body to stay in a reality that doesn’t belong to him. He gets to stay maybe three hours before his atoms all rearrange and send him hurtling back to his original Earth. Which really fucking sucks.
He can’t even kill himself.
But oh, he does try. Loads of times. Plenty of times.
All the times.
It never sticks. He wakes back up sore, dizzy, and back to square one. Stuck in this truly nightmare universe.
Deadpool isn’t the only one trapped here, of course. Not by a long shot. He’s not even an omega, so he doesn’t have to deal with all the shit they have to deal with. He isn’t the one being strapped to tables (well, besides that time in Weapon X) and chained to fence posts. He’s not the one being passed around like a piece of meat, raped and degraded and talked over and tortured. It’s not even fair that he’s depressed about the world, because he doesn’t even have any right to be depressed about the world. He’s not one of its victims. Oh sure, there’s all sorts of prejudice levied at alphas. Deadpool’s heard them all. Dumb knothead. Stupid, slow, caveman, brute. His parents, two betas, would have given him up to an alpha detainment center at birth, except they had a hard enough time getting pregnant with him and figured he’d be their only kid. Sometimes he wonders if the alpha detainment centers would have been a kinder alternative to their less-than tender caregiving.
But if alphas are a bullied minority, omegas are –
Just.
Well, Deadpool prefers not to think of it.
Prefers not to think of the brothels that take omega babies, raise them up like breeding stock, sold off at their first hint of a heat to rich sick fucks. Prefers not to think of the chains in every back alley bolted to the concrete, there for any self-respecting beta who wants to teach their omegas lessons. Deadpool’s killed his fair share of betas in those back alleys, but in this world that’s never been enough. It never actually helps the omegas to kill their owners, because then what? There’s nowhere for omegas to go. Nowhere safe. Just – the next owner. The next rich sick fuck. The next holier-than-thou beta who thinks they’re better for being born beta. When Deadpool’s finally had enough and tries to step in, it’s always the same story. The omegas see him for the dumb knothead he is and don’t even let him help them, refuse to go anywhere with him. They just – he gets them unchained and they all just – sit there in the alleys, waiting for their next beta owner, begging whoever comes by to take them and claim them.
They don’t know any other life.
And an unclaimed omega? Nothing good ever happens to them.
Other times they’re limp with exhaustion, too injured even to protest as Deadpool picks them up and walks them to a clinic. He’ll stay until they’re well enough to wake up, stay because they’ve got no one else to stay with them, even as he feels awkward and big and judged in those stuffy sterile waiting rooms. Alphas are uncommon and people like to gawk. They especially like to gawk at Deadpool, who’s not only an alpha but a scarred, scary-looking alpha. Scaring people has its advantages when he’s on a job, but shit does it suck when he’s just trying to help. There isn’t any room for a scarred, big ugly alpha in this world to offer anyone help. Nobody accepts anything from him and it’s all – it’s all just –
Fucking horrible, okay?
He’s wearing a hoodie pulled low over his face, hands gloved, no skin showing unless someone draws close enough to peer under the hood and glimpse his face. He doesn’t like to go outside, but sometimes he needs groceries and sometimes he likes to check on Weasel, one of the good ones in a world full of shitty ones. Weasel’s a beta, but he hires alphas, and he doesn’t leer at the omegas. He’s all monosyllabic and neutral grays, and he isn’t ashamed to be friends with Wade the way most people would be. He owns a bar in one of the shadier areas of town, caters to all sorts of criminals… but it’s good. When the entire world sucks ass, petty criminals are some of the least shitty humans to hang with. They’ve all been at the bottom, so they fit. Deadpool isn’t someone who fits in a lot of places. Sister Margaret’s might be one of the only places, in fact.
That’s why he’s maybe a little protective of it.
So when he trudges up to Sister Margaret’s tonight and sees the newly-installed hitching post by the front door, sees the one nude omega who’s tied to it by her wrists and kneeling, shivering, on the sidewalk, Deadpool sees red.
He stomps past the post, jerks the steel door open so hard it clangs against the brick wall. Inside, people are drinking and playing pool and smoking, but the buzz of the familiar atmosphere stops as soon as he enters, like a storm cloud raining on everyone’s parade. He tromps straight to the bar and grabs Weasel’s shirt collar, yanking his wide-eyed deer-in-the-headlights beta self over the counter. Guns cock behind Deadpool and he knows he’s ruffling some feathers, but he’s too enraged to care. Too betrayed to care.
