Chapter 6
The first heat since the Cave crashes into him like a wave, three weeks and four days after Rhodey had found him in the desert and brought him home.
Tony doesn’t even notice how hot he’s gotten until he goes to swipe an image from his tablet, and his finger slides useless over the screen, leaving a trail of sweat in its wake. He stares at it for a moment, completely uncomprehending, until a pulse of cramping pain briefly encompasses his lower back.
“Shit.”
He has numbers. Loads of numbers. An endless round of them that belong to extremely intoxicating, extremely beautiful, extremely discreet Alphas whose knots he’s all taken at least once before. Alphas who know him, who know how to use him, how he likes to be held down, how he likes to talk and joke and scream while they fuck him even after they’ve expanded. They’re all professional, all know what they’re doing, and the memories his body has of them are fond.
He can’t get the words out of his mouth to have JARVIS call a single one of them. The reactor is too fragile, too dangerous for just anyone to see. To touch.
It’s happened sometimes; sometimes a heat will hit him on a bad week, when he’s too locked in the melancholy of his past and the hatred of himself to want a stranger’s hands, no matter how determined to his pleasure, to touch him. They’re bad heats, either encouraged by the dip in his mind or born from it, where he gets so desperate that he’ll walk the edge of calling anyone, taking it from anyone who can just make it stop. For those times, there’s Rhodey. Rhodey who doesn’t really like men, but will fuck Tony anyway that he likes, for as long as he likes, to calm him down. To help him get his head on right. Rhodey who won’t touch him for longer than he needs but will tell him how great he is, that anyone who thinks he’s a bad person isn’t worth the air they breathe to say the words. Rhodey who’s an Alpha, who snarls when he thinks Tony is too far gone to hear him, who swears he’s always going to be there when Tony needs him. His best friend, who’s already seen the reactor in his chest. Who understands.
Except he can’t call Rhodey right now, either, because Rhodey’s mad at him for dropping SI’s weapons manufacturing.
Tony tells himself that’s why he doesn’t call anyone. The reactor.
Not the voices in his head; not the subdued memories of the Cave. It’s the reactor. He has to protect the reactor.
(He spends the heat curled in on himself on the floor of the corner of the lab, the bots driven away by the sounds of his growing desperation. His hips pump forward and backward to empty nothing, sliding against the floor in unused, chilled slick, as his mind spirals further and further downward to find some visual, memorized stimulation to dull the edge. All he has, all he can so clearly remember, are memories of the Cave. Dry, uncaring hands. No knots, not worth it, just thrusts of blood and the burn of unwanted, degrading cum on his skin – whore, omega, murderer. He hates himself, he hates himself, he hates himself-).
Two months later, he kills Obadiah. But not before the man makes a comment of the videos he had received in update of how good of a job Tony had done as an omega for those men.
Tony goes five months without another. It confirms that he’d broken himself in the Cave, letting himself be used as they had. He’s a broken omega, and he’s dying, and it’s wonderful. Terribly selfish, but wonderful.
He blames quiet Alpha Natalie Rushman for setting it off on the six month mark. She’s the only new variable in his life; it has to be her fault.
He locks himself in the workshop again and banishes the bots to their charging stations to spare them their traumatizing worry, promises himself as his mind begins to slip under that he’ll make it up to them, go a whole day without threatening to send any one of them to the mercy of destructive undergrads.
He knows that he can call Rhodey now. They’ve made up, Rhodey’s not mad anymore, Rhodey could bring him through this heat as gently or as viciously as Tony wants. Rhodey will listen, won’t do anything that Tony asks him not to no matter how far into lust he falls. Rhodey’s a good man, his best friend, he can trust Rhodey to touch him, to guide him down, to knot him-
He arches on the floor hard enough that his head slams into the wall. Nonononononono
“Mr. Stark?”
Tony freezes, eyes snapping open.
Natalie Rushman stands just inside the workshop door, her perfect body tense and nostrils flaring, pretty green eyes flashing over his still-clothed body before settling on his face. He’d given her the codes, he’d forgotten. She’s here.
