Steve Rogers - Omega

Steve had a problem, a big problem. Ever since he'd been pulled from the Ice, SHIELD'd had him on heat suppressants for 'safety and security reasons.' He'd found out well after the fact, that the real reason for this was that the world thought he was an Alpha. Not an Omega. and to spare the backlash, SHIELD had decided to uphold the lie rather than set the record straight. Even after SHIELD fell, Hill had been smuggling him the suppressants so he'd 'stay safe.' which was fair, the last thing he wanted was to go into heat surrounded by hydra operatives.

Regardless, it didn't change the fact that he was in Pre-heat, just back in Avengers Tower after a very, very hard mission, and was completely OUT of suppressants.

He tossed the empty bottle across the room and flopped back on his bed, too fatigued to even change out of his uniform. None of the Avengers knew his secret, what was he going to do? As it was, he'd barely managed to survive being cooped-up in the QuinJet with them and his heat hadn't fully set in.

Steve pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to will away the pounding headache that accompanied the onset of his heat. His body was a traitor, reacting instinctively despite his mental protests. His skin was hypersensitive, every movement of the fabric of his uniform sending uncomfortable shivers down his spine. A dull ache spread through his joints, making his muscles feel like they were being pulled taut.

He knew he couldn’t hide in his room forever; the symptoms would only worsen, potentially exposing him to the team. The thought of that exposure—of his teammates seeing him vulnerable and learning his true designation—brought on a surge of anxiety. It gnawed at his insides, almost as painfully as the developing sensation of emptiness.

To make matters worse, the dull persistent ache began to morph into sporadic bouts of feverish chills, making Steve shiver uncontrollably under his damp uniform. In one moment, sweat would bead on his forehead, and in the next, a cold clamminess would take over. The juxtaposition of his own body's betrayal and the looming threat of discovery left him feeling isolated in a tower full of allies.

He took a deep breath, struggling to steady himself against the onslaught of sensations. The familiar scent of the tower, the faint hint of wood polish mixed with the remnants of a long-gone dinner, filled his lungs, but it did little to ground him. He needed a plan—something, anything, to keep him from unraveling completely.

Slipping off the bed, he padded across the room and leaned against the cool wall. His reflection in the glass showed an image he hardly recognized: disheveled hair, weary eyes that echoed back his internal turmoil. He couldn’t let anyone see him like this. Not when they needed him at his best.

“Think,” he muttered under his breath. “You’ve been through worse.”

The memories flooded back—fighting alongside the Avengers when everything seemed lost, standing up to foes far more powerful than he could ever imagine. But this? This was different. It felt like a war waging inside himself, one that had nothing to do with strength or tactics.

His gaze flickered toward the door. Perhaps if he could just make it to the common area long enough to distract himself... He could grab some water, maybe find something to eat? Anything to stave off the inevitable while strategizing his next move.