“What the hell?” he says, low and demanding. “You got a hitching post?”
Weasel tries to shrink away, pulling at his shirt. “C’mon man, it’s not –”
“It’s a fucking hitching post!” Wade shakes him. A few voices behind him are demanding he let the bartender go, all gruff and outraged. Wade flips them the bird and says, “What’s next, chains in the alley?”
But Weasel’s sudden stillness and wide eyes are telling.
Deadpool lets him go, pushing him away so that he stumbles into the alcohol on the shelves behind him. Wade finds himself sitting on a barstool, shocked, the wind kicked out of him by the unmistakable truth that’s staring him in the face. Behind him, there’s rustling sounds like weapons being lowered, stuffed into waistbands. Somebody takes their turn at a pool table and the balls striking each other sounds far away. It feels like he’s not even in his own body right now. Sister Margaret’s was supposed to be the place where Deadpool could escape the realities of this shit world, and now – fuck.
Weasel looks awfully guilty behind those coke-bottle glasses.
“You didn’t.”
Weasel flinches. “I didn’t want to –”
“You had chains installed in the alley too?”
“I didn’t want to!”
“I can’t believe you’d –”
“They were gonna shut me down, man!” Weasel says. Deadpool stops. “They were threatening to close us down for noncompliance. If I didn’t let them install –”
Weasel cuts off, clears his throat. He turns away and bends under the counter to grab up the good stuff, booze he saves for special occasions. Deadpool constantly needles him to break it out and he never caves. He pulls it out, now, pours them each a shot glass. As soon as he slides one over the counter toward Deadpool, he catches it and downs it in one burning gulp, thunks the empty glass back on the counter. Wordlessly, Weasel refills it. When he downs his own, Weasel sighs. His shoulders are slumped, bags under his eyes, hair limp and greasy. Now that Deadpool’s looking closer, Weasel doesn’t look like quite the triumphant beta he’d been half-expecting to find when he saw that fucking hitching post. Deadpool slumps onto the bar, head hitting with a solid, smarting smack. He moans.
“I hate the world,” he mumbles with his cheek smooshed against the cold surface.
Weasel hums. “What the fuck can I do about it? Besides drink. I can do that.”
“You know I’m gonna kill a fuck ton of motherfuckers out there,” Deadpool says.
“I figured.”
“Like, right now, probably. If there’s a beta out there right now using those chains –”
“I get it, man,” Weasel cuts him off. “I’ve already got Marley and Jones on standby for all the bodies. The chains were installed, what, three days ago? And I can’t stop anybody from using them. The alleys belong to the public, yadda yadda. So, I’ve been doing what I do best and turning a blind eye at all the people going out there. But shit, it skeeves me out. To be honest, I’m glad you’re gonna do damage control –”
“Anybody out there right now?” Deadpool’s tone is dark.
Weasel shrugs. “Blind eye. I don’t know.”
Deadpool – Wade – gets it. The only way to stay even remotely sane in this fucked-up universe is to turn a blind eye to all the crap occasionally. Unfortunately, this is Sister Margaret’s. This is supposed to be the one place Deadpool can get away from it. From the prejudice against alphas and the omega brutalities both. This is supposed to be his spot. Is it any wonder his blind eye is refusing to turn right now? Is it any wonder the urge to kill someone is so close to the surface? Pulling himself to an upright position, peeling his face off the bar, he turns in his seat and scans the crowd, wondering which one of these faces owns that shivering omega girl who’d been tied to the post outside. And sure, she’s not being raped or mauled or tortured at the moment, but it activates every violent urge he’s ever had that a literal human person is forced to kneel in the cold naked while whoever thinks they own her gets to drink with his buddies and be merry in warm comfort.
Someone in here is about to die.
But first. Deadpool shakes his empty shot glass in Weasel’s face until it’s refilled.
Downs another shot.
Then, slamming the glass down, Deadpool marches toward the back door.
If someone’s chained in the alley, a whole mess of people are about to die.
And honestly, at this point, Deadpool’s looking forward to it
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You’re not supposed to refuse your owner anything.