And she wants him. He can see it instantly, recognizes the expression even though it’s been months since he’s last seen it. She wants him. She’s right here, and she wants him, and does it count as calling for an Alpha if they come to you first? It’s one step out of the way, all he has to do is invite her over, and she’ll mount him, he knows.
His hips roll hungrily at the mere thought of being underneath her, of finally being taken and filled by an Alpha – slick gushes from his opening in anticipation, and he whines low in his throat at the pleasurable sensation, almost sobs from it. Closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see it.
“Mr. Stark?” Natalie repeats carefully. “Do you need help?”
Yes, his mind screams. The slick is surprisingly hot against the backs of his thighs, trails warmth down to the floor. Fresh, new. Yes, yes, yes, yes.
He hears her foot scrape against the floor; a step forward.
And immediately his body seizes.
(“Do you like that, Stark?” “Hungry for it.” “Ass eating me up.” “Choke on mine.” “He wants it. Look how much he wants it.”)
“Stop!”
He screams it – he doesn’t mean to scream it. It tears out of his throat like a burst of the fire of his heat burning inside of his body. Why? He pays her, she won’t hurt him, it’d be counterproductive to her paycheck, she won’t hurt him.
He doesn’t hear another step and rolls away from her in agonizing relief.
“… How can I help?” Natalie is an Alpha, but she says it so softly, so cautiously. As if she’s actually concerned. He wishes he could tell her to fuck him. He tries.
“Leave,” he stresses pitifully. God, he hates himself. He listens to her leave, hears JARVIS seal the door.
(He spends this heat exactly like the last, only now the wetness doesn’t stop pouring from his body, as if it still holds hope that she’ll return, or mourns that he’s lost the chance. So he writhe in lukewarm slick, drags his cock against the unforgiving, unhelpful floor and makes his body starve. He’s not as cold as last time, and it’s worse. He blames that he’s dying).
Tony doesn’t die. Natalie Rushman is superspy Natasha Romanoff is still an Alpha who joins the ranks of Alphas who have decided he’s not good enough.
There’s Pepper.
Pepper is gorgeous. Pepper is bright. Pepper is efficient. Pepper is a Beta.
With her, it can be okay. He trusts Pepper more than any other person on this planet.
Tony slips into his third heat in his sleep, a year after Afghanistan, and it’s only her slim, warm hand sliding over his shoulder that wakes him up to experience it.
If oil were spilled on top of the ocean, what he feels inside of his body when he opens his eyes to the heat and her expectant, smiling face would be the equivalent of swimming beneath it. Surrounded, hot without burning, lit up and waiting for the break that will allow him a puff of air to his lungs. Pepper leans in, brushes a not-unwelcome kiss against his cheek, brushes the back of her hand over his forehead.
“Hey,” she whispers, sounding happy. Happy for him, he realizes. The breaks in his heats have worried her. She doesn’t know about the two before. Pepper is such a good person. So much more than he’s ever deserved.
“Hey,” he murmurs back, can’t help but grin a little as her smile grows wider because Pepper is so damned beautiful when she’s smiling. He loves the look of her when she’s happy like this, he can’t help but push a strand of her ginger hair from her face and over her shoulder. He shivers a little when she leans into his touch. “Sorry I’m getting the bed wet,” he adds ruefully; Pepper laughs softly against him, teases another kiss.
“It’s okay.”
They’re still clothed. Tony’s never said anything one way or another, about how willing or not he is to have sex, yet Pepper, for some God-given reason, has never assumed that he wants to, in spite of the history of his sexual exploits that tabloids have been printing since the day he had turned eighteen. She’s come to bed every night that they’re together in pajama pants and a shirt stolen from his dresser, does nothing except raise an eyebrow at him, challenging him to say a word of her choice. He never has – it makes his stomach twist in nauseating pleasure, seeing her in his clothes.
His mind starts to go hazy as the effects of the heat begin to swarm in, and without meaning to he pushes slightly against her, feeling a sense of need he hasn’t in over a year, legitimate, curious over desperate. Pepper hums contentedly, stroking his face.
“Please?” He hears himself asking.
“Oh, Tony. Of course. Of course.”
