Chapter Text
Peter thinks he’s going to die.
The sheets are rough on his skin, scratching his cheek and forehead. His eyes are blurry, stinging, but there are no tears. He isn’t crying. That time has passed.
It hurts, and Peter thinks he is going to die.
His back hurts, and his hips ache, and his neck is in absolute agony. The pain spikes every time Harley thrusts, every time he puts his weight on Peter. Peter thinks his neck might break, hopes for it briefly, closes his eyes but the pain can not be escaped, opens them back up again. Looks at the sheets, a stark white even in the dark, looks at them and tries to think about anything else than the blood he can feel dripping from his thighs and onto the bed, tries not to think about how he is going to have to try and wash the stain out tomorrow morning.
Thinks about the fingers pressing on his neck and the bruises on his ribs and about anything, anything other than what is happening.
It’s not the first time this has happened. It won’t be the last, either, Peter knows. He isn’t stupid. He always tries, to be good, to be submissive, to be all that Harley wants him to be, what he should be, but he always fails. No matter how hard he tries he always drops something, or snarks back at his alpha, or pulls back from a touch he has to accept. He makes a mistake, doesn’t follow the rules, and then this happens.
Every single time.
Harley says it works, and Peter agrees. Fucking an omega into submission is something that is frowned upon, something that happens somewhere else. It happens in uncivilized places, villages without running water, places where they mate off children as soon as they present. It doesn’t happen here, in the nice apartment Harley and Peter share, in the small town Peter grew up in. In fucking Ohio.
Or at least Peter didn’t think it happened.
Harley says it works, and Peter agrees. He says it makes him sweet, makes him submissive. It does. It makes Peter shake and cry when he showers and makes him clean the house spotless, makes him cook and garden and go to the shop and smile and do anything he can just so it doesn’t happen again. Makes him kiss his alpha and go on his knees all easy and eager because at least then it’s him doing it and not a hand on his neck forcing him down, pressing him into a bed or a rough carpet.
He listens to the alpha pant, speed up and then lean forward and bite into Peter’s shoulder. There’s a whimper as the pain courses through Peter’s body, makes him go even more limp than he already was, finally makes tears roll out of his eyes. He doesn’t know why Harley does it, or maybe he does. It’s not a mating bite, but a part of the ritual. It’s barbaric. Peter has read about it, back when he was still interested in things. It’s an old thing, taken out from the jaws of forgotten things. Something better buried in the past, left for historians to ponder over rather than anything to indulge in. It’s a horrible thing, messes up an omega’s hormones, makes them weak and easily subdued. It’s an intimidation tactic.
He’s pretty sure even Harley’s extremely traditional parents would be horrified to know their son does it. And knowing how they look at Peter’s bruises sometimes, their eyes fliting over them as if they are invisible, says something.
He doesn’t know why Harley does it, because it’s not like Peter can fight him off anyway. He’s always been a little thing, a slip of a boy, and he knew that he’d be an omega. And Harley isn’t tall, is quite short for an alpha, but biology is on his side, always has been. He can pin Peter down with no effort, does it often for fun just to watch the omega squirm, can hold down his wrists and do whatever he wants to him. But he still bites him, does it often, does it for sport.
It’s because it’s cruel, and because it’s fun, Peter knows. He still can’t stop his heart from breaking every time it happens, though. He whimpers once again as Harley thrusts in particularly hard, drives in as his orgasm rips through him. It’s a pathetic sound, an instinctive plea for mercy, and Peter cuts it off. There is no mercy to be found here.
Harley doesn’t knot him, stops just before he does, and Peter almost sobs in relief at the realization. He feels the alpha heave against his back, feels him come and then slowly relax, grits his teeth as he feels him pull out, as he finally lets go of Peter’s wrist he was pinning to his back.
Blood rushes back to the limb, and for a moment that pain rules over all the others, leaves Peter laying there and fighting for breath. The man beside him just throws a sheet over himself and goes right to sleep, a content alpha smell surrounding him. He always smells so fucking happy after hurting Peter, always smells like he did something good. It makes Peter sick. He can’t move yet, just lets the pain wash over him and lays there as the sweat on his back dries. His ribs hurt when he breathes, and he hopes they are not broken.
Peter broke Harley’s favourite mug. That’s why this happened. The omega thinks about the mess still in the kitchen, thinks about how he has to clean it up before Harley sees it again. It was a stupid fucking mug, a thing already chipped and used up. It isn’t even worth a dollar, Peter thinks, winces as he tries to move.
Peter thought he was going to die, but he didn’t. He didn’t die, so he grits his teeth and slowly sits up. His head pounds, and his legs shake, and blood coats the back of his thighs as he stands shakily, but he isn’t dead. He isn’t dead, so he has to get up and keep going, he knows.
You get up until one day you don’t, and that’s it.
Peter walks into the hallway and then the bathroom, shuts the door and lets the shower run. He doesn’t worry about waking Harvey, knows he is going to sleep like the dead until the morning. Doing this to Peter takes it out of him too, he knows. So Peter stands on the cold tiles and watches the water as it warms up, thinks about how it is going to sting on his abused skin when he steps under the stream. Turns and looks at himself in the mirror.
His face is blotchy, red and pale all at once, from the tears and the pressure on his neck. His eyes are red, too red, capillaries burst from pressure. His shoulder is a bloody, mangled thing, and Peter looks at it as a drop of blood sluggishly travels down his chest. It curves down his stomach, disappears into the bruises on his sides.
Peter looks at his reflection, looks at all of his bruises and scars and scrapes. Looks at all the brutality and all the cruelty and knows this is it.
He isn’t even sad about it, isn’t even happy.
He’s leaving, he decides, looks into his own eyes and sees no one in them, steps into the shower.