You’re not – not a person. You don’t get to have opinions. You don’t get to have a voice.
But Peter – Peter was a person. For the first seventeen years of his life, he was a person. Aunt May and Uncle Ben treated him like a person, like a son. He never went to school like a real person would, but they taught him how to read, how to write. He never played with other kids like a real person would, but Aunt May would play superheroes with him in their warm little house, and Uncle Ben spent countless days building trainsets with Peter in their basement. It didn’t register to Peter that his guardians were doing anything illegal until it’d been too late to save them. They loved him like a son and suffered for it, in the end. Because apparently Peter isn’t a real person like he grew up to believe, and it was wrong of them to treat him like one. Peter shouldn’t have his own opinions because Peter is an omega, and omegas are holes only. Omegas aren’t meant to spend their heats alone in their bedrooms, the way his aunt and uncle taught him. Heats are meant to be spent with their legs spread and their holes filled, servicing real people. Betas, mostly. Sometimes alphas use him, too, but they’re few and far between, knots so big they rip when they’re pulled out. Even when he’s not in heat, Peter’s supposed to service the real people, to sit on their cocks and bounce when he’s told, to bend over and take whatever he’s told to take.
It’s been a hard, long transition.
Five years, now? Six?
Peter’s lost count, can barely remember what life looked like before those cops stormed Aunt May’s house, before he’d been stripped and prodded and collared and sold. Owners liked the thrill of having a willful omega at first, it seemed. Enjoyed beating him when he spoke, liked mounting him while he kicked and bucked and yelled at them to stop, liked holding him down and taking what they wanted. Most omegas aren’t raised to think of themselves as real people. Most omegas never fight.
Peter fought.
At first, anyway. For a long time, he fought.
But he’s been taken too many times to count by too many betas to count, and he’s tired. There are what feel like permanent rope burns on his wrists and ankles, his back tattered from beatings, his hole so used it gapes. He’s finally starting to realize that this – this is the world. This is the whole world outside of his Aunt and Uncle’s warm home they’d tried to give him. The entire world is – is just –
Horrible.
And all the people in it are worse than horrible.
His owner this time bought him for practically nothing. Omegas go cheap, these days, especially the ones who’ve been used as much as Peter has. Cheap omegas are expected to be docile, to do what they’re told. So when his owner, a rich beta named Frank, sat back on his desk chair, freed his cock, and told Peter to sit on it, Peter was supposed to have crawled across his office floor to sit on it. He was supposed to have serviced the real person who bought him during the man’s lunch break. Instead, two of Frank’s co-workers witnessed Peter saying no.
This isn’t his first time in a back alley, chained to the slimy concrete.
But it’s the first time he’s been left like this for so long.
It’s the first time an owner’s just – just abandoned him here.
Two days, at least, with his ass high in the air, wrists and neck chained to the ground, ankles chained to posts and spread out. His owner had taped a piece of paper on his back before he’d left, but Peter hadn’t known what it said until hours later, when a beta knocked the paper off mid-ride and it’d fallen to the ground beside him. Most omegas never learn how to read. He almost wishes he didn’t know how to read, either, when he reads the scrawled note left taped onto him.
Free to use or take
Peter’s been sold plenty of times. He’s never been – never been free to take.
And nobody – nobody takes him.
They just use him, instead, like he’s not even worth it, leering at his torn hole and commenting to friends about how damaged he is. They talk over him like he can’t hear them or can’t understand. They stick their cocks down his throat and laugh about how gross Peter is with so many people’s cum dried or dripping all over him. They speculate that he must be diseased by now even as they use him themselves. Then they inevitably add their own cum to the mess that’s caked on him, zip themselves back up, slap him on the ass, and leave. Peter feels so weak he can hardly even lift his own head at this point, sick with hunger and thirst, barely conscious enough to whimper any time someone new sticks something in his hole. He’s had cocks, bottles, boots, who even knows what else stuck up there over the past two days, stuck in this alley. Nobody’s going to take him with them. He knows it, now. He’d hoped, that first day, but he’s only gotten dirtier and weaker with each passing minute, and he knows he won’t be leaving this alley alive. He’ll be chained here and raped until he dies of thirst, then hopefully his body can be discarded. And he – Peter almost welcomes it. Leaving this horrible world and everyone in it. The only way out is to die, and laying here chained to the ground, covered in cuts and cum, Peter wants it.