Pepper strips – she’s glorious nude, a sight to behold, and he’s able to shrug off the sense of unease in his chest before it builds. It’s just nerves. He’s nervous. He hasn’t done this in a while. And this is Pepper. He can’t fuck things up with Pepper. It’s alright. He’s fine.
She pulls at his pants, leaves his shirt by some unspoken agreement that makes him lose his breath. He could love her. A surge of lust spikes through him, wetness spurting from him in a gush. He could.
“Pep,” he breathes in an attempt to tell her, but she shushes him with a finger against his lips and then, slowly, replaces it with her own lips.
For the first time, he moans. Thinks to himself, yes. This is it. With her. With Pepper this is it.
Her nails rake down his sides gently, and like she says, it’s okay.
They skip back up the sides of his legs, and like she says, it’s okay.
Her mouth touches his neck, and like she says, it’s okay.
His hips reach, just a little more, and like she says, it’s okay.
Her fingers, gentle and timid, slow enough to give him time to react if he wants to, slip beneath the band of his briefs.
(“It will be okay, Stark,” Yinsen says in the middle of the night, hours later. “It will end eventually. You can ride it out.”)
Tony doesn’t say no, and her hand slips lower.
He doesn’t ask her to stop, tries to kiss her instead.
He doesn’t say anything at all.
He doesn’t remember what it is he does, exactly, only that it has to be something, because one minute he’s under Pepper with her hand slowly making its way toward his gushing, eager entrance-
And the next he’s at the door, breathing so hard that it hurts, not breathing enough that lights are sparkling like mad in front of his eyes, and Pepper is still on the bed. Her hand on her cheek, watching him with wide, slightly terrified eyes.
Fuck. Oh fuck. What had he done?
“Sorry,” is all he can choke out. “Pe- Pep- Sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Tony,” she calls anxiously; his heart breaks when the movement of her jaw makes her wince. “Tony, no, wait-.”
He’s out the door.
(JARVIS relays Pepper’s apologies as he once again finds shelter in his corner on the floor. He’s too far gone to spare the bots, and halfway through, DUM-E drops a grease-stained blanket over his body, chirps in concern and doesn’t leave. Tony threatens him with everything – the bot’s camera reminds him too strongly of the surveillance in the Cave. They’d watched him, he knows, why is he so broken?)
He doesn’t give Pepper another chance to drag herself down with him. She’s better than him. Deserves better than him. He takes off for New York and leaves her to the CEO duties of SI that she loves so much. Maybe with him gone, Happy will stand a chance. He hopes they work.
Tony builds the machine in New York; it’s embarrassing, humiliating, and he hopes that he won’t need it. After the disaster with Pepper, it’s almost as if his body has gone cold. He feels no stirrings, no desires, no warmth of any kind. Nothing from the past, nothing the textbooks and journals say an omega body should experience. His body. Useless without the armor. So he uses the armor to help build his tower. Uses the paranoia born from lack of sleep the machine.
It’s a stupid hope.
Life’s a bitch, and Tony has done so many horrible things with his that he deserves the ironic horror of going into heat two years to the day of waking up in the Cave.
The new workshop has corners, but they’re not the same. The floors are tile instead of cement; his stupid Something New! hyper brain had tried to make it futuristic; maybe he’d thought it would help cancel the need. Maybe he’d thought someplace so radically different from the Cave, cold and shiny and clean, would stop the heats all together. He’d been wrong, so extremely wrong – he hates being wrong.
His mind knows the machine is there. Knows it can go fast, deep – knows it can fucking knot. And that’s all that matters, the idea of a knot. Of being tied to something, of being filled, full. It’s all it takes – he’s soaking before he’s even stood up from the stool.
“J, Protocol Blackout,” he gasps out as his knees wobble under the weight of his body. His feet move of their own accord; the machine is in the back, in the middle of the shadowed wall, right underneath the air conditioner vent. It’ll be cold, a wet cold. The Cave had been dry; hot in the day, cold at night. This will be cold. He’ll be cold, it’ll be different.
This close to something, his body is wracked in waves of need so strong that he nearly seizes in pain the only doubles when he reaches it. It takes every effort in the world to disrobe.