In this moment, he wants it.
A thick steel door creaks open down the alley. Peter whines low in his throat but doesn’t move, can’t move, just lays there as footsteps and mocking laughter get louder and closer. And then there are hands on him, rough hands that slap and poke and prod. Three betas crowd around him, laugh when Peter flinches. One sticks the toe of his boot into Peter’s loose hole and kicks a little. Another unzips and shoves a hard cock down Peter’s throat, who swallows almost reflexively, lips wrapping immediately around the dirty pungent organ. His throat is dry and it hurts, but it gets lost in all the other hurts. He hears the sick squelch of someone entering him from behind, the grunt of apparent disappointment from the beta, who complains that he’s too loose. They work out a position that lets both betas enter him at the same time, then, and finally the friction of being stretched by two cocks at once seems to satisfy them. Peter’s mostly incoherent, pain faraway, floating on the edge of unconsciousness, wondering if this is the moment where the world will fall away, hoping for it, oh God, hoping for it –
“No wonder no one’ll take him,” the one in his mouth says, laughing.
“Yeah,” another grunts as he thrusts, in and out, beside his friend. “Too loose, still.”
“Never seen an omega this far gone.”
“It’s pretty disgusting, actually –”
“Makes for a pretty good cum dump, though. Look at it all –”
“Hey!” Peter’s face is jostled, slapped. He moans around the cock in his mouth, throat trying and failing to swallow. “Think the little fucker’s falling asleep on me, his mouth keeps going slack. Does he even feel you guys at all right now?”
“Don’t blame me, I make omegas cry I’m so big –”
“Well this one’s falling asleep, you must be losing your edge –”
More laughter, egging each other on. The two in his ass take the playful ribbing as a challenge because they’re suddenly speeding up, all rough jabbing thrusts that bump into each other, and Peter does feel it then, whining around his mouthful as he’s stabbed from behind by two hard cocks at once.
It happens in a blur. It might not be happening at all, he’s too delirious to know for sure.
But the betas behind him both yelp, twin cries of outrage as they’re ripped out of him and thrown somewhere. The one in his mouth pulls out quickly, and Peter hangs his head, saliva running down his chin, limp. His vision keeps sliding in and out of focus. There’s scuffling sounds behind him, nothing he can see, then sudden quiet. Peter tries to keep his eyes open, heavy as he blinks them. Then footsteps getting close once more. Peter whines at the sound, moaning, unable even to speak out in protest. Not another one, not another one, please –
But it is another one. A man, he crouches in front of Peter, and when he’s close enough to smell through all the other smells clogging up the alley, he reeks like –
Like alpha.
Peter whines again. When the man presses a soft hand against his sweaty, matted hair, Peter flinches away, weakly trying to shuffle out of reach. Betas are bad enough, but an alpha –
Please, please no, please –
“Shh,” the man above him coos. Pets his hair again, Peter too weak to shift away.
His hand disappears. He moves to Peter’s side, out of sight. Some shuffling, again, but this time nothing else enters him, there’s nothing except the jostling of the chains around his wrists, one by one, until there’s hands sliding his arms out of the chains, soft petting hands and a voice that shushes him when he whimpers. Those hands snake up to his collar, and Peter’s too out of it to realize when that chain unravels from around his neck, too. He’s so far gone he barely feels it when the alpha releases his ankles from the posts, barely feels it when he’s picked up from the concrete and held against a solid chest, a rapidly beating heart. Peter moans again, wordless, tongue heavy in his mouth. One hand finds the hoodie he’s pressed against and he grips at the fabric, holding on. His head lolls against the alpha’s shoulder. Somewhere far away, he feels a deep well of panic rising up. Panic that he’s being taken by an alpha, panic that out of all the betas who’ve used him the past two days, it just had to be an alpha to finally take enough of an interest to remove him from the alley. He’s never been owned by an alpha. Omegas owned by alphas don’t last long, and he’s already so weak. He won’t – this isn’t – why –
But all that is muted.
Peter falls in and out of consciousness like half-formed dreams passing in swirling colors.
People’s voices, soft, hard, jostled hands.
Bright lights, a cold, hard bed. A prick on his hand. More voices.
That soft shushing voice from the alley, the rich musk of an alpha, bitter stress pheromones and the undercurrent of smoked meat. Peter’s nose twitches and he turns his face against the smells, head lolling. “Don’t I always pay…? C’mon, you know I’m good for it…”
“Knothead alpha brought in another one.”
“Bad shape, not sure he’ll last the night –”
“Why d’you think he keeps bringing them in? Not claiming them –”
Peter floats.
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Deadpool pokes his head into Sister Margaret’s only long enough to catch Weasel’s eye at the bar and yell at him to fetch Marley and Jones. Weasel’s frowning face is the last thing he sees before he’s letting the door slam after him and hightailing it out of the alley. The omega clinic three blocks away sees him a lot, and they’re just gonna have to see him again tonight because this dude looks like he’s nearly dead already. His head keeps lolling this way and that, lifeless except for the hand that’s clutching at Deadpool’s hoodie. Every time the little omega whines, Deadpool’s heart lurches. He might have been too late for this one, who’s bleeding and cut to bits and so pale it hurts to see, caked with dirt and dried cum and a patchwork of whip scars to rival Deadpool’s own. The omega’s face isn’t scarred, though, just dirty and bruised, dark hair matted and sweat-soaked. He’d be a cutie if he weren’t about to die from very obvious and prolonged torture.
The lady behind the clinic desk sighs very deeply when she sees him thundering inside.
“You again?” She complains, exasperated. “How many omegas are you going to –”
“This one’s hurt bad,” Deadpool says, arms wrapped around him. He can feel his face settling into a scowl as she stands there staring and not immediately springing into action. She should be springing into action. “Think you can get him set up with the good stuff any time soon before he, you know, dies?”
She eyes him, wary. “Right, right, I’ll page –”
But Deadpool’s already walking away, storming into the triage room to get the omega seen right fucking now. And who cares what these doctor shits say about him, who cares that he’s feeding into their biases about alphas, acting like an idiot who doesn’t even know how to wait to be seen, bringing battered omega after battered omega here as though he were the one who’s battered them. They think he hurts these kids himself, but who cares, right? As long as this one gets to live, it doesn’t matter if they call the cops to get him hauled away, doesn’t matter that this omega tried so valiantly to get away from him when he smelled that he was an alpha. Even out of it and near dead, the omega didn’t want Deadpool helping him. It’s nothing new. And it doesn’t matter.
Yellow and White are roaring in his head and it doesn’t matter.
They have to pry the omega out of his arms. For some reason, Deadpool doesn’t want to let him go. But they have to pry the omega’s hand off of his hoodie, too, so Deadpool doesn’t feel too bad about the weird surge of emotions in him as the omega is placed on a gurney and wheeled away. Omegas don’t usually cling to him. They’re usually fighting to get away even as he’s dragging their brutalized bodies to one clinic or another. It’s only natural that his alpha instincts are kicking in for the first omega who clung to him. He wants to go with the omega. Long-dead instincts buzz like angry bees inside him, making him pace the floor of the waiting room. People shy away from him, stare at him, whisper about the dumb brute alpha who’s pacing like a caged animal, but it’s nothing new. No, what is new is how every atom in his body keeps urging him to charge through those doors and scent out the omega, find his room, keep anyone from touching him. The doctors have to treat omegas clinically. Sworn oaths and all. They can’t use the omegas like society says they’re meant to be used, not when they’re patients in the clinic.
In theory, Deadpool knows the omega is safe back there. He’s safer at the clinic than he’d be anywhere else.
Still, Deadpool paces.
Finally, finally, a bored nurse comes out to let him know that the omega is in bad shape and that it’d be too expensive to treat everything that needs to be treated. He’d need to stay for round-the-clock fluids for at least a few days, not to mention a surgery needed for an internal injury that’s bleeding, and the STD that’d need a round of antibiotics. He’s got an issue with his bladder, too, and needs a catheter. They don’t usually waste resources on an omega that would need so much work done.
Deadpool didn’t know it was possible, but he hates the world even more right now.