Tony misses the hands of lovers, who have done this for him. He wants to remain completely clothed, wants this to just not be a thing at all. He wants to be knotted again and again until it’s satiated. Until it goes away. He wants to be normal and just left alone.
“Sir…” JARVIS begins cautiously, trails off. With the bots still in Malibu, the AI’s voice seems out of place. He pushes it out, and bends over the cushioned block he’s installed at the front of the machine. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
It’ll go fast, he reminds himself. Fast knots meant fast heat. He needs it to go fast.
“I don’t wanna hear it, JARVIS,” he snarls. “Initiate and mute.”
Clasps immediately latch around his wrists and ankles; a cushioned bar molds around his neck with just enough give not to choke. Fluid pumps from his body in overwhelming excitement. The machine hums to life behind him. He’s wet enough that there will be no problem.
Oh, God.
With only one warning tap, it slams in, and Tony cries out. It retracts, and slams in again.
There’s no break. The machine is as merciless as he had programmed it to be.
(“Whore for it.”)
(“Ha, how you look with me on your face.”)
(“Do you need more? I will give it to you, Stark.”)
(“Suck it. You want a knot? Suck it.”)
The voices are loud, immediate. He closes his eyes and they’re standing there, the men from the Cave, he’s killed them but they’re there. Surrounding him, using him, letting him break himself.
(“No knot. Do you think you’re worth it?”)
(“I taste the pain of your victims in your slick, Stark.”)
(“Maybe we’ll stop. Maybe you don’t want this enough.”)
(“Say thank you.”)
Dumb idea. Stupid idea. The restraints are unyielding, he can’t move, can’t make it stop. His body burns with pleasure as he’s bruised, as they jeer around him. He’s hot.
“Stop,” he pleads, even though it won’t. JARVIS can’t interfere, no matter how he begs. He needs this, it needs to be done. His body needs this. “Stop, please. Stop.”
(“Bad at this.”)
(“Disappointing.”)
(spurts of hot liquid on his back)
(strong dry hands around his throat, laughter in his ears)
The machine switches, pumps violently, slowly, beginning to swell. Stop, stop, stop.
It’s knotting. His body is singing. It’s knotting. He’s being knotted. Finally. Finally a knot.
"Stop."
(“You are worth nothing more than the weapons I want.”)
(“I will fuck you until you cum, and I will mark you, and you will make them.”)
It locks. He stands in his own slick.
He hasn’t cum. Shivering, busting apart as the machine hums inside of his body, he doesn’t even care.
The fire inside of his body quells for the first time, but tears are burning under the lids of his eyes.
(“It will be alright, Tony Stark,” Yinsen soothes from the other cot. He doesn’t try to touch Tony. He never tries to touch Tony. “One way or another, you will make it through this.”)
The restraints stay locked in place. The machine is programmed for up to another three rounds, depending on his body.
(“I will give you what you need.”)
(Tony begins to sob in the middle of the second set. The voices have become feelings, nothing distinguishable to his ears, but he feels every word the same as he had when they’d each been delivered. His body is traveling on a satisfied high, but his mind is hemorrhaging; he’s breathing, but he can’t. When the restraints finally fall apart, when the machine back away, he stumbles to the ground and stays there. JARVIS murmurs at him, information on the weather, on the suits, on the statistic likelihood of every major disaster that could befall the Tower, each more unlikely than the next. It doesn’t silence the voices. But it does numb him a bit. The machine is a success and he wishes it had waited until he had died from the overload to stop).
It’s only a few weeks later that the Avengers become a thing. Tony, forcing smiles, doesn’t immediately realize that the reason Steve Rogers, biggest Alpha he’s ever met, doesn’t send him into hysterics outside of the armor is because the quiet omega that is Bruce Banner is always in the room when he’s bare.
Bruce is weird.
Tony likes him immediately.
“Doctor Banner.”
JARVIS’ voice is soft, almost reluctant, but Bruce is immediately awake at the break of noise in the silence of the night. His pillow goes one direction, his blanket another, and it’s only habit that keeps his heart rate down as he quickly scans his surroundings for exits.
“I am sorry. I did not mean to frighten you,” JARVIS continues gently. And Bruce, with a blink, breathes.