“Do all that shit,” Deadpool insists. “I can pay, you know I’m good for it –”
The nurse clicks her tongue at him, shaking her head. “Why would you even let him get this bad if you wanted him to live –”
“You have to treat him,” Deadpool says, hard and demanding. The alpha in him feels restless, enraged, caged. His eyes take on a red tinge. The woman steps back, wide-eyed. “If I pay, you have to treat him. I want him to live and he will be treated.”
“It was irresponsible of you –”
“Just treat him!”
He might have roared. A little. Just a little. But a roaring alpha is like a charging bull to a world that hates them, fears them, thinks they’re too dumb to control themselves. He’s tackled to the ground by three security guards shortly thereafter, hauled away from the clinic and shoved onto the sidewalk. Deadpool lets himself be manhandled only after he gets the nurse to agree to treat the omega, only after he’s agreed to pay for the treatment. He imagines killing the guards, killing the smug nurse, killing the whole entire shit world. But that omega’s in the world. Deadpool needs to stick around to make sure he’s actually treated. He agrees to wait outside but demands to be kept updated. White and Yellow have a lot to say about the whole thing. None of it’s any good.
[Just go, bro. That omega’s toast either way.]
[[I bet he wants to die. What, you wanna torture the poor fuck by making him live?]]
[Just because you can’t die, you want everyone else to have to –]
[[And you let your eyes go! What the fuck, you never let your eyes go!]]
[It’s that omega, he’s all hot and bothered –]
[[You realize as soon as he’s conscious, he’s gonna give you the boot, right?]]
[This is pathetic, I wanna go home –]
“Oh stop your whining.” Deadpool plops his ass down on the sidewalk and leans his back against the clinic, right outside the doors. His head thumps on the wall behind him. It’s chilly out, but his heart’s still pumping him full of adrenaline and he’s sweating through the hoodie. He’d take the thing off, except then he’d be risking terrifying that omega even more when he finally gets to see him, and also he’s not in the mood to deal with even more stares as people pass on the street. He closes his eyes to block out the world, because if he has to see even one more sad little omega on a leash, shivering from the cool autumn night air, Deadpool might break and start a massacre or something. He’s still not allowed in Europe after that last one, still dodging the occasional overzealous assassin.
[That’ll never stop being funny, bee tee dubs.]
[[An assassin coming after someone who can’t die, y’mean?]]
[Duh!]
He doesn’t wear his Deadpool suit anymore. It’s too recognizable. Everybody wants Deadpool’s head on a spike for one reason or another. Most of the world hates him for constantly killing rich betas. There’s a Resistance, and they try to help omegas too, all hush-hush hard-to-find. But even they’ve refused to work with Deadpool, seeing him as nothing more than a liability to the cause. They don’t want a violent, wanted alpha supporting them. He’s been captured twice for being too difficult to control and unkillable. Both times sucked enough for the next two lifetimes, thanks. Weasel gets guards snooping at the bar for him even now, off and on. So he’s retired the Deadpool suit. At least until everybody who’s after him inevitably dies of old age and he’s free to don it once more. He can kill people just as easily in a hoodie, anyway, as evidenced by those three betas in the alleyway tonight.
“I should buy that omega some clothes,” he mumbles to himself.
[Ooh, shopping trip!]
[[Should get him a plushie to cuddle, too. Like. I’m just saying.]]
[Yellow’s a big ol’ softie.]
[[Shut the fuck up.]]
“A plushie is a great idea,” Deadpool gushes.
After so much practice living in this unbearable world, it’s easy to turn it all off. Easy to jump up and skip off to a store for a big old dose of comfort shopping. He buys clothes and toiletries and a backpack to put it all in, a phone for the omega, some sneakers that hopefully might fit his feet. He guesses at all the sizes, actually, but the omega is emaciated, small, so it’s easy to guestimate. He’s feeling sad and alone and he can’t stop thinking about that girl tied to that hitching post, so he buys warm clothes for his omega, all long sleeves and comfortable cotton blends. A big fluffy sweater, too, and then of course the plushie, an adorable, soft bear with rainbow fur and a pert little button nose. The bear won’t fit into the backpack and neither will the shoes. He returns to the clinic and sits outside it, bear in his arms and the backpack and shoes beside him. Deadpool feels at least marginally less likely to murder someone, now. He cuddles the omega’s bear.
Then he settles in to do something he hates.
He waits.