JARVIS. Tony. The Avengers. He’s in the Tower. He’s on the 54th floor of the Tower, in his room, in his bed. The only alternative exit is the large double-plated window that streams in the lights of Manhattan’s nighttime skyline. Possible, but he’d rather avoid jumping through it, if he can. Not that he needs to.
“’S’alright, JARVIS. My fault,” he yawns, scrubbing at his eyes as he slows down, reaching for the glasses on the counter. “Four months in, you’d think I’d remember where I am. What’s up? What time is it?” The sky is still black with night; he can’t have slept long.
“It is currently two-thirteen in the morning, and I do apologize for waking you, Doctor Banner, but Sir is in distress, and I believe that he requires your assistance.”
Bruce freezes. Tony. “What’s wrong?” He demands, jumping from the bed. He snatches a shirt from the floor, slips it on without care if it’s inside-out or backwards. “Is he sick? Was it something he had at dinner? Is it the arc reactor?”
“I am not at liberty to say.” The AI sounds apologetic, and not the least bit put-out by the fact. “However, I do believe that if Sir continues on his intended course of action in his current state, he will cause severe damage to himself.”
Damn it, Tony. “I’ll see what I can do to stop him, JARVIS,” he slides from his room and straight to the elevator, not quite running but at a pace faster than a walk. “But he’s never let me into the workshop before. I’m not sure if-.”
“I will permit your access in this case, Doctor Banner.”
The doors slide closed.
Bruce’s heart begins to race again at the sight of his silent reflection.
It had been a bad idea, becoming friends with Tony Stark as fast as he has, he knows. The other Omega is impatient, not so much careless as unconcerned with his own personal safety. His mind is stunning, quick and scattered without being lost – together, it’s a dangerous combination, like watching a lit fuse dance too close to a barrel of gunpowder; one flicker in the wrong direction, and it’s gone. Tony is accepting, welcoming, orbits around Bruce like there’s nothing to be scared of, and even aside from the Hulk he should be, because he’s scared of everyone else. He’s seen him flinch back from every movement of Steve’s, not matter if they’re intended for him or not. He’s watched him flat out avoid Natasha, disappearing from any room she’s in, even if he’d been there first. Bruce would be tempted to tack it Traditional Omega training – respecting Alpha’s, being submissive to them – if it hadn’t been that he’s the same with Clint, keeping space between himself and the friendly Beta. And yet he never shies away from Bruce, arguably the most dangerous of the group. Seeks him out, jokes with him, teases him. They talk too much, huddle too close, share too much for it to just be an Omega trait.
Four months and they’re close enough to scare the hell out of him.
The doors slide open, straight into the lab, and Bruce is slapped in the face with the scent of heat.
The stirring of the Hulk at the overwhelming pheromones is almost enough to send Bruce back up the stairs out of concern for his friend, when a second glance shows him exactly what it is that has enraptured Tony’s influenced attention.
Large, sleek and silver and red with table at the perfect height to bend over, it can only be described as a fucking machine. Nothing comfortable about it, nothing welcoming in its design – clearly intended to do nothing more but roughly plow into its intended target until its program has run its course.
It’s horrifying to look at, and Bruce can’t stop the startled squeak the escapes his throat as his breath catches.
“Nice, right?” Tony asks tonelessly without turning – he’s either heard Bruce enter, or JARVIS had admitted his arrival. “It’s made to fuck an omega into blissful oblivion. It knots. Isn’t it great? It has restraints, bars that hold you in place so you can’t get away. It fucks you and fucks you and knots you no matter how many times you say no.” The chuckle that follows the words sounds twisted and wrong. “You can’t fight it, you can’t hurt it, and it, technically, can’t hurt you. At least not emotionally, but what’s a little blood? Win-win for everyone. It even goes fast, no breaks – gets the heat over quicker. Amazing, isn’t it?”
Bruce swallows against himself, and steps forward, reaching out to place his hand on his friend’s quivering shoulder.
“You’ve used this before,” he realizes, pained by the thought.
“Once,” he admits quietly, still with his back to Bruce. “A few weeks before New York. I can’t … my heats are insane, there’s no schedule, they just come. And I can’t … I can’t let anyone … I hit Pepper, when we tried. I’d probably hit Rhodey, too. All I can see … All I can hear are … all of them Bruce, that’s all. Every time, it’s like they’re right here. Right beside me, touching me, inside of me.”
The Hulk growls in his head, and Bruce has to shut his eyes against the rage of it. Tony’s told him the stories, late at night in the lab, drunk on no sleep and no small amount of alcohol. The continued injustice is that those men are already dead.
“This way, I get what I need and I can’t run away from it. It’s what I designed it for.” He breathes deep, the movement shaking Bruce’s hand from his shoulder. “You should probably leave, lima bean. It’s not exactly pretty.”
But it should be. Surrendering to heat, losing yourself – it’s meant to be a pretty. Gorgeous.
When you want it. When you can have it. Bruce can see his own tension in the lines of Tony’s shoulders. The machine is a monster, and Tony doesn’t want it.
This time, he grabs Tony’s wrist gently before he starts to move.
“What,” he starts slowly, “if I told you there’s another way to give your body relief, other than this?”
“I can’t have se-.”
“Trust me,” he begs without right. “There are other ways, Tony. A lot of people – Omegas, Betas, even Alphas – don’t like sex. There are alternatives to quelling a heat with a knot.”
Tony blinks at him, only half aware, and then slumps against him without warning. Trust or exhaustion.
Bruce will take either if it means keeping the other omega off of the machine.
It feels like drowning.
“Don’t want it,” Tony hears himself say. “Don’t want it, don’t want it.”
“Then you won’t get it,” comes the assuring, gentle response. “Shh, Tony. Nothing’s going to happen that you don’t want.”
“Need it,” he protests, even though his body feels only pleasantly warm, the fire that had been building earlier muted. The slick still falls, but it’s not as much as it’s been before. “Need … something.”
Fingers trail over his spine, dip across his thighs, smooth carefully up his ribs. Tiny trails of pleasure dance up his spine, soothe the cramping in his stomach. He wants to melt into it.
“Shh,” someone – Bruce – hums above him. “Just like that. There you go. Feels better than the machine, doesn’t it?”
It does.
They hadn’t touched him like this. Numbed the heat in his body with fingers on the parts of his skin that had ached the most. They hadn’t been this gentle. This unexpectant.
“They’re going to hurt me,” he recognizes aloud – Steve. Natasha. Even Clint. They’re just upstairs, only a few floors from him. Alphas come first, when they smell the heat. The come first and they take first and then the Betas. Betas get sloppy seconds in the Cave. “They’re gonna come, Bruce.”
“No one’s going to hurt you, Tony.” A nose nuzzles against his neck, and that’s nice. “I promise.” The fingers drift over the backs of his knees. “I will literally rip them apart if they try.”
“… Are you mad?” It seems important to ask, for some reason.
“Not at you.”
“Okay.” His face rubs against something soft; Bruce’s curls. Tony almost smiles. He likes Bruce’s curls. “I don’t want them hurt me.”
“I promise,” Bruce swears.
It’s a nice thought.
The touches aren’t sexual – they don’t tickle over his cock, don’t so much as graze his ass. But they’re calming, satisfying in a way they shouldn’t be, because there’s nothing inside of it. It’s so wonderful that he feels like this with nothing inside of him.
“They never came in me,” he confesses suddenly, a wave of confusion crashing on him. He thinks Bruce’s chest stops moving, but the fingers don’t, and that’s all that matters. “They’d always pull out, mark my back. Or my face. I think I broke myself. Alphas want to breed Omegas, right? Unless they’re broken. They said I was bad.”
The other omega makes a wounded noise. “You’re not broken, Tony. You didn’t do anything, not to yourself. They did. All of it, everything was their fault.”
“I think of it, when I’m in heat. Think of how they felt inside of me. How good it was, for the first few minutes. I think about it, and it arouses me. What’s wrong with me, Bruce?"
(“It will be okay, Stark. It will end eventually. You can ride it out.”)
He’s nuzzled again instead of verbally answered. It feels so much better than words.
Bruce is an omega, just like Tony. His touch shouldn’t be this nice, this relaxing.
Tony nuzzles back, content and confused.